“Oh, aye?” he said. Luckily, even Hy had heard of the Exhibition, so he didn’t have to expose more of his ignorance. “Is that where he learned about, er, stuffing?”
“Taxidermy.” Harold pushed the word through clenched jaws.
“Aye, all right, then, er, taxidermy,” Hy said hastily.
“He’s been a taxidermist for fifteen years, but he learned about new methods from all over the world at the Great Exhibition. He lets me help him,” Harold added, an almost-smile curving his pale, fishy lips.
“Does he?” Hy didn’t like to think about what that meant. Personally, he thought that taking dead animals and making them look lifelike was one hell of a strange hobby.
“Harold helped him with Pom Pom,” Mrs. Stampler said proudly. “They did a lovely job.”
“Er, Pom Pom?”
“Yes, my Pomeranian.”
“You had your dog stuffed?”
Mrs. Stampler frowned at his tone, so Hy added, “That, er, must be a comfort. Do you know where Mr. Powell works?”
“He’s actually Doctor Powell. He keeps an office at 341 Broadway.”
Hy knew the area; it was on the tony side. He looked up from his notepad. “You mentioned the carriage house,” he said to Mrs. Stampler. “Do you happen to know what Mr. Beauchamp keeps in there? More, er, taxidermy stuff?”
“I have no idea,” Mrs. Stampler said. “Do you, Harold?”
“No,” Harold said.
“What about on the top floor of your house?” Hy tried. “I understand he uses the upper floor?”
“Oh, yes. I’ve seen crates and such going up and down the stairs. I believe he uses—er, used—the rooms to keep some of his art.”
“Art?”
“Yes, he sells such things.”
“Do you know where?”
“I’m afraid not. Harold, did you ever speak to any of the carters who came to pick up the various crates?”
“No.”
Any spark of life Harold had shown about stuffing animals had flickered out, and his gaze was as dull as a snuffed lantern.
“So, Miss Fowler and Doctor Powell. Is that all?”
“There’s Captain Jeffrey Sanger, but he’s not here right now.”
“He’s a military man?”
“No, he’s a ship captain.” Mrs. Stampler glanced at Harold. “What kind of ship was it, dear?”
“The ships run passengers and freight. He is bringing back some supplies for Doctor Powell and is supposed to return tomorrow.”
“Do you know the name of his ship?”
Mrs. Stampler looked at her grandson when he didn’t speak. “What was it, my dear? The Spirt of something?”
“The Spirit of Freedom?” Hy guessed.
Harold fixed Hy with his dead gaze and nodded. “Yes, The Spirit of Freedom. A ship with the Metropolitan Line.”
CHAPTER 4
Jasper paid the hackney driver and looked up at the building in front of him. While not in Five Points itself, Miss Jessica Frumkin’s address was barely a block away.
The clapboard building had once been white but was now a dirty ash-brown from the smoke that belched from surrounding businesses and filled the air with an acrid, burning haze that blocked out the sun, even on a warm July day.
The small vestibule wasn’t locked, and Jasper studied the ragged paper markers that listed the names and numbers of the various tenants, all of whom appeared to be female. Jessica Frumkin was 4A, and for a moment Jasper wondered if a male visitor would cause problems for the residents. But to summon her down to the station for the purpose of telling her that her father had been murdered seemed unkind, so he trudged up the narrow stairs.
The temperature increased by at least five degrees with each floor, and by the time he reached the fourth he was perspiring freely beneath the multiple layers of shirt, vest, coat, and overcoat. He took a moment to catch his breath before knocking.
The door jerked inward even before his knuckles left the wood.
A tall, gaunt woman of indeterminate age held a wooden club and stood in the open doorway. “What do you want?” she demanded. She picked up the silver whistle that hung on a cord around her neck. “I’ll blow this loud enough to wake the dead if you try something,” she added before he could answer her question.
Jasper raised both his hands palm out. “I’m with the police. May I reach into m-my pocket to take out a card?”
Her eyes narrowed slightly, whether at his accent, information, or stammer, he didn’t know.
She jerked out a nod.
