Hy’s jaw dropped at the gruesome suggestion, but Kirby nodded eagerly, as if the question were perfectly normal. “I was thinking that,” he said, looking from piece to piece. “It couldn’t hurt trying it.” He glanced up and said, “The trunk?”
Lightner studied the various body parts before responding. “Yes, I think so.”
The two men talked for a few more minutes, using so much doctor jargon Hy didn’t understand a word. His eyes kept being drawn to the body parts on the table.
Keen, the butler, hadn’t needed more than a few seconds to confirm it was Beauchamp. Hy had to admit that the face, other than looking a bit shrunken in the cheeks, beneath the eyes, and around the temples, looked almost lifelike. He could have identified him from the portrait of Beauchamp that hung in the man’s bedroom, right above the bed.
What kind of man did that—put his own picture above his bed? And it wasn’t as if Beauchamp had been much to look at, either. In life, the older man had been no more than five foot five or six. Though, in the numerous portraits around his house, he’d been depicted as closer to six feet.
The portrait artist had given him thick, chestnut hair, but the head on the operating table showed a sparsely covered pate—as had several of the photographs—with roots that looked more ginger than brown. Hy found the notion that Beauchamp had tried to hide his natural hair color offensive; the man had actually dyed his hair brown.
Hy realized he’d been unconsciously smoothing his own ginger whiskers and dropped his hand.
“Thank you, d-doctor.”
He looked up at the sound of Lightner’s voice, and the Englishman gave Hy one of his rare smiles. “I sense that you are ready to leave, D-Detective.”
“Is it that obvious?” he asked as they headed for the door.
When they were out on the street again Lightner raised his cane and a hackney rumbled to a stop beside them. “The Eighth Precinct,” he told the driver.
Once they’d climbed inside, Lightner took out his book, grinned at Hy, and said, “Let me tell you about m-m-my very interesting m-morning.”
CHAPTER 8
“F-Five hours,” Jasper said flatly. “You’ve b-b-been here less than five hours.”
John stood in front of him, arms crossed tight, hands tucked in his armpits, rocking back on his heels.
If Paisley hadn’t told Jasper whom he was marching into his study, Jasper never would have recognized the boy. His hair was actually a dark blond, not brown, and the bones of his face were well-formed and handsome, if far too prominent. His skin was pale—except for the red mark on one cheek. Right now, his blue-gray eyes were narrowed to pinpricks as he glared up at Jasper’s valet.
For his part, Paisley’s expression was the same as ever. If not for the slightest red stain over his cheekbones, Jasper would never have known how furious his servant was.
“What happened?” he asked.
“He took Mr. Clark’s wallet, my lord.”
Well, that explained the red mark on his face. Jasper was surprised that was the only punishment the mercurial Scot had meted out. Jasper had only known Owen Clark a short while—he’d employed him to manage his stable after moving into the house on Union Square—but it was easy to see the Scotsman didn’t suffer fools, or thieves either, apparently.
John scowled up at the valet. “I g-g-g-g-gave it back.” The last word was a shout.
Paisley pursed his lips, radiating martyrish disapproval. “He did, my lord. After he told Clark that only a fool would carry it in such an easy to pick pocket.”
John met Jasper’s glare and shrugged. “S’true.”
“So, you were p-performing a public service?” Jasper asked.
John’s lips twitched.
Jasper sighed. “Would you excuse us, P-Paisley?”
“Of course, my lord.”
“What is the p-problem?” Jasper asked as soon as the door shut.
“D-D-Don’t like horses, don’t like Sc-Sc-Sc-Scots, either.” He pulled up his shirtsleeve, where Jasper could see a red mark in the shape of a hand. “He gr-gr-gr-grabbed me.”
“For no reason?”
John gritted his jaws. “’Cause I st-st-st-st—” He growled and briefly squeezed his eyes shut.
“Take your t-time,” Jasper said.
John inhaled deeply, scowled at Jasper, and then said, “I st-stepped behind a st-st-st-stupid horse.”
