Hatred flared in her unusual blue eyes, shrinking the pupil that was still visible.
It was the look of a person who could do murder, and Jasper felt a distinct chill in the sultry summer air.
“Margaret. Her name is Margaret.”
Jasper blinked, confused. “I beg your pardon?”
“My l-lover,” she said, suddenly defiant.
“Ah,” Jasper said, too startled to say more.
“Margaret Peel,” Mrs. Vogel repeated, more softly.
There had been far fewer female names than male in Frumkin’s book, and one of them was Margaret Peel.
“He came to me—only a few months after my marriage to A-Adolphus,” the stammered word was scarcely a whisper and she nervously glanced around his study, as if the source of her terror might be lurking anywhere.
After a long, fraught moment, she continued. “I was to go to him.” Her expression shifted from terror to naked revulsion. “He said he would consider the debt paid after—after six nights.”
Jasper nodded, trying to think of a polite way to frame his next question. But she took care of that little bit of awkwardness for him.
“He wasn’t there that night.”
“December seventeenth?”
Her eyes widened. “My God. How do you know? Who else—”
“Shhh,” he soothed. “It was m-mere speculation,” he said untruthfully. “What about M-Margaret? Did he th-th-threaten her, too?”
“Yes, but he wanted something else from her—a painting.”
“A C-Constable?”
“I don’t understand,” she said, her voice rising to a near-wail. “How do you know these things? You can’t have spoken to Margaret?”
“N-No, I haven’t spoken to her. But I intend to.”
“You shall have to go to Venice to do so,” she said, her expression viciously smug. “She got away from this mess. From him.” She took a deep breath, held it, and then released it slowly.
Jasper gave her a moment to compose herself before he asked, “When did she leave?”
“Not long after he approached her and she handed over the wretched painting.”
“When?”
“In November. It was the twelfth—she went with her grandmother, who is half Venetian.”
Well, that took care of one suspect’s name from the list. “You said Beauchamp w-w-wasn’t there December seventeenth. When was the l-last time you saw him?”
“December tenth,” she said without hesitation. “We didn’t do … well, we didn’t do anything. I had to go to his house—on Sullivan—and bring him—” Her jaw tightened, and she swallowed hard, forcing the next words out, “I had to bring him—I had to bring him a pair of my drawers.”
Jasper realized his own face was hot.
What a prude you’ve become, old thing. Less than a month in the land of the Puritans and already you’re blushing at the mention of female unmentionables. His sly inner companion had a good laugh.
“D-D-Did you s-see him that day?”
“Yes,” she ground out, her face a fetching rosy pink. “He made me take tea with him. And then he scheduled our visits. Once every month, on the seventeenth, for six months.”
“Why the s-seventeenth?”
“It was usually when I met Margaret—it was his way of perverting what we had.” She stared down at her clenched hand. “I told him there was no way I could commit to months of meetings on a particular day. I tried to convince him how difficult that would be if Adolphus wanted me to do something on one of those nights. He was such a—a—pig, he just laughed and told me he knew I was a mistress of persuasion.” She twisted her handkerchief restlessly.
“When I got home from that meeting Adolphus was waiting.” She swallowed and met Jasper’s gaze. “I didn’t look as bad as this by the time he got the truth out of me, but—well, let’s just say it was a less than joyful Christmas.”
“Did he go see Mr. B-Beauchamp?”
She shook her head. “He said he wanted to wait until our arranged meeting. He said when Beauchamp opened the door expecting me, he’d find Adolphus, instead.” Her eyes dropped to her hands again. “Adolphus, as you can see, believes in solving problems with his fists.” She sighed. “I have to admit that I was relieved that he finally knew the truth. He was sickened—he said what Margaret and I had done was an abomination before God and he was just as concerned as I was not to have word of our, er, association become known.”
They sat in silence for a long moment.
