When I’d gently teased Donata about this, she’d only stared at me and said, “Of course. Why do you think I invited him?”
Grenville’s good humor had deserted him now, and his face had lost color. “Lacey, there you are. Come with me.”
Without waiting to see whether I followed, he hurried down the stairs to the front door, where Bartholomew stood.
“Sir,” Bartholomew called.
His voice echoed through Lady Aline’s rotunda-like entrance hall. The cupola at the top of the staircase reflected the word back.
I pulled Bartholomew outside. His face too was pale, his agitation evident. “What is it?”
“Jack—the footman, Mr. Brewster’s friend.” Bartholomew’s eyes were wide, his body trembling under my steadying hand. “He’s dead, sir. Someone’s killed him.”
Chapter Twenty-Five
Grenville’s carriage clattered to a halt next to us. Matthias, as worried as his brother, opened the door.
Grenville gestured at the pair of them. “Get in and tell us all about it.”
Bartholomew waited to help me and Grenville in before he launched himself up, followed by Matthias. The carriage started off, I knew not where, but I did not care at the moment.
Bartholomew leaned toward us. “I’ve been following Mr. Bennett wherever I could, just as you told me, sir. Well, earlier this evening, I followed him to Oxford Street. You told me to watch him especially there. Usually when he goes, he’s finding a hackney to take him to the City. Today, though, he walked on toward Soho, and he stopped at a house just off the square. Number 18. I made a note of it.”
“Good lad,” I said, impatient. “Did he kill this Jack?”
“I’m getting to that, sir. When Mr. Bennett came out of the house in Oxford Street, I think he spied me. He turned his head at the wrong time, then went on as though thinking nothing of it, then he stopped and looked back. I’d hidden by that time, but he looked about very carefully. Then he returned to Cavendish Square. So—when he went out later, I asked Jack to follow. He was more or less finished with his duties for the night anyway, and crept out.
“Mr. Bennett came back around one of the clock, but Jack didn’t. I thought maybe Jack had stopped at a public house to refresh himself, and I walked in the direction Bennett had gone to see if I could find him.
“I found him all right. There was a crowd mobbing about just beyond the turning to Soho Square, and there was Jack. Lying dead on the cobbles, his head bashed in. People were shouting for the Watch, for a doctor. I pushed through, telling them I was his friend, but I could see he was for it.”
Bartholomew pushed his hand through his hair. “Bloody hell, sir. I sent him after Mr. Bennett, and I got him killed.”
No, I had.
“Damn it,” I said feelingly.
“Any indication that Bennett struck him down?” Grenville asked.
“Well, he must have done.” Bartholomew’s eyes widened. “He knew Jack was following him, he dragged him aside, and hit him over the head. Just like he did that poor Miss Hartman.”
My heart was beating thick and hard, fingers tingling as I clutched my walking stick. “This time he will be arrested and made to pay. We must fetch Pomeroy.”
Matthias nodded. Grenville broke in, his voice the only calm one inside the carriage.
“Lacey, we should not be precipitate. I hate to suggest it, but he might not have anything to do with this killing. Jack might have gotten into a fight in a public house where he stopped, as Bartholomew suggested, to wet his throat.”
I glared at him. “Do you believe that?”
“I do not know what to believe,” Grenville said. “But if we make accusations, and they are wrong, then Bennett might escape us for Miss Hartman’s murder. He is the type of man to flee. We must go carefully.”
I did not want to go carefully. I wanted to break Bennett’s neck.
I balled one fist, controlling my temper with effort. Grenville was correct—if we spooked Bennett, he might run to the Continent or some such, where we would be hard-pressed to find him and bring him back.
If I went to Pomeroy and asked that Bennett be watched, Pomeroy would be ham-handed about it and spook him all the same. Spendlove, getting wind, would be even more ruthless.
“Matthias,” I said. “Would you deliver a message to Mr. Denis for me? Or have Mr. Brewster do it, if you can find him first.”