Jasper took a card from the gold, engraved card case and handed it to her.
She studied it and looked up. “You don’t sound like a copper,” she said, lowering the wooden club.
“May I come in for a m-moment?”
She hesitated, her eyes flickering over his person and lingering on his walking stick—today he carried one of his favorites, the winged Greek goddess of strife, Eris—and then stepped back, waving him into her lodgings, which consisted of a single, small room.
“Well, come in. Just a minute while I make some space.” She turned to the cluttered table.
Jasper stood to one side as she cleared. The small room held a table and narrow bed that was shoved up against one wall. It was neatly made but covered with boxes, felt cloths, and bits of cotton wadding. Her kitchen took up about half the room and was composed of a tiny stove, basin, and a narrow counter that had some cupboards above and beneath it. There was one door that was closed and Jasper assumed it must contain her washroom.
Everything was worn and old, although the walls appeared to have been whitewashed not long ago. The place was scrupulously clean.
“I was just about to have tea,” she said, gesturing to the kettle, canister, and cookstove on the counter.
As invitations went, it was the most grudging he could recall receiving, and he was about to say no, but then realized that making tea might help her manage what he had to say. “That would be l-lovely, thank you.”
Miss Frumkin was fortunate enough to have a small window, but even with it open the temperature in the room was hellish. Jasper was grateful—and not a little amazed—that rather than a wood stove, she employed a Soyer “magic” stove, which he and many other soldiers had used over in the Crimea.
She saw him examining her small cooking area and said, “It’s an English tabletop stove—perhaps you’ve heard of them?”
He smiled. “I’ve used one on m-more than a few occasions.”
She nodded but didn’t return his smile. Jessica Frumkin, he suspected, was not a woman who smiled easily or often. She lit the wick, adjusted it, and put the small kettle on to boil.
Jasper glanced down at the wooden tray she’d moved. “You c-carve cameos,” he said rather stupidly.
“Yes.”
“These are lovely.” Indeed, the detail on the one she was working on was stunning. He picked up the large conch shell which had the beginnings of a woman’s profile. On the tray was a sketch of a woman and the myriad tools Miss Frumkin must use for her work.
She turned from the counter and leaned against it, crossing her arms. “I know who you are—the English duke’s son who is working with the new police. I read about you in the paper.”
Jasper set down the shell. “Yes, that is true.”
“You’re a bit of a muckety-muck, so if you’re here on police business, it must be something about my father.” It wasn’t a question. “What has he done now?” She spoke with a bitterness that was no longer hot, but hopeless and resigned.
Jasper couldn’t place her age. Like the cameo she was carving, there were lines deeply etched around her mouth and eyes. He supposed she was not much older than his own thirty-four, but her eyes were weary and bleak.
“When’s the l-last time you saw him, Miss Frumkin?”
“I don’t use that name,” she snapped, showing some fire.
“Oh. I beg your pardon. What should I c-call you?”
She gave
a bark of unamused laughter. “I go by Martello, my mother’s maiden name. My father made sure of that before he left New York. I haven’t seen him since I was thirteen, when he ran out of town—or was run out of town—fourteen years ago.
Good God; the woman was only twenty-seven years old?
Jasper shook away the thought. Instead he asked, “Why was he r-r-run out of town?”
“I guess you don’t know the name because you’re a newcomer here. My father operated three of the most disreputable scandal rags in Christendom. He supplemented his income from his useless, failing papers by blackmailing whomever he could. He made the mistake of attempting to extort money from the district attorney at the time and scarpered before he could be arrested for it. That was November 14, 1843. I remember the date well because it was the same day my mother and I were evicted from our hovel—it was my birthday and we were thrown into the cold with not much more than the clothing on our backs.”
“Were you aware that he’d r-returned to New York?”
“I wasn’t, but I can’t say I’m surprised. Don’t criminals always return to the scene of the crime, like dogs to their own vomit?” She shrugged. “I don’t care what he’s done. I know nothing about him and have nothing to do with him. And I certainly have no intention of helping him in any way. Because I assume that’s what’s going on? He’s in jail and needs money for a lawyer?” Fury boiled off her in thick waves. “He can go to hell, Detective—straight to hell.” Her voice had gradually risen, until she was nearly shouting.