It was Mrs. Vogel who broke it. “Margaret was already safe and far away, so I didn’t have to worry about him taking out his anger on her. Although I did get a letter from her. I have any important correspondence delivered to my nanny’s, where I read it but of course never take anything back with me. Anyhow, Margaret said her father had suffered a serious reverse in his investments and that it seemed somebody was singling him out—the attack almost personal.” She shook her head at Jasper. “I couldn’t prove it, but it was too much of a coincidence not to be Adolphus.”
“Do you think your husband k-k-killed Beauchamp?”
“I’ve been thinking about nothing else since you mentioned it.” She chewed her lower lip and then winced before looking up, her expression the same intense loathing as when she’d mentioned Frumkin. “I would not be saddened to see Adolphus in jail, my lord—I would love to never have to look at him or let him—” She broke off, swallowing convulsively. She shook her head. “But, no, I don’t think he killed Beauchamp.”
“Why not?”
“Adolphus likes to make people suffer. That’s why he is slowly crushing Margaret’s family. He doesn’t want anyone dead—not when he can extract his revenge over and over again.”
Jasper thought about Edward Cooper and what he’d intimated about Vogel; the description certainly fit.
Still, Vogel had a motive as surely as any of the names of the people that Frumkin had been extorting.
Not only did Vogel have motive and plenty of opportunity, but evidence of his violent nature and cruelty was sitting right in front of Jasper.
And then there was the fact that he’d once been a butcher.
Yes, Mr. Adolphus Vogel’s name had just shot to the top of Jasper’s list.
“Do you know anything about his first w-w-wife?”
“I know she was so miserable that she threw herself off their roof.”
He sat forward. “How do you know that?”
“Because that’s exactly what I want to do almost every single day since I married him. Even if he had killed Beauchamp, a man like Adolphus is just too rich and powerful to ever have to pay for his crimes.”
“You need to find somepl-place to go, Mrs. Vogel,” Jasper urged. “You need to l-l-leave him.”
She gave Jasper a look of such profound despair it hurt to look at her. “The only way I’ll ever escape Adolphus is if I die.”
Jasper didn’t point out that would be all too likely if she refused to leave him.
CHAPTER 14
It was after four o’clock by the time Jasper and Law met up at East Eleventh Street.
“Sorry I’m late, sir. The celebrations are starting early,” Detective Law muttered as he stepped out of a hackney in front of the building they had earlier discovered housed not only Cranston, Cranston, and Bakewell but also Gideon Richards.
Jasper couldn’t help thinking that Frumkin’s two law firms sharing the same building was more than a coincidence.
“How did things g-go down at the pier?” Jasper asked as they headed inside.
“Not good. The ship came in today, but she’s at anchor—not at the pier. The wharf agent for the Metropolitan Line said there is some issue with quarantine and they don’t know when she’ll dock. Right now everyone—crew and passengers—are stuck on board.”
Jasper grunted, rivulets of sweat running down his spine as they reached the third floor landing and kept going.
“On the fifth, is it?” Law asked with a wheezy lau
gh.
“Of course.”
“Did Mrs. Vogel have anything interesting to say?” Law asked as they trudged.
Jasper gave him a very abbreviated version of his conversation with the battered woman.
“That bastard,” Law hissed as they paused to catch their breath outside the lawyer’s office. “Please tell me that Vogel is on our list, sir,” Law said, cracking the knuckles of his huge fists.
Jasper smiled at the menacing gesture and opened the door to an elegantly decorated foyer, complete with a desk and clerk.
Jasper handed the young man a card. “We are with the Metropolitan police and want to t-t-talk to somebody about one of your clients, Albert Beauchamp.
A few minutes later, after thoroughly checking their credentials, the clerk ushered them into the office of Lowell Cranston, the senior partner in the small firm.
“Thank y-you for seeing us so l-l-late in the day,” Jasper said, once he and Law were both seated. “I understand this b-b-building belongs to you.”
“Yes, that’s true.”
“Does your f-firm ever work with one of your renters—Gideon Richards?”
“Don’t know Richards myself,” Cranston said gruffly, his sagging jowls tightened with obvious disapproval, telling Jasper what the old man thought about his tenant. “Edward Bakewell leased the space to him,” he added.
