The Thames River Murders Page 3

  Donata viewed the dead woman’s trinkets without turning a hair. Only when I told her I’d taken the bones away in a hackney did Donata’s eyes widen.

  “Good heavens, Gabriel, you did not bring them here, did you?”

  “Indeed, no.” I drained my cup and clicked the delicate thing to its saucer. “I took them to Grenville’s.”

  A spark lit Donata’s eyes. “Did you? How delicious. What did Grenville say when you sprang them on him?”

  “He does not know yet. He was not at home.”

  “His own fault then.” Donata moved closer to me. “When you show them to him and discuss it, as you will, may I come too? I am most curious.”

  “A touch gruesome,” I answered. “Better not.”

  Her look turned exasperated. “My dear Gabriel, I am not fragile porcelain. I have borne a child before, with great success. Peter is robustly healthy, terrifyingly so. I do not see what harm I can come to in Grenville’s cellars.”

  “You are maddening,” I said. “If I forbid you?”

  “I will simply go myself when you are out.”

  In this day and age, a husband’s word was absolute, and his wife was obligated to do exactly as he told her. I could prosecute my wife for disobedience, and I would not be blamed if I took my fists to her for defying me.

  I knew, however, that Donata, possessing a natural air of command herself, simply thought such rules did not apply to her. She had no intention of meekly obeying me, and if I raised a hand to her, she had a powerful father ready to take me to task for it.

  Or else, Donata had realized long ago that I would never hurt her, no matter how much she vexed me.

  “Very well,” I said, pretending to ignore her triumphant look. “I must find Denis’s surgeon, and then we will go.”

  She was satisfied with that and thanked me tenderly, without words.

  ***

  I had little idea where to begin hunting for the surgeon I had in mind, because I did not know his name, where he dwelt, and even if he remained in England.

  I left Donata and looked about for Brewster. Brewster rarely entered my house, to the relief of those below stairs, who’d have to put up with him while he waited for me. Donata’s servants considered themselves above such ruffians as Brewster and did not welcome him into their midst.

  I asked the footman whose principal job it was to answer the door what had become of him. The lad pointed up the street and said, “Pub, sir.”

  I found Brewster in Oxford Street, in a public house he’d taken to, the Ox and Dog.

  This part of Oxford Street edged between more genteel neighborhoods and the warrens of Soho and Seven Dials. Those who worked for the wealthy—coachmen, grooms, and the like—came here. Upright, hard-working people who, like Donata’s servants, knew a bone-breaker when they saw one.

  Brewster, however, had a knack for keeping to himself and fading into the moldings, quite a trick for such a big man. The clientele, however, had grown used to him and now ignored him.

  This public house wasn’t as old as some in London. Though it sported dark polished wood, settles around the large fireplace, and a scrubbed, flagstone floor, the house didn’t sag at the seams, the windows were large and many-paned, and the whole place had a modern, cheerful air to it.

  Brewster sat in the corner farthest from the door, his back to the wall, where he could observe the entire room from the shadows. A tankard rested in front of him, nearly empty.

  The publican gave me a nod when I came in. I’d become as recognizable as Brewster, though the regulars weren’t quite certain why a respectable-looking, military gentleman had such a pugilist-like acquaintance. I could feel the speculative gazes of the men in the tavern as I passed them—was Brewster my servant? Hired ruffian? Odd friend? Lover?

  I paid no attention as I seated myself opposite Brewster and accepted the ale the publican put before me. I’d pay for mine as well as Brewster’s, as had come to be my habit.

  “I don’t know where he is,” Brewster said before I could speak.

  “But your employer will,” I replied. “Will you ask him to send the man to Grenville’s house? I’m certain we can all practice discretion.”

  “No, I will not.” Brewster locked his hands around his tankard. “You stick your neck out too far, Captain. His nibs will snap it off, one day, and I don’t want mine coming off with yours.”

  “You only need to deliver the message. Mr. Denis will know I am the audacious one, not you.”