“No, no,” Grenville said quickly. “I will go. I cannot ask Matthias to walk into a lion’s den. We are near Curzon Street; why not visit him now? I take it you are going to ask him to watch Mr. Bennett.”
I tapped on the roof and called for Jackson to stop. The carriage halted. “You go on to Curzon Street,” I told Grenville. “I am off to Cavendish Square. When Bennett hears about his dead footman, he might flee. I will stay there until Brewster or whomever Denis sends arrives. Please impress upon Mr. Denis the importance of the situation.”
Grenville looked doubtful. “I will try. But I cannot say he will listen to me.”
“He’ll send men to Cavendish Square if only to drag me out of Bennett’s house to beat me for my impertinence. But that doesn’t matter. I want them there. Bennett might escape the Watch, but he will not escape Denis.”
I did not give Grenville time to argue. Jackson had thoughtfully pulled over to the side of the street so I did not have to land in the middle of traffic. I slammed the door and moved off, hobbling to the nearest hackney stand.
***
Bennett had already gone to bed, to sleep the sleep of the just when I arrived. The startled footman who answered the door told me this, then went pale with shock when I explained that Jack was dead.
I told the footman I would be sitting the rest of the night in the upstairs hall to prevent more murders in this household. “No, do not rouse Mr. Bennett,” I finished. “Let him sleep. We will tell him in the morning.”
The footman scuttled away. He hurried down the back stairs, his voice ringing out the news about Jack before the door shut behind him to muffle his frantic words.
I slid out the flask I’d brought with me tonight in case I needed to settle my stomach while watching the young men flutter around Gabriella. I took a fortifying sip of brandy then ascended the stairs to the second floor and planted myself on a cushioned bench in the hall.
It was warm, the house stuffy, which would ensure I didn’t catch cold. It might send me to sleep though. I firmed my jaw, determined to be wakeful and not let Bennett slip away.
I did not have to wait long to discover what Denis would do. Within an hour, the footman who’d admitted me scurried up the stairs to say a man called Brewster was asking for me.
I went down. Brewster was in the street, the bulk of him tight with anger.
“His nibs says you should have asked him for his help in the first place,” Brewster began. Any friendliness he’d showed me a few days ago was gone. “Not had me send in someone out of his depth.”
Denis, I recalled, had warned me off the business entirely, thus forcing me to use the assistance of those I could. Perhaps Denis’s anger hid remorse.
“Brewster, I am so very sorry. I never thought it would come to this.”
Surprise flickered in his eyes. “You’re not to blame, Captain. I am. I didn’t take the danger seriously. Mr. Denis has sent six men. They’ve dispersed all around the house. This Bennett steps a foot out, they’ll be on him. He’ll not get away.”
“I’ll avenge your friend, Brewster. I promise you that.”
“Jack were a bloody thief,” Brewster said, scowling. “But a good lad for all that.”
“Perhaps one of the men can be spared to accompany me to Soho,” I said. “I want to know where Bennett went tonight.”
“I’ll spare me,” Brewster returned. “I’m not letting you out of my sight. Not again, sir.”
***
Brewster had a quick word with one of the ruffians I’d witnessed beating Molodzinski in Denis’s staircase hall, then he
trotted after me as I strode south to Oxford Street. I was too agitated and too cramped to wait for a hackney, so I simply walked.
Bartholomew had said Bennett visited number 18 in a lane off Soho Square. It stood to reason that Bennett had returned there again when Jack was following him—though I couldn’t be certain. Regardless, I wanted to know what business he had at that address.
We headed from Oxford Street down into Soho Square. In the late part of the last century, a brothel patronized by the wealthy wanting novelty had stood in this square. From tales I’d heard, it had been part brothel, part stage set. A man would arrange to meet one of the courtesans of the house, and then upon entering a bedroom would find the lights going out and a specter or skeleton coming at him instead. Such were the entertainments of the rich and world-weary.
That house was gone now, but other brothels had sprung up. Soho Square spilled out its south side not far from Seven Dials, where life was dangerous.