“He’s not in j-jail, Miss Martello. Your f-father is dead.”
All the color drained from her face and she swayed. Jasper took a long stride forward and caught her as she staggered.
He steadied her with an arm around her shoulders, cursing his insensitivity. Just because she hated the man didn’t mean she wouldn’t be affected by his death.
“Miss Martello?” he asked as he lowered her into one of the two ladder-backed chairs.
She shook her head, as if to clear it.
Jasper dropped to his haunches in front of her. “I am s-so sorry, ma’am, I should n-never have—”
“No, you don’t need to apologize. The way I was going on—” She slumped back in the chair. “I’m not exactly a grieving daughter. But it’s—it’s still a shock.”
“Of course it is,” he said, getting to his feet and going to the kettle, which had begun to whistle. “I’ll get it,” he said when she made as if to stand.
She gave a tired chuckle, and it even held a bit of mirth. “An English lord making tea in my kitchen,” she said. “You never know what the day will hold when you wake up in the morning,” she added softly.
Indeed, Jasper thought as he spooned tea from a battered canister into the tiny teapot.
“Does your m-mother still live in New York?” he asked.
“My mother died five years after Albert left us. I was fortunate she had a skill to keep us both fed and clothed—after we were able to get some help.”
Jasper turned to let the tea steep. “The intaglio?” he asked.
She nodded. “It was the source of employment for my mother and most of her village—Torre del Greco.”
Jasper had heard of the town, which produced some of the most valuable cameos in Europe.
“Her parents came here when she was just twenty, hoping to start their own company. But my grandfather got sick and died on the ship over. Although my grandmother was a master artist, nobody would go into business with a woman.” She gave an ugly laugh. “Well, until Albert. But instead of setting them up with more clients all he did was siphon off their money—for years—before creditors came and took everything—including all their tools.” She looked up at him. “How did you find me? My father didn’t know where—”
“He knew.” Jasper sat down across from her. “Your n-name and address are listed in his w-will.”
“He left me something in his will.” She gave a tired laugh. The words were flat, spoken without any inflection. “Please tell me it wasn’t more debts—because my mother and I paid on the last batch for years.”
Jasper opened his mouth, and then hesitated. He would have liked to offer her some words of comfort but he didn’t know the state of Frumkin’s finances, even though the little he’d seen indicated the man had a great many valuable items in his possession. Whether he actually owned any of them, Jasper didn’t know.
Before he could formulate a noncommittal answer, she said, “I know the police wouldn’t be here if he’d just died in his sleep.”
“No,” Jasper agreed. For a long moment he thought she’d leave it.
But then she said, “How did he die?”
“He was m-murdered.”
She snorted softly. “I’m not surprised.”
“Can you think of anyone who m-m-might have—”
“I don’t know who his associates were, but I remember him well enough. He never had any friends. My mother despised him—I’m not sure why she ever married him. Desperation, probably. I think he had enough charm to cover who he really was for a little while, but it always rubbed away and showed the man underneath—like cheaply plated silver. I’m sure there were more than a few people who would have liked to see him dead. I take it you’re investigating his murder?”
Jasper nodded.
“I haven’t read about it—it must have—” She sat up straight in her chair, her eyes going wide. “Good God! This is going to bring it all back, isn’t it? There will be newspapermen, police—they’ll hound us like they did my mother, until there was nowhere to hide.” Already she looked hunted. “It’ll be—”
“I’m not telling the newspapers your n-n-name, Miss M-Martello. The only p-people who will know it are me, my p-partner, and my captain.”
“Thank you,” she said hoarsely. “Nobody else has to know—do they?”
“The lawyer who p-prepared the will knows y-your address. You’ll n-n-need to talk—”
“I don’t want whatever he left me,” she said. “I’ve survived the last fourteen years without anything from him.”