  Brewster’s lower lip firmed in a way I’d come to know meant he would be intractable. “No. He’s sent me to look after you. That means keeping you from endangering yourself from him as well. I have to say, watching you is more trouble than a whole flock of unruly sheep. You go off every which way. Leave it, Captain. That’s my final word on it.”

  Chapter Four

  “Very well,” I said. “I will hunt down the surgeon myself.”

  Brewster’s sigh nearly shook the table. “Will ye not listen to those with more sense than you? It’s dangerous to go asking certain questions about certain people. Ye want nothing to do with the man.”

  I regarded Brewster in some perplexity. He was surly by nature, it was true, but he usually gave in and approached his master with my messages, deciding that if Denis grew angry at me, on my own head be it. This time, I read fear in his eyes. It made me wonder very much.

  “I am seeking the surgeon’s expert opinion,” I said. “I have no wish to make a friend of him.”

  Regardless of whatever the surgeon had done to get himself sentenced to transportation, I had recognized competence, even brilliance, in the close-mouthed man. I knew that what secrets the bones had to tell me, he could reveal them.

  “You’re a fool,” Brewster told me bluntly. “I’ll have nothing to do with it. M’ task is to keep you from harm, not let you race toward it.”

  “Better men then you have failed at such a task,” I pointed out. “And I am still alive.”

  “Huh. Not for much longer, I’m thinking. Why do you want to go poking at old bones anyway? The poor lass is dead and gone. Nothing you can do.”

  I felt the stirring of pity I’d had when I’d looked down at the skeleton displayed so nakedly on the table. “Someone did that to her, took away her life, her chances. Whoever it is ought to pay.”

  Brewster obviously did not agree with me. He had been a help to me a time or two in the past, but he did not share my zeal for bringing culprits to justice. He, like most of the world, thought I should keep my long nose to myself.

  “We are at an impasse then,” I said. I drank the ale, which was a good brew, if a touch bland. The old public houses that looked as though they’d fall down about me often had the best ale in London.

  “’Suppose we are,” Brewster said.

  “I will simply visit your employer and ask him for an address.”

  Brewster thunked his tankard to the table and leaned toward me.

  “Now, there you go off again. I told you, I’m to keep you well and alive. If his nibs loses his temper and offs you, he’ll blame me.”

  Did James Denis lose his temper? I wondered. I had seen him enraged before, but that had been a special circumstance, and the result of that rage had been deadly.

  On the other hand, I’d witnessed a man set off an incendiary device in Denis’s study, and Denis’s sangfroid barely slip.

  “You could refuse,” I suggested. “When he tells you to look after me, you could ask that he give you another, less thankless, task.”

  “Huh,” Brewster said. “Ain’t worth m’ life, asking something like that.”

  I took a final sip of ale and rose. “Then I’ll be off. Perhaps I’ll catch him in a good temper.”

  Brewster glanced at his tankard, aggrieved. “Now?”

  “Indeed. If you must follow me about, then follow.”

  I gave coins to the publican, took up my hat and gloves, and tapped my way out to the street. Brewster, noisy with grumbles, followe
d.

  ***

  I took a hackney to Curzon Street. Stumping up to the pub to find Brewster had taxed the strength in my weak leg, and I needed to rest it. That hurt my pride, but I had no wish to be laid up the rest of the day.

  When we arrived at Denis’s door, number 45, the stiff-faced butler informed me that Denis was not receiving, as he had another appointment.

  I told the butler I would write a note. The butler assumed I meant I’d write the letter at home and send it, then realized I was determined to step into a room in this house and compose it there. He looked as aggrieved as Brewster but let me in.

  I was rude, yes, and I’d never dream of being so highhanded in anyone else’s house, not even Grenville’s.

  These men, however, had been happy to beat upon me a time or two, and had certainly threatened, hurt, and even killed others at Denis’s command. I saw no reason to let them cow me. If Denis wished to use me, he would have to put up with me as I was.

