Crooked in His Ways

by S. M. Goodwin

  “C-Come, Mr. Sorenson. Albert Beauchamp is d-dead, and whatever is in that deposit box might help us f-find his relations. You may stand by and ensure that I do not p-p-pilfer any valuables.”

  Sorenson ground his teeth. “It’s not that I believe you would pilfer anything, Lord Jasper.” He cut Jasper a venomous look, as if to say a man of his stature should know better than to try and assault the bulwark of protection banks offered the wealthy. “It’s that allowing you into that box would be illegal. Only his beneficiary, with correct documentation, may access the box.”

  “Thus far there is no will.” Jasper didn’t bother telling him they’d only searched the dead man’s house and had not yet contacted his man of business. That was because there was no information about a man of business, and none of the servants had been of any help in that area, either. “We b-both know what will happen to Mr. Beauchamp’s estate if a will c-cannot be located.”

  Sorenson—good banker that he was—shivered at the notion of the State of New York getting such a windfall. “Have you checked—”

  “We’ve s-searched Mr. Beauchamp’s residence thoroughly.” Once again, Jasper neglected to mention there was a safe in the wall behind Mr. Beauchamp’s desk that they’d not been able to access. Yet.

  Sorenson made a pitiful whimpering sound, heaved an exaggerated sigh, and Jasper knew he’d won. “Mr. Beauchamp’s will—that is all you are looking for?”

  “That is all.” Unless he happened to find anything else of interest.

  Sorenson nodded, and Jasper handed him the key.

  The bank’s safe room was like any other of its kind that Jasper had seen.

  “Beauchamp’s box is the largest size the bank offers,” Sorenson said, bending to the bottom row of boxes and inserting both keys to unlock the box before sliding it out.

  He glanced up at Jasper. “Would you mind, er—”

  Sorenson was struggling to lift the heavy steel box, so Jasper bent to help him.

  “Good God,” he wheezed as they set it on the ornate wooden table with a loud thunk.

  When the banker lifted the lid, they both gasped.

  “B-Bloody hell,” Jasper breathed. “It’s like a dragon’s cave.”

  Sorenson’s jaw sagged, his eyes glinting at the king’s ransom in jewels that were piled carelessly in the box.

  Jasper couldn’t help wondering what would have happened to the contents of the box if Law hadn’t been clever enough to find the key.

  Such a suspicious mind you have, Jasper.

  Yes, he did.

  “I don’t see any documents. I’ll have to take it out—at least some of it,” the banker added defensively, although Jasper hadn’t said a word.

  Sorenson lifted out a tangled ball of rubies, sapphires, and a gold and diamond necklace that would rival one Jasper’s mother wore on occasion. The duchess loathed the Kersey diamonds, which were remarkably large and of fine quality, but set in a heavy gold setting that dated back to the Plantagenet era.

  Jewelry wasn’t all the box contained; there was also a jewel-encrusted money clip, an ancient-looking lacquerware pouch, a horse figurine that might have come from North Africa, a dagger with a ruby the size of a cherry on the hilt, and other, less immediately identifiable, items.

  At the bottom of the box was a black leather notebook about twice the size of the one Jasper carried in his coat pocket. Beneath that was an oilskin-wrapped packet.

  Sorenson took both out and laid them on the table, his gaze still riveted on the jewels.

  Jasper took advantage of the banker’s distraction to open the book.

  It appeared to be some sort of ledger with columns of names, dates, and items. The word lacquerware leapt out at him and he saw the name P. Phelps beside it, and then the number 11/19/56. Jasper knew that was the American notation for November 19, 1856.

  A quick perusal of the list of items showed that some were scattered on the table. Others, like a Constable painting—listed beside M. Daley—were obviously too large to keep in a safety deposit box.

  He flicked through the book, astounded to see the list ran to six pages—somewhere in the neighborhood of a hundred and twenty names. Some names, he couldn’t help noticing, had no item or date beside them. Jasper had a sick suspicion this was Beauchamp’s method of earning his wealth: extortion.

  He slipped the book into his coat pocket.