“Ah, I see. Well, it m-might interest you to know he likely s-s-saved your life. Or at least saved y-you a good deal of pain.”
“He c-c-c-c-called me a pecker.”
It was all Jasper could do to keep a straight face at the boy’s furious indignation. “If you d-don’t care for horses, then perhaps you might tell me what you d-do like?”
“Kitchen.” The boy’s eyes all but glowed.
Jasper could imagine why; to a half-starved street urchin a kitchen was probably the closest thing to heaven on earth. Doubtless he imagined stuffing himself every second the cook’s back was turned. Still, as far as stealing went, it was better that John stole an apple or a loaf of bread than a piece of plate or another servant’s possessions.
Jasper knew that Paisley believed him to be generally ignorant of household affairs—and by and large that was true—but even he had noticed the departure of the kitchen staff. It wasn’t hard to guess why. Nor was it hard to guess that it would be difficult to find servants willing to take orders from an ex-slave.
“Mrs. F-Freedman is in charge of my k-kitchen,” Jasper said.
John nodded. “Aye.”
“If you w-work in the k-kitchen you are under her authority. You obey and r-respect her.”
“Aye.”
“I want you to think m-most carefully about whether or not the k-kitchen is the place for you—it is hard work, not just eating t-tarts. My servants—especially Mr. P-Paisley and Mrs. Freedman—have m-more to do than arse about with you. So make your decision w-wisely.”
The boy jerked a nod.
“T-Tell me you understand.” Jasper wasn’t about to let him become a mute because of his stammer.
“I und-und-und-und-understand.” His teeth were bared by the time he was finished.
“Good. Now we shall see if Mrs. F-Freedman wishes to have you in her k-kitchen.” He could see that surprised the urchin. He jerked his chin toward the door. “Open it.”
Paisley, who he’d known would be waiting, stepped inside. “Yes, my lord?”
“Please ask Mrs. F-Freedman to join us.”
“Very good, sir.”
Once his valet had gone, he and John eyed each other like duelists at dawn.
Jasper was amused to have a servant glare at him so belligerently. He could only imagine his father’s reaction if faced with John Sparrow. The duke had expected all his subordinates—which meant just about everyone in the nation except for a handful of other dukes and royalty—to drop their eyes when they stood before him. As a boy, Jasper could have described any of the Duke of Kersey’s footwear in great detail. On any of the six ducal estates, his father’s word had been law. Disobeying the duke meant a whipping—for both servants and sons—and most recipients only needed one time beneath the lash to adjust their behavior.
The door opened and Mrs. Freedman entered.
“Thank you for c-coming so quickly,” Jasper said. “I understand you are short of staff?” He could see the question made her nervous—as if he thought that might be her fault.
“Er, yes, my lord.”
“John w-wishes to work in the kitchen.”
They both turned to look at the boy.
“It is your k-kitchen, Mrs. F-Freedman, so it is your decision.”
He watched the two size each other up and realized he’d introduced a third strong personality into his household.
“I need help,” she finally admitted. “But it’s hard work—a lot of scrubbin’, cleanin’, and the like.”
John nodded, and then glanced at Jasper before saying to the cook, “I understan
d, m-m-m-ma’am.”
“Do you have any questions f-for him?” Jasper asked when the silence stretched.
Mrs. Freedman turned from Jasper to the boy. “I have none.”
“Any objections?”
She smiled and John scowled. “Not as long as he’s a hard worker and doesn’t mind takin’ orders from a freedwoman.”
“John?” Jasper said, wondering if he had the same objection to black women as he did to Scottish men.
But the boy shook his head. “No, sir.”
“Good.” He nodded at John and smiled at his cook. “Thank you, Mrs. Freedman, J-John. That will be all.”
“Thank you, sir.” Mrs. Freedman dropped a curtsey and headed for the door.
“Oh, and Mrs. Fr-Fr-Freedman?”
She turned. “Yes, my lord?”
“When M-Mister Paisley interviews for ne-ne-new k-kitchen staff I’d like you to sit in on them.”
She looked pleased and surprised by his words. “Of course, my lord.”
She left the room, but John hesitated.
