Crooked in His Ways

by S. M. Goodwin

  Now that they were in America, visiting family was not possible and Jasper somehow doubted the reserved valet made new friends easily. Certainly not among Jasper’s small staff. He knew that being in charge of his household kept Paisley both above and apart from all the other servants.

  No, dragging Paisley halfway around the world didn’t leave the man with many options when it came to visiting family or friends.

  Nor do you have many options, his snide companion chimed in. Not that you had many in England, either.

  That was true. His social circle had always been small, but even more so after coming home from the war.

  Social circle.

  Jasper ignored the laughter.

  The cab rolled to a stop in front of the police station.

  “W-Wait for me, I shan’t be more than a minute,” Jasper told the driver. “I want you to take me to the Union Club after this.” He tossed the man a coin.

  The driver looked at the money and grinned. “Take your time.”

  Billings—who was arguing with two uniformed coppers and a very intoxicated pair of women who looked to have been fighting—nodded at Jasper as he entered the station house.

  Jasper took the stairs two at a time, marveling at the lack of activity for a Friday.

  He suspected it was the mayor’s recent acceptance of the court decision affirming the legality of the Metropolitan Police Act that accounted for the strange atmosphere: the Municipal Police were officially disbanded.

  If things had been at sixes and sevens before, they were now at tens and elevens.

  Jasper wasn’t surprised to find Davies’s office dark this late in the day but he was surprised to discover his door unlocked.

  He placed the mandatory—and very brief—report for the Frumkin case on Davies’s desk and shut the door.

  The desk sergeant was alone when Jasper returned to the ground floor.

  “Good evening, Inspector,” Billings said.

  “G-G-Good evening, Sergeant. I just l-l-left something in the captain’s office and noticed it was unlocked. Would you—”

  “Aye, ’course I’ll lock it. Sometimes I think the captain would forget his head if it weren’t screwed on.”

  Jasper smiled. “Th-Thank you. Will you be celebrating t-tomorrow?”

  “Aye, I’ll be off misbehavin’. And you, sir? Lookin’ forward to your first Fourth of July?”

  “I am,” Jasper lied. He was no big lover of fireworks and gratuitous explosions, which he’d learned were a big part of the celebration. “Where does a person go to enjoy themselves?” he asked, hoping he wouldn’t say the Union Square green in front of Jasper’s house.

  “The Battery, if you have to be in the city. ’Course over on Long Island you’d have some of the biggest bonfires and nonstop fireworks.”

  So he should thank the stars that he was in Manhattan.

  * * *

  Jasper had just entered the Union Club when someone called out his name.

  He turned to see Edward Cooper waving and headed over to a table surrounded by men. They were speaking loudly and raucously and garnering fierce scowls from some of the older members of the club.

  Jasper thought he recognized a few of the men, but his memory was so lamentable he didn’t try to greet anyone by name. Besides, Cooper enjoyed introducing him around, like a performing monkey that he’d discovered and had a fondness for.

  “Working with New York City’s finest, are you?” a man called Nathan Shank—owner of the Mercantile Bank—asked him with a chortle, the question earning laughter all around.

  “Lord, working with the Irish must be like training dogs,” another man, whose name Jasper had already forgotten, added, earning another round of laughter.

  “Except dogs are smarter and better behaved.”

  The men roared.

  Cooper was the only man at the table to look slightly uncomfortable with the anti-Irish jesting that took hold after that.

  Jasper had to hide his irritation as he listened to men who were supposedly of his class behave in a manner far more egregious than the people they were mocking.

  Paisley was Irish, as was Law—at least partly. Paisley had saved Jasper’s life more than once and Law wouldn’t hesitate to risk his own neck for Jasper.

  His temper, which was generally as sluggish as a sleeping bear, was beginning to rouse.

  He was just considering being rude and pulling Cooper aside when an effete-looking man with a sneering face said, “Who is for Solange’s tonight?”

  His words were greeted by a hail of enthusiastic voices.

  The men collected themselves, and several waved for a servant to fetch their hats, canes, and coats.

  As the table broke up, Jasper turned to Cooper. “Could I have a qu-qu-quick word?”

  “Of course.” Peter stepped away from the table and Jasper followed.

  “I know you have a telegraphy machine at your office and I was wondering—”

  “Of course, of course,” Cooper said. “The boys are all still up there and will be for some hours,” he added, motioning vaguely in the direction of his business office. “Just tell them who you are and they’ll be glad to help.”

  Jasper smiled, genuinely grateful. “Th-Th-Thank you, I’ve had a devil of a time finding an office to take my message.”