  “My lord,” Sorenson said, his expression one of horror. “I strenuously—”

  Jasper ignored him and untied the leather cord around the oilskin. At the top of the first sheet were the words: The Last Will and Testament of Albert Charles Frumkin.

  Frumkin? Well, well, well.

  The law firm on the letterhead was Cranston, Cranston, and Bakewell, right here in New York City.

  Beneath the will were deeds to three pieces of property in New York City; there was also a thick stack of bearer bonds and stock certificates. Just a quick perusal of the face value of the bonds added up to a small fortune—provided they proved redeemable. And at the bottom of the pile were three marriage certificates.

  What a fount of surprises Mr. Beauchamp/Frumkin was turning out to be.

  The first was for a Mr. Albert Dupuy and Miss Martha Chenier in New Orleans, 1826.

  The second was for a Mr. Albert Frumkin and Miss Amalia Martello in New York, 1829.

  And the last was only five years ago, for a Mr. Albert Milken and a Mrs. Gerta Whatley in Chicago, 1852.

  Now there was nothing unusual about remarrying so often. Far too many women died in childbed, and a man might have two or three wives during his life. A woman might outlive a spouse, or perhaps lose him to a war. A woman’s last name would change with each marriage.

  All of these would be sad, but common, facts of life.

  But men did not change their last names. Not unless they were up to something. Usually something nefarious, or at the least criminal.

  After making a note of the names, cities, and dates in his notebook Jasper replaced the licenses where he’d found them.

  “Is that what you were looking for, my lord?” Sorenson pointed at the will, which was lying on top of the financial documents. “If so, then perhaps you might—”

  “I shall t-t-take it all,” Jasper said, ignoring the banker’s agitated squeak. He rolled up the documents and tied the leather cord around the fat bundle. He’d keep them in his own safe and then return them to Sorenson after he’d gone through them closely and taken down any information he needed.

  “But, my lord, I must protest. Isn’t that—”

  “I’m afraid I m-must be on my way, Mister S-Sorenson.” Jasper jerked his chin at the wealth of nations heaped on the table. “Let’s g-g-get that back in the b-box, shall we?”

  The banker stared, his brow furrowed tightly, mouth open, and no sound coming out.

  Jasper smiled. “And I believe I shall hang on t-to Mr. Beauchamp’s key.”

  * * *

  Hy finished with Beauchamp’s bedroom—a bizarre, womanish room decorated in satins and velvets and tassels—and moved on to the next room on the third floor, yet another bedroom.

  He’d been searching the house for hours and all he’d found were more personal possessions than he’d ever imagined one man could need. Not one, but two, large dressing rooms chock full of clothes. Paintings and fancy clocks and furniture with wood that had been painted gold.

  Even the man’s bathroom had gold fixtures and a bathtub that could fit a family of four, complete with huge mirrors, more mirrors in the bedroom, and yet more in the dressing room.

  And the house was only the first thing on Hy’s list.

  “Mr. Beauchamp owns the house next door, which he rents. He also owns the carriage house between the two properties,” Keen had said, pointing out the library window to a small, two-story building between the two brick-enclosed backyards. “He doesn’t keep a carriage but uses it for storage. The third floor of the house next door is also storage, the other two floors for his te
nants.”

  Jaysus. Hy didn’t want to think about all the junk he’d have to sort through.

  “Er, unfortunately I don’t have keys to either the storage room or the carriage house,” Keen had added.

  “Shouldn’t a butler have keys to everything?” Hy had asked the man, not that he knew what the hell he was talking about. Judging by Keen’s embarrassed flush, he’d hit on the truth.

  “Er, well, normally, yes. But Mr. Beauchamp was a very private gentleman.”

  Yeah, Hy just bet he was. He’d use the word secretive rather than private because there was just something about the man’s house that screamed he was up to something. Not that Hy could figure out what.

  Hy steeled himself and then opened the door to the room beside Beauchamp’s chambers.

  Ah. This room, at least, wasn’t cluttered with knickknacks and portraits and daguerreotypes of Beauchamp.

  It was a two-room suite, complete with its own bathroom. Hy had just finished searching the dressers and armoires when a voice startled him.

  “Officer?”