  The butler led me into a reception room which held a small davenport desk—a delicate, gilded piece with small drawers and a sloping writing surface. The desk could be easily carried to set in front of a sofa for the comfort of the writer.

  The drawers held plenty of stiff, expensive paper, ink, and pens with nibs sharp and ready. Apparently, Mr. Denis expected this desk to be used.

  Or perhaps he did not. This house was furnished and stocked down to the last detail, but much of it was for show. I never felt it was a true home.

  I smoothed out paper, dipped the pen in the ink, and scratched a few words. The desk was slanted at such an angle that writing was comfortable. Perhaps I would suggest such a piece for Donata.

  “Pardon me, sir,” the butler said, easing his way back into the room. “Mr. Denis will see you now.”

  I glanced at the half sentence I’d penned, the ink already drying. I folded the paper and stuffed it into my pocket. I started to put away the ink and so forth, but another footman sidled in and began to do it for me.

  I followed the impatient butler out and up the stairs, sensing his agitation.

  I discovered the reason for his haste when we reached the top of the second flight, nearing Denis’s study.

  A cry of fear and pain sounded beneath me. Startled, I leaned over the banisters to see what was the matter, just as a man burst from a room on the floor below.

  He was an ordinary-looking gentleman in a plain suit a man of business might wear. His brown hair, which was thick, stuck out every which way—from my vantage I could see the balding spot on the crown of his head. I could also see his beak of a nose on the face he turned up to me.

  “Sir!” His cry was filled with despair.

  Before I could answer, three of Denis’s men caught up to him and bore him to the floor.

  I started for the stairs. The butler tried to stop me, but while he was cast from the same mold as Denis’s ruffian footmen, he was older, and I was quicker than he.

  “Leave him,” I snapped, hanging on to the railing as I charged downward.

  The man they were beating was small and spindle-shanked, his old-fashioned knee breeches hardly adequate padding against their kicks. I put a strong hand on the broad shoulder of one of the footmen, and yanked him away.

  The thug turned on me a look of astonishment, before he balled up a giant fist and heaved it toward my face.

  “No.” The sharp command from above, in Denis’s silk-smooth voice, halted the fist in midair. “Bring the captain upstairs.”

  He gave no orders as to the smaller man, whom the other two footmen proceeded to beat and kick. I glared up at Denis.

  “Surely he can be no more threat to you,” I said. “Whatever lesson you intended to teach him is learned. If they go on, they’ll kill him.”

  Denis’s cold blue eyes found mine. I read in them great displeasure.

  He waited while his footmen, paying no attention to me, got in a few more blows. Finally, he raised a hand.

  “Enough.”

  The word was calm and not very loud, but instantly, the ruffians left off their pounding and dragged the small man to his feet.

  The man was somewhere between thirty and forty, and had wide brown eyes that looked upon the world with friendliness. His face at the moment was covered in blood and bruises, a trickle of red at the side of his mouth.

  “Thank you, sir,” he said in a clogged whisper, not to Denis, but to me.

  Denis made a curt gesture. His men dragged their hapless victim the rest of the way to the ground floor. They did not throw him into the street—no, that would attract the attention of the neighbors. A carriage had been pulled very close to the door, and Denis’s men shoved the beaten man into it.

  The coach pulled away, and then the footmen returned to the house, looking neither triumphant nor gloating. They were barely out of breath. They’d done their task; now they would turn to the next one.

  “Captain, if you please.” Denis’s cold voice cut the air.

  I hauled myself back up the stairs, shaking with anger.

  “What sort of threat could such a small, harmless-looking man be to you?” I demanded as I followed Denis into his study.

  The room I entered was barren but elegant, clean-lined, the furniture with delicate, tapered legs, the chamber free of the clutter that could fill the houses of the rich.

  Denis must be one of the wealthiest gentlemen in England, but he shunned ostentation. The sole concession to luxury was a painting on the paneled wall, a portrait done in subdued but exquisite colors, the paint thick. The subject of the portrait was a painter from the Netherlands of the seventeenth century, a man with rumpled hair, a bulbous nose, and small black eyes, who looked as though he viewed the world with shrewd good humor.

