'I'm that sorry, Captain. None of the girls I passed the time with had seen her, or the other missing girls either. But we'll keep trying. I swear to you.'
They were giving up. I heard it in their voices when they promised to continue. They were beginning to fear the worst.
Outside, in darkening Russel Street, I sent a street sweep running off to the boardinghouse with news we had not found her. Auberge and I returned to the streets north of Long Acre and tediously trudged down every lane again.
'I am a stranger in London,' Auberge said. 'Tell me what can have happened.' He stopped me near the wall of a shabby house. 'Tell me in plain words.'
I did not want to tell him, because telling him might make it real, but I drew a breath. 'She might have fetched up in the river. Either fallen in or thrown in after she was robbed. As Pomeroy said, a procuress could have taken her to a bawdy house. Or a gentleman could have coerced her into his coach and be far away by now.' I stopped, and Auberge nodded, trying, as I was, to make himself face these possibilities. 'I was involved in a case a little over a year ago,' I went on. 'A gentleman had asked for young, respectable girls to be brought to him. He had an expensive house in Hanover Square.'
Auberge looked grim. 'Should we go to Hanover Square?'
'The man involved was killed. I could not be terribly sorry about his death.' I did not explain what had become of the particular young woman I had sought, and I did not like thinking on her fate.
'We must keep looking, then,' Auberge said.
'Yes,' I agreed.
We fell into step, resuming the search.
At eleven o'clock, we returned to Grimpen Lane to news. Bartholomew, Matthias, Nancy and Felicity were waiting, the latter eating strawberries she'd bought cheap from a strawberry girl who'd wanted to rid herself of her last wares for the day.
'We found something, Captain,' Bartholomew said, his blue eyes subdued. 'Not your daughter. By the new bridge, near to Somerset House. A young woman, dead.'
'Not Gabriella?' I asked, my voice strained. 'You are certain?'
'I saw her clear, sir. Wasn't the same girl. She had golden hair, but not natural.'
'I think,' Felicity said, 'from what you and Nancy said, it could be Mary Chester.'
I sent Matthias bolting off to fetch Pomeroy. Bartholomew told me that they'd left Grenville's coachman and his patroller to guard the spot. When Grenville came in, we took lanterns he had filched from his coach and made our way down to the Strand.
The new bridge rose near Somerset House, arched and lighted with flickering lamps. Bartholomew led us through the darkness to a passage near stairs that led down to the water. Pomeroy had joined us, his tow-colored hair bright in the moonlight. The stink of the river was strong here-fish, mud, and human waste.
The ground was hard-packed dirt; the cobbles did not extend here. Grenville's coachman, Jackson, a tall, muscular man with hard eyes, waited near a pile of debris, holding a lantern that was a bright pinpoint of light in the gloom. The patroller stood by him, somewhat more nervously.
Bartholomew bent down and moved a wet and grime-covered board. Beneath was the torso of a young woman, her hips and legs still covered by rubbish.
Grenville lifted his lantern high, shining the light on her. She was dead without doubt. Her face was blue- white, and was wound loosely about her neck. Her hair, now dirt-streaked, had been golden-blond, but Bartholomew had been right about it not being natural. The roots of the hair that swept back from her forehead and temples was mostly dark brown, her own color starting to grow again.
I crouched next to her, looking at another life too soon snuffed out. 'We need Thompson,' I said. 'I want him to see her.'
'And a coroner,' Pomeroy put in.
I switched my glance to the foot patrollers. They looked to Pomeroy, and at his nod, they loped off.
I remained on one knee next to the woman, bracing myself on my walking stick. Gingerly, I hooked one finger around the sash and eased it an inch downward. Her neck was covered with bruises.
Nancy hissed through her teeth. 'That how she died? Strangled with her own sash?'
I looked at the girl's face, which was straight and serene, and shook my head. 'She didn't struggle.' I studied the bruises, which were in the exact pattern of human fingers. My own fingers fitted over them easily. 'A man did this. One with large hands. But I'm not sure that's what killed her.'
'Then why the sash?' Grenville asked.
I eased the cloth back over her neck. 'Perhaps she was in a struggle with a man and got away, and wore the sash around her neck to cover the bruises until they healed.'
'In that case, how did she die?'
'Coroner will tell us,' Pomeroy said confidently. 'They're amazing at that sort of thing.' He sighed and scratched his head. 'Will have to be an inquest, her dead back here, injuries like that.'
I got stiffly to my feet. Felicity was standing at my elbow, looking down at the corpse with an odd expression on her face. 'Are you all right?' I asked her.
She looked up at me quickly, as though surprised at the question. 'Wasn't expecting to find her dead, is all.'
A shiver ran through me. I prayed with all my strength that Gabriella wasn't lying under another pile of rotting boards, cold and blue and dead. God, please let her be all right. Let her be waiting in a tavern for someone to find her, with a kindly landlord's wife feeding her thick soup and coffee.
'Looks like I should be asking whether you're all right, Captain,' Felicity said softly. She touched my hand, again with the unspoken offer of bodily comfort should I need it. The gesture did not disgust me; she meant it from kindness, like Mrs. Beltan might offer me a cup of tea. I gave her a faint smile and shook my head.
'Jackson,' Grenville addressed his coachman. 'Take the lads and the two young ladies and find yourselves a steadying pot of ale. You've earned it.'
'So have you,' I told him.
Grenville shook his head. 'I'll wait for the coroner and Thompson with you. I'm curious what he has to say.' He withdrew his watch and looked at it in the light of his lantern. 'Eleven thirty. Ah, well, I was not looking forward to Lady Featherstone's ball in the slightest. I will be the talk of Mayfair for not appearing.' He sounded rather pleased with the prospect.
Auberge, who had been watching from the back of the alley, said, 'I will resume the hunt for my daughter.'
'I'd rather you didn't,' I said. 'Not alone. Or we'll be hunting for you, as well.'
He smiled faintly. 'Perhaps you would not be so troubled to have me go missing, eh?' He met my gaze, his hazel eyes flickering in the light of Grenville's lantern.
'Not so,' I said. 'I want your help. I know that you are the only other man who will be as adamant as I am about finding Gabriella.'
Auberge hesitated a moment, then he nodded. 'As you say, I have no knowledge of these streets. I will wait.'
Grenville sensed that the exchange had been personal. As though ignoring us, he tucked his watch away and straightened his frock coat, which he'd been wearing since early evening.
It was unusual for Grenville not to change his clothes at least twice in the course of an evening, sometimes three times. He seemed more interested, however, at the prospect of investigating a murder. He made to lean against the wall behind him, then looked at the smears of mud on it and thought better of it.
I turned to Pomeroy, who was gazing down at the girl. 'While we are waiting,' I said to him. 'Tell me why the last time Felicity saw Black Bess, you were with Bess in a passage like this one, kissing her.'
Chapter Ten
