As we pulled up in front of the house near High Holborn, Auberge finally bestirred himself. 'I'd hoped when I saw you coming you had brought good news with you.'
'I wanted to,' I answered.
'My wife…' He flinched then went past the awkwardness. 'She wants to return to France after we find Gabriella. She has always hated England. But if we do, I do not know how to do the divorce, then.'
'The solicitors will find a way if they suspect a hefty fee,' I said. 'Why do you say she hates England? She had everything here, friends, a come-out, a country home. Her father was a squire. He was enraged that I'd married her, but that was to be expected, since we'd eloped without permission. Then I dragged her off to India, where she was miserable.'
'She married you to get away from her father.' Auberge's voice held more life now, as though surprised he had to tell me this. 'She disliked India, but she hated England more. You did not know this?'
'She never mentioned it.' Or at least, not that I remembered. If Carlotta had ever tried to tell me, I had not listened very hard. I had been young and brash and full of myself.
I wanted to ask him why Carlotta had wanted to flee her father, but we needed to descend.
It had been a year since I'd knocked on the door of the small, quiet-looking house, but the same maid answered it, and she looked me up and down with the same belligerence. 'It's you, is it? What'yer want?'
'Does the woman called Lady still live here? I would like to see her.'
'Maybe she does, maybe she don't.' She switched her black gaze to Auberge. 'Who's he when he's at home?'
'His name is Major Auberge,' I said.
The belligerence increased. 'Is he a Frog? What's he want to come here for?'
I wasn't certain if she meant this house or England altogether. 'If Lady is here, I would be obliged if you'd take her my card.'
The maid gave me another once over, and her expression changed to mere sullenness. 'She liked you last time. Said you were a gentleman, and not many like you about.' She snatched the ivory rectangle I held out to her. 'I'll see if she's receiving.' The maid backed up and slammed the door in my face.
I leaned against the brick of the house, settling in to wait.
'What is this place?' Auberge asked, gazing up at it. He saw what I saw, gray-brown brick, a brown-painted door, windows blank with no one looking out of them, some of them shuttered.
'A lying-in house for game girls and courtesans. Some benevolent person set it up, I still do not know who, but the girls pay their bed and board. It is a sort of place for them to go when they can go nowhere else. I found it a year ago when I was searching for another missing girl.'
Auberge looked at me. 'Did you find this girl?'
I couldn't lie. 'Not in time.'
His gaze held mine a moment, then he turned away, though not before I'd caught the fear in his moist eyes. I think I realized at that moment how much he loved Gabriella.
The door opened again, and the maid reappeared. 'Come on, then.'
She took us to the small, rather shabby sitting room where I'd waited the last time I'd been here. Marianne Simmons had brought me to this place, thinking that perhaps the girl I'd sought had come here to give birth. She had been wrong, but I'd met a woman called 'Lady,' a young woman of the gentry by her accent and manner, who had come here for her own lying-in and then stayed to help the other girls.
Lady would not tell me her real name nor the name of the man who'd impregnated her. I had thought of her off and on over the last year, but had made no inquiry, fearing to destroy the haven she'd found here. If the young woman had wanted to or had been able to go home, no doubt she would have gone. She seemed competent and intelligent and resourceful, the sort of young woman who knew what she wanted.
When Lady entered the room, I saw that the year had changed her little. She still moved with confidence and grace, and her face was unlined and serene. A small linen cap covered her dark hair, and she wore a dark serge gown with a raised waistline and no adornment. She looked much like a servant, but her manners made it plain that she was not.
She dropped a curtsy to me and then extended her hand. 'Captain Lacey. It is a pleasure to see you again.'
'And a pleasure to see you. Is all well?'
'Indeed. You may not believe me, but I enjoy staying here and helping the girls. Some of them dislike me for interfering, others are grateful. It is of no matter.'
'And you have not changed your mind about giving me your real name?'
She shook her head. 'I will not. On the other hand, I have read much about you in the newspapers, stories about how cleverly you help the magistrates find murderers. I read them with interest.'
'Thank you,' I said with some dismay. The newspapers either exaggerated or got things blatantly wrong. 'This is Major Henri Auberge, from France. We would like to ask you a few questions, about girls who have gone missing.'
Her expression became troubled. 'Missing? Street girls, you mean?'
'Yes. And one other.' I gestured for her to sit, which she did, again gracefully. I moved to shut the door to the sitting room against the noise of female shouting upstairs. The maid, who had stationed herself near the open door, flashed a disappointed glance at me as I closed her out.
I took a seat facing Lady, and Auberge sat rather awkwardly on a tattered Sheridan sofa.
'Do you know of girls named Black Bess and Mary Chester?' I asked Lady.
'Goodness, yes,' she said at once. 'Both of them have come here. Mary to have a baby, Black Bess because she was ill after she'd rid herself of one.'
Mi interest piqued. 'When did these events happen?'
'With Black Bess, a year ago. She's managed to keep herself from increasing since then, but that may be because the abortionist damaged her. She was quite ill, poor thing.'
'Damn all quacks,' I said. 'I beg your pardon. What about Mary Chester?'
'Mrs. Chester had her baby not long ago. April, I believe. She was relieved it had come then because she didn't want to face her man, a sailor who was supposed to return on a merchantman in early May. She had the baby and gave it up. I believe the ship was late in returning as well, and she was happy she would be able to face him without him being the wiser. Broke her heart, though. Mary is rather a simple girl, but a good one, at least as good as she can be living the life of a street girl. Her father sold her to a brothel when she was twelve, and she has been struggling ever since. She is fond of Mr. Chester-calls herself Mrs. Chester-but she still plies her trade when he's gone; she knows how to do nothing else. He leaves her money, but it runs out, of course.' Lady twined her long- fingered hands together. Her nails were white and clean and trimmed. 'Why do you ask about her, Captain?'
'I fear I have to tell you that Mary Chester is dead.'
She stared at me, her lips parted. 'Oh dear. I hadn't known she was ill. Why didn't she come here?'
'She was not ill. She was killed.'
Her gentle face whitened with shock. 'Killed…?'
'I do not know how she died, but it looked to be murder.' I described how Mary had been found in a back lane between the Strand and the river. 'Mr. Thompson of the Thames River patrol is investigating, but I do not know yet what he has turned up.'
'How terrible.' Lady straightened her skirt with a shaking hand, trying to remain composed. 'Poor Sam Chester.'
'Thompson must have broken it to him by now. I am afraid that Mr. Chester will be suspected. Motive: jealousy. Perhaps he discovered that she'd been pregnant with another man's baby and grew angry. He seemed to be understanding of her profession when I interviewed him, but perhaps he hid his true feelings from me. And Mary had mentioned to her friends that she was to meet a wealthy gentleman in Covent Garden. His jealousy might have gotten the better of him.'
Lady shook her head. 'Not Sam Chester. I have met him a few times. He is gentle, even though he is a sailor. I doubt he could ever hurt Mary.'
I rested my hand on the cool brass handle of my walking stick. 'I agree with you. I liked him and was sorry for him. He seemed genuinely worried. The magistrate, however, will want an easy solution to a sordid case unless the true culprit is discovered. Do you know who was the father of Mary's child?'
