“Indeed.” His motion sickness forgotten, Grenville tapped on the roof and ordered Jackson to head the coach toward the river.
***
Messers Hartman and Schweigler, watchmakers, had a shop at number 86. The building on the Strand Jackson stopped before was unassuming, with a plain door and a small window, a discreet sign announcing that this was indeed a watch shop.
The interior, when we ducked inside out of thin rain that began pattering down, was dim and workmanlike, befitting a craftsman’s place.
Mr. Hartman obviously recognized Grenville on sight. He came from the back himself before the assistant could fetch him, a smile on his face.
“Welcome, sir. How very kind of you to call upon us.”
“Quite.” Grenville flushed.
In his zeal of questioning Mr. Hartman Grenville had forgotten that any time he visited an establishment, it gave said establishment panache. Grenville’s patronage was as prized as a royal one—it could make or break the careers of hat-maker, glove-maker, tailor, watchmaker.
His arrival this morning, unannounced, would be remarked upon, and Mr. Hartman’s reputation made.
Grenville, who was very careful about from whom he purchased his wardrobe and accoutrements, turned an uncomfortable shade of red. He glanced at me, as though wishing for me to help him, but I only rested my hands on my walking stick and enjoyed myself. It wasn’t often I was able to see Grenville discomfited.
“I wish to make a gift,” Grenville began. “Something for my good friend the captain here. He is soon to be a father. Well, for the second time.”
“Ah.” Hartman brightened. “My felicitations, Captain. A large family is a boon to a man.”
I bowed. “Thank you. I am most fortunate.”
“A timepiece is a wonderful gift, Mr. Grenville. Mr. Schweigler is the watchmaker here, and truly a skilled gentleman. He is Swiss, you know.”
I supposed him being Swiss was significant, but I knew little about the watchmaking industry. I had a timepiece that had been my father’s, a heavy silver thing from the last century, with a plain dial and a small key for winding it. It wasn’t very valuable, as watches went—or my father would have sold it—but it ran well, though it easily tarnished, and I’d kept the thing out of habit.
I pulled out the watch in question and held it in my hand. I’d had it since I’d come home from the Peninsula, and my father’s man of business had given it to me. I’d inherited it, the house in Norfolk, and little else.
“A venerable thing,” Hartman said, his gaze going to it. “May I?”
I unhooked the watch from the chain Donata had given me for it and handed it over. Hartman slid an eyepiece from his pocket with the ease of long practice, opened the back, and peered through the lens to the watch’s viscera.
“Finely made,” he said, sounding impressed. “A Leroux perhaps?” He glanced at me hopefully.
I shook my head. “No idea. It was my father’s.”
“Well, it is exquisitely done. No hallmark—they didn’t often do them in silver fifty years ago, only in gold. Still, it is a fine piece. Perhaps Mr. Schweigler can make one still finer.”
“The finest,” Grenville said. “The captain has been through much, wounded in the war, you know, and being forced to retire.”
Now he was enjoying
my
discomfiture. I said, “Indeed. Mr. Grenville has been kind to befriend me.”
Mr. Hartman regarded me with more interest. “Waterloo, was it?”
“Afraid not. I was wounded in the Peninsula, too hurt to go back into the field for the last show. Apparently, the Iron Duke somehow managed without me.”
Hartman chuckled politely at my joke. “Please, gentlemen, be seated. My assistant will bring coffee, and we will discuss things.”
He hurried out of the main shop through a door, leaving us alone.
“Well,” Grenville said.
I couldn’t help a short laugh. “I suppose you are purchasing me a watch.”
“You must admit you need one. Your timepiece is not bad but it ought to be kept under glass, to be admired as a relic of a time long past. I should have given you one years ago.”
“Forced it upon me, you mean.”
“Do not get your back up,” Grenville said. He seated himself in an armless chair with sinuous legs that had also come from the last century. “Or your pride. This is all in the line of duty. We must put him at his ease.”
“Of course.” If nothing else, we’d have made a gentleman happy with an easy sale.
The front room of the shop was small and dim, the only light coming through the window that gave on to the street. The chamber was more like a sitting room, with the old-fashioned chairs and a round, gate-legged table, and a small case with a glass top resting on the table. The case was empty at the moment, but perhaps Hartman displayed watches in it—an easy thing to carry away to the back rooms and lock up when the shop closed.