The only number 18 was in a small lane on this south end. The house itself was solid and plain, nothing unusual.
In spite of the late hour, a light burned in the upper windows. Was this a discreet brothel? Or the home of Bennett’s mistress? Or some other sort of house—a gaming hell, perhaps, where Bennett squandered away Captain Woolwich’s money?
The only way to discover was to enter. I knocked.
The door was wrenched open by, of all things, a small urchin. He was about nine years old and had a belligerent face and brown eyes.
While brothels often had boys who ran errands and were on hand for much more sordid requests, this boy did not have the look. He was a sturdy lad, and when I studied his face, a realization struck me and struck me hard.
“Well,” the boy asked. “Whatcha want?”
I stood, dumbfounded, unable to speak. Before the lad could slam the door in my face, a woman came down the stairs. She was pretty, about thirty, with brown hair peeping from under a cap.
“Mark,” she called. “Who is it?” She reached the bottom of the stairs, saw me, and stopped short. “If you’ve come from the beaks, you needn’t bother me,” she snapped. “He’s paid the debt.”
I finally swallowed the lump in my throat. “I am not a creditor, madam, nor from the magistrates.” I drew a breath and took a chance. “Mrs. Andrew Bennett?”
She looked me up and down. “Yes, that’s me. Who are you? What’s happened?”
Behind me, Brewster made an amazed sound. “’Struth,” he said.
I agreed with him wholeheartedly.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Mrs. Bennett—her Christian name was Ella—let us come in out of the night but no farther than the vestibule. Her son Mark hovered nearby as though ready to launch into us if we made any move toward his mother.
Two more children lingered upstairs, peering down through the railings. So much for the theory that Bennett was impotent.
“I would like to talk with Mr. Bennett,” I said after I’d recovered my powers of speech. “Is he in?”
“He’s not. His work took him off again. Ye still haven’t told me what you want.”
The woman was comely, and her eyes, though now full of anger, could be soft, I sensed. Bennett had set himself up a nice little nest here.
Was he married to her in truth? Or had he fooled her as I’d suspected he’d tricked Judith Hartman?
I cast around for some excuse to have called. “I need to pass on a message. About his work. Where would Mr. Bennett be tonight?”
Ella’s brows remained lowered. “Well, I’m not certain. He travels about. Ye leave your message with me, and your name, and I’ll see he gets it.”
“Ah.” No one had ever assumed me a quick thinker, and I found it difficult to be anything other than painfully honest. “Yes, well, please tell him that Mr. … Ah …” I floundered.
“Brewster,” Brewster said quickly. He poked a thumb at me. “He’s Mr. Brewster.”
“Yes,” I said. “My name should be enough. When do you expect him to return?”
“Couldn’t say. Call back in a couple of days.”
The dismissal was evident. I gave her a polite bow, and made for the door. “My apologies for disturbing you,” I said. “Have a good night.”
Ella looked slightly appeased at my courtesy, but she folded her arms and waited for me to leave.
We got ourselves outside into the lane, and I slapped on my hat. “Bloody hell,” I muttered.
“Very cozy,” Brewster said. “Not that I’d try it. My Em would find me out and come at me with a hatchet.”
“That is a point.” We headed into the busier realm of Soho Square, undiminished even at this late hour. “This house is not that far from Cavendish Square—a different world, but he ought to have put much more distance between them.”
“Mayhap he likes to stay in an area what he’s familiar with. Oi—Look sharp, Captain.”
A small body darted in front of me, the boy who had Andrew Bennett’s eyes. “Ye leave me mum alone.”
I tipped my hat to him. “I do apologize, Mr. Bennett. I did not realize it was so late to call.”
Young Mark kept his fists clenched, clearly not knowing what to make of me. “When ye see me dad, tell him to come home. Me mum is missing him.”
“He stays away often does he?” I asked. “His work, no doubt.”
