Crooked in His Ways

by S. M. Goodwin

  CROOKED IN HIS WAYS

  A LIGHTNER AND LAW MYSTERY

  S. M. Goodwin

  For Brantly

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  A big thanks, as always, to my agent Pam Hopkins!

  My gratitude also goes out to my editor, Faith Black Ross, and the small but mighty staff at Crooked Lane Press.

  Thanks to Grace Burrows—my fellow author and lawyer—for her lovely review of ABSENCE OF MERCY and for sharing her thoughts about the book with her readers.

  I have relied heavily on Professor Wilbur Miller’s highly readable book COPS AND BOBBIES: POLICE AUTHORITY IN NEW YORK AND LONDON, which provides a fascinating history of police development for both cities.

  I also owe a debt of gratitude to Tom at the Daytonian in Manhattan blog for answering some obscure questions about NYC piers.

  The website Ephemeral New York is a treasure trove of information and imagery that has been priceless on many subjects.

  Thanks, as always, to my beta readers Brantly and Shirley, who give me such great advice and are always a source of support.

  And last, but never least, thank you to all the readers who enjoyed ABSENCE OF MERCY and reached out to me to pass along some kind words. Enthusiastic, supportive readers are what makes the job of writing so enjoyable.

  PROLOGUE

  New York City

  December 1856

  Albert Beauchamp looked around at the romantic scene he’d set and rubbed his hands together in gleeful anticipation.

  He honestly couldn’t recall an evening he’d looked forward to more than this one. Mrs. Adolphus Vogel—Helen, as he would finally be able to address her—was one of the true beauties of New York society. And tonight, she would be all his.

  He could hardly believe his good fortune. When Mrs. Vogel had first come to him—heavily veiled and calling under the unimaginative name of Mrs. Smith—he’d not dared to hope that one day he’d have her in the palm of his hand.

  In your bed is more like!

  Albert grinned; yes, tonight he’d have the belle of New York naked in his arms. His pulse pounded at the thought of stroking her flawless skin, thrusting his fingers into her thick auburn tresses, caressing her—

  Hold up there, Albert! Don’t want to embarrass yourself when she arrives on your doorstep, old thing.

  The voice of reason jerked him away from what had been a speedily building erotic fantasy. That was sound advice; he needed to calm down and think of something other than the night ahead.

  Instead, for the umpteenth time, he inspected the intimate dining area he’d arranged just for this evening.

  He’d dispensed with harsh gaslight, opting for the glow of a crackling fire along with the kinder illumination of a few beeswax candles. After all, it had been nearly three years since Mrs. Vogel’s debut, and she was no longer the dewy adolescent who’d taken New York society by storm. She was a matron—a mature woman of twenty-one who would appreciate his efforts.

  Not to mention it’ll take a few years off your six decades, Alby old boy …

  Albert flinched at the unkind—but true—observation. Yes, he’d be fifty-eight come March, but he was still a fine figure of a man. He glanced in the mirror and smiled at what he saw. He wore the same size trousers and coats he’d sported when he’d been a mere lad. And if he employed a bit of aid in the form of a corset to fit into them, well, tonight he would remove the helpful but detestable garment after dinner, before he went to his beautiful new mistress’s arms.

  Smiling at the thought, he turned back to the table. He’d had his cook prepare a meal fit for a queen before he’d sent her and all the other servants away for the evening.

  It was a fête champêtre supper—an indoor picnic for lovers who didn’t want to be interrupted by servants bearing new courses. There was salmon aspic, three different pâtés, Virginia ham sliced so thin you could almost see through it, chilled cucumber soup, a crusty loaf of bread, a blancmange served with a little pot of clotted cream, a—

  Albert paused at the faint, almost insistent sound he realized he’d been hearing for several minutes. Was that the doorbell?

  He pulled out his watch, a gift from Gerta, his unlamented late wife; it was still fifteen minutes until Mrs. Vogel was to arrive.

  The bell rang again, and Albert realized the reason it was so faint was that it was the bell for the servants’ entrance, not the front door.

  He frowned; the last thing he wanted right now was—

  It rang again. And again. And again.