Hartman returned with his assistant, who carried coffee. Hartman was a rather large man, somewhat stout, but more solid than fat. In his younger days, he might have gone in for pugilism. He was in middle-age now, approaching his elder years, his thin hair iron gray. He wore a beard on his round face, neatly trimmed nearly to his chin.
The assistant was clearly related to him—son, nephew, or grandson—with the same round face, brown eyes, and solid body that would someday become soft. The assistant was clean-shaven, showing a cleft in his chin that perhaps his father—or uncle, or grandfather—also sported under his beard.
The assistant poured coffee into rather elegant porcelain cups, left the silver pot on a tray, and silently retreated into the depths of the house.
“He is learning the business,” Hartman said with an apologetic glance at the door the assistant closed. “He is not entirely happy about it, but he is young. My brother’s boy. He wants to be a soldier, but the war is over, thank God. He wants to explore the world now, but my brother fears to let him out of his sight. I am trying to think of ways he can make journeys for me. I hate to break his spirit.”
“I understand,” I said. I sipped the coffee, which was remarkably good. Far better than the tea Coombs had offered us. “I have a daughter who is quite … spirited. She is about to make her come-out.”
Hartman laughed, his salesman’s demeanor relaxing slightly. “I have much sympathy for you, Captain. Daughters can be very worrying.” His laughter faded a bit. “Very worrying, indeed.”
Something flashed in his eyes, a darkness, a grief—only a flash, but I’d seen it.
I could not very well ask him if long ago, one of his daughters had broken her arm, and was she still alive without it being awkward. I saw Grenville’s gaze flick to me and away. He was also trying to think of a means to introduce the topic.
I had an idea, though. Not very kind of me, but thinking of the young woman, dead and forgotten, made me impatient and angry. If this watch seller had absolutely nothing to do with the woman, then he would only be puzzled and curious, and we’d go away, having brought him some business.
Gautier had returned the necklace to Grenville, along with his list, in careful handwriting, of the shops that might sell similar pieces or repair old necklaces like this one. Grenville had handed the necklace to me, so I could take it back to Thompson to return to the boxes of evidence in the cold cellar.
I removed the necklace, which I’d wrapped in a handkerchief, from inside my pocket, laid it on the table, and opened the folds of linen.
“I know you sell watches, but perhaps you can help,” I said to Hartman. “Have you ever seen a piece such as this? Or know what jeweler would be able to tell me about it?”
I had been studying the necklace, its simple gold chain and smooth locket as I spoke. I looked up into heavy silence as I finished.
Hartman was staring at the locket, his gaze fixed, his face so white I thought he would fall into a dead faint. His dark eyes blazed like obsidian among the stark white, his lips bloodless.
“Where …” Hartman reached a hand forward, his fingers stiff, movements slow. He stopped shy of touching the locket, as though he feared it would sting him. “Where did you come by this?”
The words barely came out of him. I lifted the necklace and laid it across his fingers.
“It was around the neck of a young woman found in the river,” I said. “She died, nearly fifteen years ago.”
Hartman stared at the necklace on his hand, his chest lifting in a tight breath. Grenville was on the edge of his chair, poised to catch Hartman, who surely would fall.
Just as I reached for him, Hartman collapsed back into his seat. He brought his hands, clutching the necklace, to his face, and began to weep in long, gut-wrenching, wordless sobs.
Chapter Eleven
Grenville and I exchanged surprised looks. I felt a touch a remorse—Hartman was weeping with abandon, his self-assurance gone.
“Mr. Hartman,” I said gently.
“Perhaps some brandy for him, Lacey.” Grenville removed a flask from his pocket and handed it to me. His was silver, beautifully engraved, a contrast to Coombs’s rather battered, plain one.
I did not think Hartman would be able to hold the flask himself, so I tipped a good measure of brandy into his coffee and lifted the cup to him. “Drink.”
He would not take his hands from his face. Hartman’s entire body shook, sobs catching in his throat, choking him. He began to cough, couldn’t catch his breath.
I thumped his back. Grenville rose in alarm. I hit Hartman’s spine with the heel of my hand, and finally, he gave a gasp and began to breathe again.