The lad scoffed. “I know what his work is, don’t I? He’s a card sharp. Must be. He comes in, gives mum plenty of money, and he’s off again. He has to spend days in the gambling dens, I warrant, to come with so much. So why do you really want to see him?”
“Not about anything to do with gambling,” I said. “I promise you. Do you have any idea where he goes? I could find him and send him home.”
Mark deflated. “Nah. I tried to follow him once, but got lost. He doesn’t like us going very far from the house, so I don’t know my way about. ’Tis dangerous ’round here, he says.”
“He is right.” I took a coin from my pocket and handed it to him. “I will look for him and send him home.”
The coin was snatched from my hand and disappeared while my fingers still felt its imprint. “Thank ye, sir.”
I touched my hat again. “Good night.”
“Night.” Mark skimmed around me and was gone, running hard back to the lane.
Brewster and I were left alone with the denizens of Soho.
“Well,” I said, my spirits rising. “At last, I have something to arrest the bloody man for.”
***
I returned home and slept, confident that Denis’s men would not let Bennett out of their sight. Tomorrow, I would speak to Pomeroy and have Bennett charged with bigamy.
In the morning, after a refreshingly dreamless sleep, I ate breakfast with good appetite, refraining from whistling a sunny tune. I was closing in on Bennett, and would get him one way or another.
I penned a note to Grenville, telling him of the night’s adventures and where I was off to, and sent one of the footmen running to his house with it. Bartholomew was up in the attics, snoring away, and I’d let him sleep. He’d had a bad night.
I found Brewster outside the front door when I emerged. He was taking his job as watchdog seriously.
The air inside the hackney we took to Bow Street was as stuffy as ever, but today it did not bother me. A breeze wafted outside, the sky was blue, roses bloomed in the public gardens, and all was right in my world. The nagging worries about Gabriella and the army of suitors that would descend upon our house I pushed firmly aside.
Pomeroy was in. In triumph, I presented my findings and suspicions about Bennett and said I wanted to bring suit against him for bigamy.
Pomeroy only looked at me and raised his large mug of coffee to his lips.
“He’ll not be the first gentleman who has himself a second so-called wife tucked somewhere, sir.”
“Using the same name as his first wife? I mean his legitimate wife?”
Pomeroy shrugged. “Happens. Mayhap he likes to pretend
his mistress is his darling wife, especially when his legal darling wife is a shrew. Who knows? He might have these ‘Mrs. Bennetts’, all over London.”
“He has children with her. I wager this Ella does not know she is not his wife.”
“Possibly not,” Pomeroy said. “Don’t mean he’s a bigamist. Just crafty. Bring me evidence he’s married both these women in a church with a vicar, all laid out in the parish register, with banns or a special license—then I can take a case to the magistrate. Otherwise, he’s no different from your gentlemen of the town what maintain houses for wives and however many mistresses they can afford.”
“Bloody hell, Pomeroy.”
“Captain, you cannot have a man arrested, tried, and hanged because you don’t like him. Laws of England were made to keep that from happening—in theory. If not, every blessed one of us would be dead.”
“I believe him a killer,” I said in a hard voice. “Twice over now—who knows how many times? We must stop him.”
“Aye—I don’t much want a man who disposes of wives in such a cavalier manner running about the streets. But I need something more to arrest him on than you think he killed a woman fifteen years ago. I need a murder weapon with blood on it, blood on his clothes, a witness …”
“Any murder weapon and bloody clothes will have been destroyed years ago, and you know it. I wager the crowbar that struck her is at the bottom of the Thames, his clothes long since burned. What witness will remember exactly what he did or saw on an exact day fifteen years gone?”
Pomeroy shrugged again. “Until such a one comes forward, or this Mr. Bennett breaks down and confesses all, there’s nothing to arrest him for.”
“Very well then.” I was angry, but I knew Pomeroy was correct on all counts.
I could not drag in a man on suspicion alone. Ella might have taken Bennett’s last name, but it did not mean he’d married her in truth. That he’d legally married Margaret, his current wife, I believed—I imagined Captain Woolwich had made damn certain of it.