Jasper glanced around her bare room; that was exactly what she’d done: survived. He thought about telling her she might be able to afford a few more comforts if she took what her father left her, but he didn’t think she’d want to hear it. He wasn’t sure he’d have wanted the money from a father he hated, either. Although it was always easy to say that when he didn’t need money.
“I don’t have to take it, do I?”
“I d-don’t know. You’ll n-need to ask the l-lawyers that, Miss Martello. But I c-c-can’t imagine they can make you do anything you d-don’t want to.”
“Good. Because I won’t. Anything he had is poisoned. He never did an honest day of work in his life. He’s like a leech, feeding off the lifeblood of others.”
Jasper suspected she was correct about the money coming at great cost to the names in that book.
He had no reassuring words, but he did have tea.
He smiled at her as he motioned to the pot. “How do you like it, Miss Martello?”
CHAPTER 5
Captain Davies gave Jasper the same look he always gave him: the look that said he was disappointed—but not surprised—that Jasper was still among the living.
“Ah, back after your leave of absence.” The other man said the words with a nasty smirk.
Jasper was grateful that Paisley had thought to send word to the captain because it had never even crossed his mind to do so before he went into Chang’s that night a week ago.
“I got Law’s message from earlier—something about a dismembered body packed in salt and sent to us by an idiot in New Orleans?”
“That about s-sums it up, sir.” Jasper took the seat across from the captain without being invited, a gesture that earned him a frown.
“Why the hell didn’t Law just send the goddamned box back?”
Jasper wasn’t sure what to say to that, so, he said nothing.
Davies made a harru
mphing sound at Jasper’s nonresponse. “So, the crate broke and disgorged Mr. Albert Beauchamp—do we know for a certainty this is Mr. Albert Beauchamp?” He grimaced. “Hell, is it even possible to identify a body that has been in salt for almost half a year?”
“D-Detective Law is taking the butler, Robert Keen, to Bellevue to identify the body. Based on what we’ve learned s-s-so far, it does seem likely that it is Beauchamp.” He hesitated.
“What?” Davies demanded, scenting trouble.
“I found a co-copy of Beauchamp’s will in his safety deposit b-b-box and took it.” Davies didn’t care about legality and made a “get on with it” gesture with his hand. “His real name was Albert F-Frumkin.”
Davies sat back as if Jasper had punched him. “You’re bloody joking! Frumkin?”
“Yes, sir.”
“Well, I’ll be damned. There’s a name from the past. You’ve heard of him?” he asked when Jasper exhibited no surprise.
“No, but his d-daughter told me about him.”
“His daughter? I’m surprised she stayed in the city with a name that notorious. At one time Albert Frumkin’s name was in every paper—respectable and otherwise—for months.”
Jasper hesitated, not wishing to tell Davies the woman’s real name, but not seeing any way around it. “She’s been living under her mother’s m-maiden name—Martello. She is very concerned that her n-name not show up in the n-n-newspapers.”
Davies scowled across at him, his eyes narrow. “You’d better not be saying what I think you’re saying, my lord. I don’t sell information to the papers,” Davies added with a huff when Jasper remained silent. “And I sure as hell don’t appreciate you hinting at it.”
“Of c-c-course not, sir.” Jasper agreed. Although he had no evidence that Davies was a crooked copper, his allegiance to the mayor—a man as bent as a mule’s hind leg—made him suspect.
Davies grunted, looking as if he weren’t going to let it go, but then he seemed to change his mind. “What did she say about him?”
“She knew n-n-nothing about his activities since l-leaving New York but m-mentioned he used to own s-several newspapers?”
“Ha! Flash rags is probably the politest term for what he and his kind doled out like slops to hungry pigs. A few bits of actual news cut with brothel recommendations and the best cockpits, dog rings, and bowling alleys. He’d probably still be flogging his sordid rags if he hadn’t tried to extort money from the DA himself.” He shook his head and gave the first genuine laugh Jasper had ever heard him issue. “When did Frumkin move back? Because I know he left here in a hurry—him and his partner, Barclay, both—with District Attorney Murphy hot on their heels.”
Crooked in His Ways Page 4