  Heaving a sigh of irritation, he left his little love nest—which he’d had the foresight to set up in the sitting room attached to his bedchamber—and made the long journey down to the ground floor.

  The shrieking bell had been a faint ringing two flights up but was deafening in the ceramic confines of the kitchen.

  “I’m coming,” he yelled, doubtful that he could be heard over the din. He should have kept at least one servant until midnight for matters like this. “Enough already!” He flung open the door and was confronted by darkness. He glanced at the gaslight sconce beside the door; somebody had smashed it.

  Albert frowned at the destruction. “What the devil?” he muttered, and then pulled his gaze away from what was left of the sconce and squinted as the darkness coalesced into a human shape. “Yes?” He scowled when the figure remained silent. “You were ringing the bell like a lunatic, and now—oh, it’s you.”

  Albert’s shoulders—which had become painfully tense—relaxed as the shadowy form turned into a recognizable human being.

  “Why have you come to the back door? You know—oof!”

  Albert looked down at where his visitor’s hand had come to rest on his belly. The handle of a hunting knife jutted out.

  Searing pain accompanied the realization.

  “Good God—” He huffed out the words, staggered backward, and drew in a breath to yell.

  But his attacker was faster. Again and again the knife plunged into him, the arm flickering, as though Albert were viewing it all from the window of a speeding train.

  His back rammed into something sharp and unforgiving—the edge of a counter or drawer—abruptly stopping his retreat.

  His arms, which he’d raised in a futile gesture of protection, became leaden and dropped to his sides. Albert’s mind listed like a quickly sinking ship. “But—” It was all he managed to get out before he coughed up a great gout of blood and began to slide down to the floor.

  Hands grabbed his hair and slammed his head back against something sharp and hard; the agonizing pain from his skull caused his vision to double and treble.

  His aggressor dropped onto his chest, the familiar face distorted by ruthless determination and hatred.

  “Why—” And then a trail of fire across his throat cut off his words. His chest rose and fell, but no air reached his lungs.

  Above him, a pair of pitiless blue eyes watched and waited as the light faded to black.

  CHAPTER 1

  New York City

  July 2, 1857

  “My lord?”

  Jasper squinted through the haze of sleep at the sound of his valet’s voice. “What t-time is it, Paisley?” he asked as he shielded his eyes against the low-burning gaslight lamp beside the bed.

  “Almost five thirty, my lord.” He paused, and then added, “In the morning.”

  Jasper smiled at Paisley’s gentle hint. Ever since his neighbor Mrs. Dunbarton’s suicide, his normally dictatorial servant had worn kid gloves around him.

  Paisley had known—in the way servants do—that Jasper had begun to develop a liking for the acerbic widow. No doubt Paisley believed that Jasper’s subsequent five-day absence was his way of grieving for Mrs. Dunbarton. In part, his valet
was correct.

  But Jasper was ashamed to admit that the impulse that had led him to Gordon Chang’s place of business in the notorious Five Points area had also been a self-destructive one—at least to begin with.

  It was fortunate for Jasper that Mr. Chang wasn’t just a purveyor of opium, he was also trained in the Eastern discipline of acupuncture.

  Had Jasper indulged in his favorite vice while at Chang’s?

  Of course he’d smoked opium.

  But he’d also slept, undergone acupuncture for his relentless headaches, and eaten the hearty but plain food Chang’s Irish wife, Irene, cooked for their customers who stayed in the three monastic rooms the couple maintained—in their own home—for those who came to take acupuncture treatments.

  The bulk of Chang’s customers—those who only wanted opium—were relegated to the tiny, darkened warren of rooms behind the small herbalist shop.

  It was possible that Jasper might, even now, still be living in that small, immaculate room if he could have overlooked the pity and scorn in Mrs. Chang’s eyes whenever she looked at him. Jasper couldn’t blame her; hiding away from the world was self-indulgent and weak, especially when a person was relatively healthy, wealthy, and had others relying on him for their livelihood.

  So he’d come home before poor Paisley had needed to come and fetch him.

  “Detective Law is downstairs, my lord.”