  “There’s been some appalling vandalism all up and down the lines. Not just here, but in other cities.”

  “So I understand. Well, th-thank you.”

  Cooper hesitated, and then said, “I say, care to join us over at Solange’s after you’ve sent your message?”

  Jasper looked at the other man’s slightly sheepish expression, not wanting to think what it was about that particular brothel the men found so appealing.

  “Look,” Cooper said, lowering his voice. “I know you probably heard things about Solange’s during the Dunbarton investigation. But she has some of the cleanest girls around. You could do a lot worse.”

  And he could also do a lot better.

  “I’m afraid I have a pr-pr-prior engagement,” he lied.

  Cooper nodded, his eyes sliding away.

  “Coop! You coming?” one of the men yelled from the front door.

  An old man with ferocious white muttonchops glared at the yeller. “Here then. Keep your voices down—this is not a bloody bowling alley,” he scolded, his words drawing a muttered apology from Cooper and a derisive hoot from the noisy reveler.

  Cooper gave Jasper a last look and then joined his friend and the two men disappeared.

  Jasper lingered a moment, waiting for Cooper and his friends to disperse, not wishing to get tangled up in what would likely be a race for hackneys.

  Once the coast was clear, he set out on foot to Cooper’s office, which was only a few blocks down from the Union Club.

  He found the clerks still beavering away, and left them with his message, address, and plenty of money to cover the telegram, a lengthy return telegram, and a city messenger.

  Now he could go home and barricade himself indoors until July fifth.

  CHAPTER 17

  July 4

  “Goddammit!” Jasper glared at the extra that Paisley had brought in with his usual morning papers.

  “Albert Frumkin Returns to NYC … In Seven Pieces.”

  Words like extortion, Beauchamp, and Martello leapt off the page.

  He flung down the crumpled paper and shoved back his chair.

  There was only one way this story could have leaked out: the report he’d left on Davies’s desk.

  Cranston and Richards knew the man was dead, but neither man knew the details of his murder. Only that bloody report contained all the pieces of the puzzle.

  “Goddammit,” he said again, under his breath. He needed to get over to Jessica Martello’s, now. The poor woman was probably besieged by newspapermen and being hounded half to death.

  He ground his teeth; and this after he’d promised to keep her name and relationship to Frumkin quiet. Jasper h
ated looking the fool. Or worse, looking incompetent.

  Christ!

  Paisley was in his dressing room when Jasper flung open the door.

  “Are you ready for—”

  “Just a shave and a quick wash,” Jasper said, forcing the words—quietly—through his teeth. Paisley didn’t deserve his temper.

  Paisley had him shaved, washed, and dressed in record time.

  “I need to get something from the st-st-study,” he said, heading in that direction. “Fetch me a hackney.”

  When Jasper entered the foyer a few minutes later, Paisley had just stepped inside and was closing the door behind him.

  “Good Lord,” Jasper said, pulling on his gloves. “What the d-devil is that racket?”

  “I’m afraid there is a parade blocking Fourteenth Street, my lord.”

  “Ah, of course—a F-F-Fourth of July affair.”

  Bloody hell; just what he needed.

  “The Ancient Order of the Hibernians, sir.” Paisley hesitated. “The gentleman I spoke to said the organization was, er, virulently Irish.”

  Jasper snorted; coming from an actual Irishman that was amusing.

  “There are no hackneys, my lord. You’ll need to go to Fourth Avenue.”

  A walk would do him good; he was so vile-mooded he wanted to break something.

  He took the pewter-handled stick with the concealed rapier—it seemed like a good day to be armed—and his hat, but he scowled at the overcoat his valet held out for him. “I simply c-c-can’t. It’s too damned hot.”

  Paisley nodded, his expression suspiciously bland. “The newspaper was predicting record heat today.” Which was his way of saying he would forgive Jasper’s scandalously half-dressed state.

  Jasper opened the door and flooded the foyer with the din of brass and percussive instruments. “I shall be b-b-back in a few hours.”

  “Very good, sir.” He hesitated and then added, “I will be spending the afternoon and early evening at Battery Park, my lord.” Paisley’s pale face looked slightly flushed.

  Jasper stared; Paisley was going out on a frolic on today of all days?

  How … singular.

  Well, he couldn’t think about that now. He jerked a nod and headed out into the fray.

  He was fortunate enough to have missed the bulk of the parade and was able to cross Fourteenth Street without too much bother.

  A line of hackneys trailed down the side of Fourth Avenue, and he approached the nearest.