  He turned to find a grandmotherly-looking woman standing in the doorway beside a hulking boy with very pale strawberry blond hair.

  Why the hell was Keen letting people wander into the house?

  “Yes, ma’am?”

  She limped toward him, leaning on an elegant silver-handled cane. The young man followed her so closely that Hy was surprised he didn’t tread on her black crepe skirt.

  “Mr. Keen let us in,” she said, confirming Hy’s suspicions. “I’m Mrs. Mildred Stampler, and this is my grandson, Harold.”

  Hy took her white-gloved hand and gave it a careful shake. “I’m Detective Hieronymus Law.”

  He barely needed to look down to meet the other man’s eyes. Up close he realized Harold Stampler was older than he’d first believed—maybe even older than Hy’s own twenty-five years.

  His eyes were the startling blue of a summer sky, but his expression was eerily blank.

  Without speaking, Harold extended a hand.

  Hy took it, almost flinching away from the feel of his soft, moist flesh, releasing the spatulate white fingers as quickly as possible, more than a little repelled.

  He barely suppressed an urge to wipe his hand on his trousers.

  He turned from Harold’s dull-eyed stare to the old woman. Like her grandson, Mrs. Stampler was tall and well-featured. Her eyes were the same vivid blue as her grandson’s but glinted with intelligence and curiosity.

  “How can I help you, Mrs. Stampler?”

  “We just heard about poor Mr. Beauchamp—we live next door.”

  “Ah,” he said, for lack of anything better.

  “Mr. Beauchamp was our landlord,” she explained.

  “Ah, I see.” So maybe Keen wasn’t such an idiot, after all.

  Hy hesitated, and then gestured to the small sitting room. “Come in and have a seat.” Why not talk to them? He’d already interviewed the servants, except for the cook, whose day off was today, and they’d said the same thing as Keen: that Beauchamp had given them the day off and that was the last they’d ever seen him, the afternoon of December seventeenth.

  Hy tended to believe they were telling the truth as he’d not given them time to get together and compare stories before questioning them.

  Harold helped his grandmother settle onto the sofa. “We were so sorry to hear about poor Mr. Beauchamp. He was just a lovely, lovely man—such an excellent landlord who kept the house in tip-top condition. Didn’t he, Harold?”

  Harold nodded, his unnerving lizard-like stare fixed on Hy. He’d taken the chair next to his grandmother, his huge frame squashed between the narrow armrests. Hy knew the feeling.

  “How long have you lived in the house next door?”

  “We just moved to New York last November and were quite lucky to find him.”

  “Oh? Where did you move from?”

  “We’re from Richmond.”

  Hy supposed that explained the accent.

  Mrs. Stampler leaned forward, as if to impart a confidence. “We were wondering if Mr. Beauchamp would be laid out here at the house?”

  Hy could just imagine Mrs. Stampler’s reaction if she were to see Mr. Beauchamp’s various, desiccated body parts laid out in the parlor.

  He scratched his jaw. “Er, I’m not sure, ma’am,” he said, dodging the issue of funereal viewings. “We’re still trying to locate any family. Do you happen to know if—”

  “I’m afraid I never saw any family visit—nor did Mr. Beauchamp mention anyone by name.” She hesitated, and then added, “Although I believe he was visiting his people in New Orleans.”

  “Ah, and who told you this?”

  She turned to her grandson. “Harold? Who told us?”

  “Mr. Keen.” Harold’s voice was as flat as his eyes. To be honest, Hy was a bit surprised he could speak at all. He’d decided—based on the young man’s dead gaze and his slow, jerky way of moving—that Harold was a bit simple.

  “Yes, yes, that’s right, it was Mr. Keen,” Mrs. Stampler said. “It was a while back—just before Christmas.” She smiled fondly. “I remember saying how nice it would be for Mr. Beauchamp to be near family during the holidays, didn’t I, Harold?”

  “Yes, Grandmother.”

  “When was the last time you saw him?” Hy asked.

  Her face puckered. “Oh dear, I’m afraid my memory isn’t what it should be. Harold, do you recall?”

  “December seventeenth,” Harold said without hesitation.

  “That’s very precise, er, Mr. Stampler.”