Cranston cleared his throat. “As for Beauchamp—or Frumkin, rather—well, he was Bakewell’s client. Never met the man. Don’t recall ever hearing about him until now.” He glanced down at the file that his clerk had given him when he’d escorted Jasper and Law into his office. “Don’t think Bakewell could have known him well as the will was all he ever did for him.” His frown deepened. “I recall reading about Frumkin.” He glared at Jasper, his white eyebrows like twin drifts of snow, quivering before an avalanche. “A bad business, that. Can’t believe Bakewell took him on as a client.” He grunted. “Well, I won’t speak ill of the dead.”
Cranston heaved a sigh as he looked from the copy of the will Jasper had brought, comparing it to whatever he had in the file. “This copy has been properly signed and witnessed. Looks like the original, although I’ll have to go over it closely.” He pulled a face. “I never liked these things—sign of a petty, controlling individual, in my opinion.”
“What th-th-things?” Jasper asked.
“It’s right here—paragraph nine: Frumkin has left everything to his daughter, but conditionally. If she wants to inherit, she’ll have to write a letter stating she forgives him—get it witnessed and so forth,” he muttered.
“Forgives him for what?”
Cranston shrugged. “Doesn’t say.”
“Is that unusual?”
“It’s not common. Like I say, doesn’t speak well of the testator, in my opinion.”
“Who inherits if she refuses to write the letter?’
Cranston barked out a laugh. “Can’t see that happening—never has in my experience.”
But then he hadn’t met Jessica Martello. Jasper could easily see her telling her father’s lawyers to go to the devil.
“But if she refused, it would go back to the estate and pass to—” he flipped a few pages, his eyes running quickly over the tightly packed legalese. “Hmm, looks like there isn’t an alternative beneficiary listed. Interesting. Can’t believe Bakewell didn’t take care of that. There should be, in the unrealistic event the initial recipient declined. Or maybe died. Damned unprofessional,” he muttered, visibly agitated.
“So you would n-need to s-search for other relatives?” Jasper asked.
“What’s that?”
“W-Would you need to locate more family?” Jasper asked loudly.
“Oh. Well, we’ll put out legal notices no matter what.”
“Where?”
“Usually only in the legal domicile of the deceased, unless there is evidence the deceased had multiple residences.” He cleared his throat and gave Jasper a significant look from under his brows. “Let me give you the words without the bark on ’em, sir—a lawyer’s thoroughness often depends on the estate in question. Hardly worth anyone’s time to spend a hundred dollars looking for somebody if the estate isn’t worth a plug nickel.”
Jasper didn’t tell the lawyer just how much money might be involved.
Cranston made another harrumphing sound. “So yes, we’d do a search for the next of kin if necessary. But the will is quite explicit—no bequests to anyone other than Jessica Frumkin. Can’t see her saying no to a windfall. If other relatives come out of the woodwork and want a share, they’d have their hands full fighting the document.” He frowned at Jasper. “I’ve not read about his death in the paper,” he said. “When was it?”
Jasper hesitated, but then realized they could hardly keep the man’s murder a secret now. Especially as his servants and tenants already knew. “We believe he was killed around Christmas.”
The old man’s eyes opened wide. “Good Lord, are you saying the man was murdered?”
Jasper nodded and stood. “Thank you for your t-time, Mr. C-Cranston.”
Cranston pushed himself to his feet, wavering slightly. “It’s too late today but I’ll get in touch with Miss Martello and the bank after the holiday. I know Sorenson, I bank there myself,” he added, visibly agitated. “I suppose I shall be reading about this in the papers.”
It wasn’t a question, so Jasper didn’t answer.
CHAPTER 15
“Dead?” Gideon Richards asked for the third time.
Lightner nodded, his expression unreadable. At least it was unreadable to Hy.
Hy’s expression, he was pretty sure, was shining as brightly as the New Dorp beacon on Staten Island.