  Paisley’s voice shook Jasper from his sleepy reverie and he pushed out of bed, grimacing as he did so. Yesterday, his first morning back home, he’d resumed his exercise regime with a vengeance. And today he was feeling all thirty-four of his years.

  * * *

  Hieronymus Law glanced at the much-diminished plate of pastries.

  “You go on, Mr. Law. His lordship won’t eat ’em, and lord knows I don’t need any more,” said Lightner’s new cook, Gloria Freedman.

  “Thank you, ma’am.” Hy surreptitiously watched Mrs. Freedman as he munched on the strawberry jam–filled tart. As far as Hy was concerned, the woman’s name suited her to a T. Not only did she cook the most glorious damned food he’d ever eaten, but she was glorious to look at, too. She was on the smallish side, with a curvy figure that even her big dun apron couldn’t hide. Her hair was covered by the sort of ugly white cotton cap female servants seemed to wear, but even that couldn’t diminish her fine looks. Full lips, a sharp chin, and the prettiest melting brown eyes Hy could ever recall seeing.

  Still, as beautiful as she was, the best thing about her—in Hy’s opinion—was the way she put Lightner’s terrifying valet, Mr. Paisley, in his place without hardly trying; the woman was truly fearless.

  Paisley scared the shit out of Hy.

  “Do you always get up this early?” Hy asked after he’d washed down the last of the tart with strong coffee liberally lightened with cream and sweetened with three spoonfuls of sugar; the cook had only served him breakfast twice before, but she already knew his coffee habits.

  Mrs. Freedman looked up from the massive lump of dough she was kneading into submission. “I have the past few days.” Hy thought her smile looked strained. “All the other kitchen workers quit last week.”

  Her words made him realize it was strangely quiet, and he glanced around the enormous, gleaming, and surprisingly cool kitchen. “You doin’ everything yourself?”

  Before she could answer him, the door opened and Lightner walked in.

  Hy hadn’t seen the other man for almost a week—not since the day the rich society woman, Hesperis Dunbarton, had committed suicide. He couldn’t help thinking the Englishman looked gaunt and tired.

  Mrs. Freedman pulled her fists out of the dough and dropped a curtsey. “Good morning, my lord.”

  Hy got to his feet; there was just something about his new boss that seemed to demand the courtesy. “Mornin’, sir.”

  “Good morning, Mrs. Freedman, D-Detective Law.” Lightner glanced around the empty kitchen and a notch formed between his arched, black brows. “Are you alone, Mrs. F-Freedman?”

  “Yes, my lord.”

  The notch became more pronounced. “Where are your helpers? I r-recall Paisley engaged several scu-scullery maids?”

  The door he’d just come through opened again, and Paisley himself entered before Mrs. Freedman could answer. “I’ve set two places in the breakfast room, my lord.”

  Lightner gave a dismissive flick of his hand. “Nonsense. I shall have a quick c-c-cup of tea in here.”

  Hy bit back a smile at the lightning-fast look of displeasure that flitted across the hoity-toity valet’s face.

  “Would you like a slice of almond coffee cake with your tea, my lord?” Mrs. Freedman asked, cutting Paisley a look that was decidedly triumphant as Lightner settled down at the kitchen table.

  “That would be lovely, Mrs. F-Freedman.” Lightner nodded at Hy. “What do we have this m-morning, Detective?”

  Hy pulled his gaze away from Paisley, who appeared to have grown roots in the tiled kitchen floor. Hy could only assume that Lightner, the son of a duke, wasn’t supposed to eat his meals in the kitchen.

  Welcome to America, Mr. Paisley.

  As if he’d heard him, Paisley shot Hy a narrow-eyed look, turned with military precision, and left the kitchen without another word.

  Hy took out his notebook, even though the details were pretty much branded into his brain, probably forever.

  “Body of a dead male found inside a crate, packed in salt.”

  Lightner’s eyes widened. “Good Lord. Where?”

  “Well, that’s the thing, sir.” Hy gathered his thoughts, not wanting to blurt things out all willy-nilly and sound like an idiot.

  “What thing?” Lightner prodded gently.