“Yes?” Jasper asked, steeling himself.
The boy looked ready to vomit. Instead, he opened his mouth and said, “Th-Th-Thank you, m-m-m-my lord.”
Well, Jasper thought as he watched John shoot through the open doorway as quickly as a ferret. Would wonders never cease?
“A moment, Paisley,” he said as his valet began to close the door, with himself on the other side of it.
“Yes, my lord?”
“You read the society s-section, don’t you?”
“Yes, sir.”
Jasper could scarcely comprehend somebody wanting to read a bloody list of guests at somebody else’s dinner party, but it appeared to be a popular pastime, although he suspected Paisley read it more to collect ammunition to hector Jasper into attending various functions rather than for his own enjoyment or edification. His valet, he knew, was more careful about the status of Jasper’s social life than Jasper had ever been. He’d never gotten the feeling that Paisley was matchmaking in any way, only that he worried about his employer’s lack of socialization.
“I don’t suppose you recall any guest lists including Mrs. Helen Vogel?”
“She would be the one referred to as Helen of Troy,” Paisley said. “Tonight she is to attend the Backhouse Astor dinner.”
Jasper grinned. “You are a bloody miracle, Paisley.”
“Yes, sir,” Paisley agreed without so much as a twitch of a smile.
“I wonder why the d-devil they are in town.”
“There was a story about him in the newspaper—something about a recent acquisition.”
“Ah, yes, he’s a butcher,” Jasper said.
“Yes, sir, a slaughterhouse magnate.” His valet despised imprecision.
“It seems I r-r-recall you trying to blu-blu-bludgeon me into going to the Astor dinner?”
“That is correct, sir. You requested that I send your regrets.”
Jasper grimaced. “Damn. Well, I’ve ch-changed my mind—I’d like to go. Pen an acceptance—along with some excuse—and have it r-r-r-run over to Mrs. Backhouse Astor immediately,” he said, attempting to stifle a yawn and failing. He glanced at his watch: it was already five thirty; just enough time for what he hoped to do.
“I’m going to step out for an hour, Paisley,” he said, making his way toward the door, which Paisley reached first and opened. “I’ll be back in plenty of time to get ready for dinner,” he assured him.
Paisley inclined his head. “And what should I tell Mrs. Astor is the reason for your late change of plans, sir?”
“Lord, I don’t care, Paisley—just m-make up something convincing. Something that doesn’t m-m-make me look like a c-c-complete arse.”
“Shall I say that I made a mistake in your calendar, my lord?”
Jasper laughed. “I knew I c-could count on you.”
Paisley came as close to rolling his eyes as he’d done in almost twenty years. “Of course, sir.”
CHAPTER 9
“I’ve got my hands full, so let yourself in—it’s unlocked,” a voice called out when Hy knocked on the shed door at seven o’clock that night.
The man on the other side had rolled up the sleeves of his dress shirt and wore a large dun apron. He was covered in blood, from his hands all the way to his elbows.
“Jaysus,” Hy muttered. “Er, Doctor Powell?”
The other man nodded, looking down at whatever it was—an animal?—he was working on, rather than at Hy. “You must be the police detective.”
“Yes, I’m Detective Law.”
“Where is the English duke’s son? I was hoping he’d be the one to question me.” Powell’s eyes glinted with amusement.
“Inspector Lightner is busy elsewhere,” Hy said, accustomed to Powell’s response; everyone was curious about the Englishman. “But I’ll pass along your request. Er, what’s that you’re working on?”
Powell lifted a headless animal skin.
Hy grimaced and recoiled. “Is that the cat Harold Stampler was working on earlier?” Hy had come out to the shed earlier in the day; he’d never be able to erase the image of Stampler with the cat’s head.
“Yes. Don’t worry, we didn’t kill it. It belongs to a patient of mine.” Powell reached into a bucket and came up with the cat’s head, which he turned to face Hy. “Say hello to Pussykins, Detective Law.” He chuckled at Hy’s look of horror and lowered his work back onto the table. “I hope you don’t mind if I continue working,” he said, not waiting for Hy’s answer before resuming what he’d been doing, which seemed to be scraping the hide.