Gideon Richards was everything he hated about lawyers: arrogant, condescending, and obnoxious. Well, Hy supposed that was more like one thing called by three different words.
Anyhow, Richards was also overfed, soft, and had the sort of pinky-white flesh that rarely saw sunlight. Hy’s fingers twitched to squeeze his fat throat.
The dismissive way he’d looked at Hy compared to the almost worshipful way he’d looked at the Englishman said everything there was to say: Richards was a boot-licking prick and a shameless tuft hunter.
He was also a masher, dressed in his showy gray suit with heavy gold cufflinks and a glittery pin sticking out of his striped silk stock.
Hy struggled to mask his dislike as he took in the wealthy lawyer, who looked like he’d forgotten that Hy existed in his rush to impress Lightner.
Richards sat behind a desk that even Hy could see was expensive. And gaudy, too, with touches of gold paint on the legs. His office took up the entire corner of the building—unlike the glorified closet that his harried-looking clerk was stuffed into.
The walls were covered with expensive-looking books, and there was a painting on the wall of a man dressed in a white wig and old-fashioned clothing from the last century. Hy supposed he was Richards’s ancestor; he looked like a pompous arse, too.
“Do you know if Mr. B-Beauchamp has an agent or f-f-factor?”
Richards’s bulbous dirt-brown eyes widened slightly and his lips twitched, as if he were struggling with a smile. Hy figured he’d finally noticed Lightner’s stammer. Hope leapt in Hy’s chest that Richards would say something stupid and Lightner would have to administer a bit of rough justice with his cane.
Even though Hy had only worked with the Englishman for a few weeks he already knew that Lightner didn’t tolerate rudeness. Hy had seen him chastise more than one man—at least one of whom had been a hardened killer—with his cane, which he wielded with impressive, and lethal, skill.
Unfortunately, Richards seemed to rein in his humor. The man might be a dude, but he wasn’t a complete fool.
“Er, not that I know of,” the lawyer finally said. “Indeed, my firm takes care of all his monthlies and quarterlies. Why?”
Hy snorted at the word firm. As if it wasn’t just Richards and his downtrodden clerk.
“How l-l-long have you been acquainted with Mr. Beauchamp?”
Richards lifted his nose, as if he were sniffing the air and had noticed something … off. He pushed himself up straighter in his chair. “Wait a minute, here. Why are you asking me these questions?”
Hy snorted; some lawyer. You’d have thought the man would have asked that question right up front.
“That is our j-job,” Lightner said in that soft tone of voice that somehow made his listeners do what he wanted.
Hy needed to work on a tone like that instead of using his size or brute strength to get answers. Although he’d have been plenty happy to get some answers out of Richards with his fists.
Richards’s forehead was creased with suspicion, but he answered, just as Hy knew he would. “About three years.”
“How did you m-meet?”
“I don’t really remember.”
For a rich lawyer, Richards wasn’t the best liar in the world. His name wasn’t in Frumkin’s book, so whatever he was hiding, he wasn’t being extorted.
“Did you know him by any other n-n-names?”
Richards’s expression was shuttered, but whatever he saw on the Englishman’s face made him sigh.
“Fine. I knew he was Frumkin, he told me when he hired me. He said he couldn’t use that name without dragging his past up all over again.” He hesitated and then added, “He seemed to regret what he’d done and was trying to turn a new leaf. Besides, it’s not my affair what my clients want to call themselves.”
That might have been true, but that didn’t mean Richards needed to accept work from a man like Frumkin. To Hy’s way of thinking it showed just what sort of lawyer he was: the immoral kind who could be bought.
“What other business do you m-manage for him?”
“Business?”
Lightner briefly showed his teeth; it was the sort of smile that made Hy’s neck hairs stand up—even though he wasn’t the target. “Why d-do I feel you are being less than forthcoming, Mr. R-R-Richards?”
Richards swallowed loudly enough for Hy to hear him. “My clerk collects rents for him, makes deposits, that sort of thing.”
Crooked in His Ways Page 11