  “So, the crate started out in New York and was shipped to New Orleans last Christmas—on the twentieth of December. It arrived in New Orleans on January seventeenth. Nobody came forward to claim it. Apparently, the company appropriates any unclaimed goods and holds them for four months against their fee for storage. When they opened this crate they found the body of Mr. Albert Beauchamp.” Hy realized Mrs. Freedman had been heading toward them with a teapot, but was now standing frozen in place, her mouth open. “I beg your pardon, ma’am.”

  Lightner’s pale cheeks flushed slightly as he glanced at the cook. “P-Perhaps we should take this to the b-breakfast room.”

  His words galvanized Mrs. Freedman into action. “You don’t need to leave on my account, sir.” She set down the teapot. “It just took me by surprise is all.”

  “M-Me too,” Lightner murmured. “So,” he said, continuing, “they opened the crate and then somebody in New Orleans identified the b-body and then decided to s-s-send it back.”

  “I don’t believe the folks in New Orleans removed Mr. Beauchamp from the crate. Er, at least they don’t say. They assumed it was Beauchamp since that was the name on the ticket.”

  “Ah. So we’ll n-need an identification?”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Mrs. Freedman returned with a cup and saucer and a small platter heaped with slices of what must be almond pound cake. Hy’s stomach growled. He’d already eaten four pastries, but sometimes his bottomless stomach surprised even him.

  Lightner’s lips twitched as he offered Hy the plate.

  “Thank you, sir.” He took two slices—what the hell—and Mrs. Freedman refilled his coffee cup. Hy nodded his thanks and said, “Knowing how you like the body to stay in the condition it was found in, I wouldn’t have removed him from the crate, but, er, unfortunately the two stevedores who were moving it dropped it.”

  Back at her kneading, Mrs. Freedman gasped.

  Lightner winced and took a sip of coal-black tea before saying, “If he was p-packed in salt I daresay he’s fairly resilient to such v-violence.”

  “Exactly, sir. He’s pretty tough, and I don’t think the fall damaged any of his, er, parts.”

  “Parts?” Lightner said, his teacup hovering halfway to his mouth.

  Mrs. Freed
man also stared; Hy felt bad, telling such a gruesome tale in front of a woman. To be honest, seeing all Beauchamp’s pieces had almost made him puke.

  Still, his boss had asked him a question. “Oh, didn’t I mentioned he’d been dismembered?”

  “You f-f-f-failed to mention that, Detective.” Lightner stopped, cut Mrs. Freedman a quick glance and thankfully left the unpleasant subject alone for the moment.

  They both took a bite of almond cake. Hy wasn’t so embarrassed by the satisfied grunt that slipped out of him when he saw Lightner’s expression of pure bliss.

  They ate in reverential silence for a moment before Hy said, “After they loaded the salt and Beauchamp into a fresh crate, I had the body taken over to Bellevue, to Doc Kirby.”

  “Good.”

  “Beauchamp’s address is 148 Sullivan, not far from Houston—that’s a tony street, by the way. It straddles the wards, but the Eighth got lucky and pulled this case.”

  Lightner—a notoriously sparing eater—finished his slice and reached for a second.

  At Hy’s surprised look Lightner gave a sheepish shrug. “If I d-don’t eat it now, Paisley will—he’s quite g-g-greedy about Mrs. Freedman’s almond cake.” He cut the smirking cook a smile. “I trust you will use that p-piece of information wisely, ma’am.”

  Mrs. Freedman chuckled and, for the first time, Hy almost felt sorry for the badly outmatched Mr. Paisley.

  “How did you learn all this about the b-body?” Lightner asked.

  “The wharf agent sent a letter with the crate. He said the New Orleans police didn’t want any part of it. They figured it was a New York matter since Beauchamp arrived dead.”

  Lightner chuckled. “Well, what d-do we know about Mr. Beauchamp’s journey to N-New Orleans?”

  “The crate went down on a ship in the Merchants Steamship Line. The wharf agent said the port police brought them the sealed crate January seventeenth.”

  “I wonder why they n-never opened it?”

  “Apparently nobody wanted to open it because it was in one of the first-class cabins, and they assumed the owner would return quickly to claim it. Those tickets cost fifty dollars, one way, so nobody believed the room would have been booked for nothing but a crate.”