  “Harold has an excellent memory,” Mrs. Stampler said with a proud smile.

  “Where did you see him?”

  “He came by the house,” Harold said.

  “That’s right!” Mrs. Stampler made a clucking sound with her tongue. “How could I forget? He came to see Miss Fowler and—” She stopped and pursed her lips.

  “Yes?” Hy prodded.

  Twin spots of color appeared on the woman’s pale, papery skin, and she shook her head. “Oh, it’s nothing. I don’t want to cause any trouble.”

  “Trouble?” Hy had learned this parrot-like approach to questioning by watching Lightner. The less you said, the more people tried to fill the silence. Well, except somebody like Harold Stampler, who was about as talkative as an anvil.

  Mrs. Stampler hemmed and hawed before saying, “Well, they were having a disagreement, you see.”

  “Who was?”

  “Miss Fowler and Mr. Beauchamp. Now, I couldn’t exactly hear it—”

  “Miss Fowler wanted to break her lease. She was upset that Mr. Beauchamp wouldn’t let her,” Harold said.

  “Where were you that you heard all that?” Hy asked. Outside her door with your ear against the keyhole?

  “I was out back—in the workshop. Miss Fowler had her window open. She was yelling.”

  “She had her window open in December?” Hy asked.

  Stampler blinked at his skeptical tone. “She’d burned her dinner, and smoke was pouring out the window.”

  Mrs. Stampler tsk-tsked. “She is a dreadful cook.”

  “Did she say why she wanted to leave?”

  “She couldn’t afford it; she wanted to share lodgings with two women from her job,” Harold said.

  “So, did she? Move, that is?”

  “No.”

  “She still lives there,” Mrs. Stampler said when her grandson showed no signs of offering more.

  “Is she at home right now?” he asked.

  “No, she’s at work.” Mrs. Stampler’s pinched expression told Hy just how she felt about women who worked.

  “Where is that?”

  “She works as a mannequin at Lillian Murphy’s Salon—it’s on Twenty-Third, not far off Fourth Avenue.” She wrinkled her nose. “You can hear the din of the railyard, but it’s said to be very chic.”

  Hy scowled at the annoying word. He’d only heard it for the first time last year but now it
seemed to be used to describe everything from hats to restaurants. “I’m sorry ma’am, but she works as a what?”

  “A mannequin—a woman who tries on clothing.”

  “There’s a job doing that?”

  “It is the preferred mode for ladies of good breeding, and the way in all the best dress shops. M-a-n-n-e-q-u-i-n,” she spelled when she saw him squinting at his notebook.

  “Thank you.”

  “Do you want to know the names of the other tenants?” she offered, her bright-eyed expression that of a clever, plump little bird. There was a woman in Hy’s boarding house who was exactly like Mrs. Stampler—an old lady who spent all her days and a good chunk of her nights watching the world outside her window. It was Hy’s opinion that these nosy old women knew more about the city’s workings, both legal and illegal, than any government official or copper.

  “Uh, thank you, that would be helpful,” Hy said.

  “Well, there’s Marcus Powell and—”

  “He’s a taxidermist,” Harold said.

  For the first time, Hy saw a spark of life in the other man’s eyes.

  His grandmother smiled indulgently at his interruption. “Yes, he is. He pays extra to rent the small building in the back garden—the one that’s beside the carriage house—that’s where he does his work.”

  Hy felt like an idiot—for the second time in as many minutes, but … “I’m sorry, but what does he do?”

  “Taxidermy is the lifelike preservation of animals,” Harold said.

  “Ah,” Hy said, nodding. “He’s a stuffer, eh? I didn’t know there was another word for it. I saw somethin’ like that—boxin’ racoons at Billy Wayman’s Saloon.”

  Harold’s smooth brow wrinkled, and he looked like he wanted to say something but restrained himself.

  “And that’s how Powell makes his livin’? Stuffin’ animals?” Hy asked.

  Harold made a soft sound of annoyance but Mrs. Stampler laughed. “Oh goodness, no. It is what he does in his leisure time.”

  “He went to the Great Exhibition in 1851,” Harold said, giving Hy a meaningful look. But what the look meant, Hy couldn’t guess.