  I had not seen the portrait in this room before. Fortunate, I thought, that it hadn’t been here when the incendiary device had exploded and ruined the walls. I wondered if the painting was a recent acquisition or had simply been moved from another room.

  Denis seemed in a hurry, and impatient—for Denis. “Mr. Brewster has told me of your request,” he said. “You might have saved yourself a journey. The answer is no.”

  “The surgeon’s help would be invaluable,” I said. “I need an expert, and he seemed to be.”

  “I cannot be expected to lay my hands on him at a moment’s notice.” Denis had not sat down, as usual, behind his blank-topped desk, nor had he requested that I sit. We faced each other in the middle of the room with Mr. van Rijn’s portrait looking on.

  I lifted my brows. “No?”

  “No.” Denis’s look was severe. We were of a height, the two of us, though he was about ten years younger than me, and whole of body, while I leaned heavily on my stick.

  “Well then,” I said. “Give me his direction, and I will ask him myself.”

  “Not as simple a task as you suppose.”

  I waited for him to say more, but Denis closed his mouth and regarded me in stony silence.

  I recalled what Brewster had said about the surgeon after I’d met him the first time.

  When I had remarked, He must owe Mr. Denis an enormous favor for hiding him, Brewster had answered, Or t’other way around.

  What hold did a convicted criminal have on Denis, who held the reins of any number of villains across Britain and the Continent?

  “In that case,” I said, “if you happen to chance upon him, perhaps you will mention that I would be interested in his opinion on a corpse. One that has deteriorated to bones.”

  Denis’s brows flicked upward. “I see you have found yourself another nest of vipers to poke.”

  “Possibly. The woman was found in the river, near the docks at Wapping. Dead a long time. No one knows who she was or where she came from, but she was certainly killed.”

  “I see.”

  I could not decide whether Denis showed interest or not. On the one hand, nothing moved in his eyes. On the other, he didn’t simply repeat his request for me to leave.

  “If
I can discover what happened to her,” I said, not knowing why I continued to explain, “I might give her, and her family, a measure of peace.”

  Denis’s gaze sharpened. He didn’t speak, but I could almost hear his thoughts.

  I had wondered and worried for years about my own daughter—had she been alive or dead? Gone forever? Denis had discovered the truth and used it to gain hold over me. I should hate him for that, but whenever my rage stirred, it quieted because he had found my daughter.

  “I shall trouble you no more, then,” I said, pretending to be as calm as he. “Good day to you.”

  “Good day, Captain.” Denis’s voice took a dry note. I observed that he had never said he would actually pass on my message to the surgeon. Which meant he might or might not, as he chose.

  I turned to go, but paused at the door the butler pointedly held open for me. “Who was the gentleman your men were so unceremoniously beating? The victim of your attentions?”

  Denis’s annoyance returned. “He is not so much a victim as a bloody nuisance.” He eyed me severely. “As you are beginning to be.”

  “You have Mr. Brewster to trounce me anytime you command it,” I said. “If you must teach me another lesson, I would be honored if you would let him do it. I have come to respect him.”

  Denis heaved a cool sigh. “Please go, Captain, before you try my patience too far. Else I will have all my hired help take you down the stairs and throw you out. Along with Mr. Brewster, who ought to keep you from me.”

  “Do not blame him,” I said, bowing. “I am a slippery devil. Good afternoon.”

  I gave him another polite nod and left the room. It was not often I could leave Denis fuming, and I enjoyed it.

  ***

  If I could not find Denis’s surgeon to help me with the body, I would have to attempt to employ another to give me his opinion. Army surgeons were the only men of that profession I knew—I would go to the club formed by cavalrymen and ask about until I was directed toward one. I had known many on the Peninsula, but they had dispersed once the war was over, home to their families scattered all over England.