“Drink,” I repeated firmly.
This time, Hartman took the cup in his shaking hands and poured the lukewarm liquid into his mouth.
More coughing, but his color grew better, and finally he drew a long, ragged breath.
“She is dead, then?” he whispered.
Grenville returned to the table. He pulled a chair close to Hartman’s and sat, taking Hartman’s gnarled hand.
“We are not sure who she is,” he said gently.
Hartman’s look was one of terrible despair. “My … daughter. Judith. She’s been missing for fifteen years.”
Grenville and I exchanged a glance. Hartman took another gulp of coffee, this time without choking. He held the necklace tightly, not wishing to relinquish it.
“Your pardon, sir,” I said. “It is possible the woman who wore it stole it from your daughter. As Mr. Grenville says, we are not certain.”
Hartman stretched the chain between his hands. “It was joined around her neck when her mother gave it to her. It has only been cut once.” He pointed to a broken link. “When it came off her.”
“The young woman who was found had broken her arm at one point,” Grenville said.
Hartman nodded. “Yes.” His eyes screwed up, more tears pouring down his face.
Grenville continued in his gentlest tone. “We’ve visited Mr. Coombs, the surgeon. He said he set the arm of a young lady about that time, but he claims she is alive and well.”
“No.” Hartman pulled a handkerchief from his coat sleeve and buried his face in it. “We told him, when we went to him, that she was her sister. They look much alike. We decided to do so to let no one know her shame.”
Her shame?
A broken limb was no cause for shame, not that mine didn’t embarrass me. I sensed Hartman meant something deeper.
Hartman mopped his face. “Forgive me, gentlemen, but I must close the shop.”
He rose, tottered to the door and locked it, then pulled the curtain across the front window. When he turned back, his breathing was better, but the utter grief in his eyes smote me.
Grenville had risen. “We will go, then. We are so sorry to have caused you distress.”
Hartman stopped, looking at us in some bewilderment. “How … how did you gentlemen come to know of this? You are not Runners—well, I know Mr. Grenville is not.”
“Mr. Thompson of the Thames River Police asked me to help him,” I said. “He had never been able to discover who she was. I have found people before, and so he confided in me.” I was puzzled. “You did not know she was dead before we told you—did you never report her disappearance to the Watch? The Runners? There would have been a hue and cry …”
“No.” Hartman shook his head emphatically. “We looked for her, of course, did our best. But we did not want the Runners. They are dear, in any case. We searched …”
He’d not wanted to give up, I saw. He’d clung to hope all this time, forcing himself to go on with his life.
“By reporting her, you might have discovered the truth long ago,” I said.
Another shake of the head. “
No
, Captain. We did not want the Watch or Runners blundering into our business. They could not have helped in any case. Not if she were dead already.” He hesitated. “Where is … she?”
I hid a flinch. At the moment, Judith Hartman was a jumble of bones in a crate sitting inside Grenville’s carriage.
Grenville said, “We’ll see that she is returned to you, sir.”
Hartman stuffed his handkerchief into his pocket and wiped his eyes with the back of his hand. “For the first time, I am glad her mother is gone. Judith’s vanishing already killed her once.” He let out a long breath. “Now, gentlemen, if I can ask you to leave. I must …”
He glanced about the shop as though not certain what he needed to do. I took up my hat and walking stick and gave him a bow.
“Of course,” I said. “I am terribly sorry to have upset you, sir. If I had known, I would have broken it more gently.”
Hartman shook his head. “No, no. I am grateful to you for this knowledge. For this.” He held up the necklace he still clutched.
“If you would like to speak to Mr. Thompson,” I said, “and tell him what you know, it might assist him to find who killed her.”
“No,” Hartman said abruptly. Deep anger flashed in his eyes. “I do not want inquiries into our private affairs. She is gone. Nothing to be done. Please go, Captain.”
I bowed again. “If you need any help, Mr. Hartman, any at all, please feel free to call on me.”
I removed a card from my pocket and laid it on the table. Donata had caused new calling cards to be made for me, ivory rectangles smooth and clean, with my name in fine black script. I took out the small, silver pencil that went with a silver-backed writing book she’d also given me—to help me make notes when I solved things, she’d said. I’d been grateful, but also reflected I had much more in my pockets now to steal.