“Do a lot of pets, do you?” Hy asked. People with money were an odd bunch, that was for sure.
“Well, unfortunately stuffing humans isn’t legal yet.”
Hy gaped and the other man laughed.
“Yes, I do a lot of cats and dogs and the occasional parrot. It can be a bit tedious, but it does mean a fresh source of subjects without having to go out and get them myself.” Powell dropped something into a wooden bucket with a dull, wet splat. “So, you’re thinking I’m an excellent suspect when it comes to killing Beauchamp,” Powell said, glancing up from his gruesome work.
“Did you have reason to kill him?” Hy asked.
Powell laughed. “I had the best reason to kill him—the bastard had been blackmailing me for almost two years.”
That coincided with the date Hy had seen in Beauchamp’s book. “About what?”
Powell stared at him, his hand moving steadily, scrape, scrape, scrape. “How do I know that you won’t blackmail me?”
The man couldn’t be blamed for the offensive question; there was almost more crime within the police department—old or new—than on the streets.
“I can’t promise I won’t arrest you, but I can promise I won’t blackmail you.”
Powell considered his answer a moment. “What the hell?” he said, more to himself. “I operated on a patient while drunk. It’s likely I did not do the best job. The person died.” He was talking fast, acting like he didn’t care, but his hands were jerky. “Would she have died anyhow?” He shrugged. “I don’t know. I just know that I didn’t help her chances any.”
“How did Beauchamp know about what you’d done?” He and Lightner had decided to keep the dead man’s other names a secret for a bit longer.
“He seemed to have a nose for it.” He snorted and cut Hy a look. “You’ll find out what I mean when you talk to the others.”
“Others?” Hy said.
Powell cocked his head. “If you really don’t know, I’m not going to tell you. I might be a lot of things, but one thing I’m not is a grasser.”
Hy liked him better for that. “How much were you paying him?”
“You mean in addition to renting his damned apartment and living right under his nose?”
“Was that all part of the deal?”
“Deal!” He snorted. “I guess you could call it that. The rent here is outrageous—twice a
s much as what it’s worth. But as far as other money? No, just the ever-increasing cost of rent.” He hesitated and then frowned. “There was one thing, though. The bastard actually came to the hospital after a surgery. He told me he wanted something—a token.”
“What?”
Powell shook his head, his expression one of bitter wonder. “He took a saw—one of the saws from my instrument tray.”
* * *
New Yorkers might have set out to ape British or French society, but they’d ended up creating something that was all their own.
From the moment Jasper entered the Astor house on Fifth Avenue he’d felt as if he were looking into a subtly warped mirror.
Jasper smiled at his hostess, Mrs. Caroline Backhouse Astor.
“Ah, Lord Jasper! How delightful to see you.”
“Thank you so m-much for inviting me, ma’am,” Jasper said, bowing over her hand.
Mrs. Backhouse Astor—or Lina, as she was affectionately known by those fortunate enough to be on a first-name basis—was an attractive young matron who’d been taking control of New York society since her marriage to John Jacob Astor’s grandson, William, a few years earlier.
“I know it’s a positively savage time of year to still be in the city, but …” Lina didn’t need to finish her sentence, everyone in the nation could hear the rumble of economic thunder. She gestured him to the side, allowing her husband to welcome the next couple in the receiving line—obviously less worthy of her attention than a duke’s son.
“This evening will be an intimate affair—nothing to what you are accustomed to, I’m sure.”
Somehow Jasper didn’t think she was alluding to furtive liaisons in widows’ bedchambers or protracted stays in opium dens. He smiled. “I’m delighted to b-be here.”
She glanced up at a conveniently placed pair of young women who were standing beside an older lady who was obviously their mother. “Oh, why, Mrs. Ogilvy—just the person I wished to see. Let me introduce—”
And so the evening of introductions began.
The dinner party resembled any of a thousand dinners he’d attended over his life, but there was something indefinably different.
Crooked in His Ways Page 6