  “Elm and White,” he told the driver before climbing into the closed carriage, grimacing at the miserable heat, not to mention the stench, which indicated that somebody had vomited in the carriage. Recently.

  He tried first one window and then the other, which only opened halfway. Heavy, sluggish air moved grudgingly through the carriage as it plodded along and Jasper sagged against the battered seat, already wilting from the crushing heat.

  It was just after ten o’clock. If he had not allowed himself to sleep in that morning and then do his daily hour of exercise plus another half hour—because today was an official day off—he would have read the paper hours ago. Lord only knew what the poor woman had been dealing with all morning.

  Who at the Eighth Precinct had sold the news? He didn’t suspect Davies, for all that the man hated him. It had to be Featherstone or one of the bent coppers the man consorted with.

  Jasper knew Detective Featherstone was crooked. Unfortunately, his best proof of that suspicion was an old rag picker who had mysteriously disappeared after last being seen with Featherstone.

  He could only hope that Mayor Wood’s abrupt disbanding of the Municipal force would mean that men who’d openly supported him, like Featherstone, might be out of a job.

  Or perhaps it was Jasper who no longer had a job? It was difficult to say these days.

  Captain Davies of the Eighth had straddled the line between Municipal and Metropolitan, trying to obey two masters. Whether he’d pleased the Metropolitan higher-ups, Jasper didn’t know. Quite frankly, he had no interest in the departmental shenanigans. At least not beyond how they impacted his investigations.

  He had to admit, unwillingly, that accusing Detective Featherstone of selling the Frumkin information to the newspapers without any evidence—even in the privacy of his own mind—was neither wise nor just. After all, it could be any of the sixty-plus coppers who worked at the Eighth. Or it could be the janitor or cleaning woman who’d found the envelope on Davies’s desk and seized an opportunity. No doubt the money—for an exclusive, at that—would have been too tempting for a lot of people to resist.

  He’d been a bloody fool to leave it in the captain’s office, even locked. He’d been a bloody fool to give it to Davies at all. He should have told him to go to hell. Or, at the very least, given him a half page of pablum. The man didn’t deserve the truth.

  Just thinking of his asinine dognapping order made Jasper’s blood boil. If he wasn’t careful, Davies would have him wearing motley.

  The carriage shuddered to a halt and Jasper stuck his head out the half-opened window, scowling at what he saw. The road was jammed with milling bodies and loud music was pouring from more than a few saloons.

  The carriage panel slid back, and the driver frowned at him. “Sorry, mate,” he said before Jasper could speak. “It’s the Fourth and this is as good as it gets. There’s another parade coming down Spring. I ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

  Jasper opened the door and hopped out. “How much?”

  He paid the driver and then glanced around, taking his bearings.

  “You’d best use Grand,” the driver said. “You’ll not be able to get a cab out of that mess, either. I should have known it would be startin’ early,” he muttered to himself. “Elm is one block over,” he added, and then clucked his tongue and moved his horse toward where several other hackneys were clustered, half on the sidewalk.

  Grand was just as bad as Bowery and Jasper took a deep breath as he pushed through the oncoming crowds, which were likely headed for the parade.

  He had to brush away more than one hand, the touches ghostly and light as they reached for his breast pocket, watch pocket, and trouser pockets.

  An image of John flickered through his mind. He’d given the boy the day off, along with the rest of the staff. He could only hope he wasn’t among the many urchins who’d be out working the crowds today.

  Martello’s building, number 28 Elm, was right where White and Elm met. Thankfully, the mad crush thinned considerably on White, although the streets were certainly teeming.

  It was early in the day, but he could already hear the distant crack of fireworks. Jasper was reminded of Guy Fawkes Day in Britain—a day he generally spent indoors.

  His brain knew the explosive sounds were just that: sounds. But his body reacted as if he were still in the Crimea. Every explosion, no matter how minor, was like the sharp crack of a cannon. Every shout and puff of smoke jangled his nerves. And the acrid bite of sulfur left him anxious and combative. His pathetic reactions shamed him, but that admission did nothing to ameliorate the effects.

  By the time he reached White Street, his jaw was ratcheted so tight that his temples ached. He paused at the corner to collect himself, check his pockets to ensure he still had his watch and wallet, and assess the scene outside Jessica Martello’s building.

  A handful of men in cheap suits were assembled around the entrance to the grimy building, clearly loitering. He was disappointed, but not surprised that they were already here. Unlike Jasper, they would have been up before the cock’s crow, nosing about for stories, and had likely been here for hours. And there would be more of them upstairs.

  Jasper strode toward the front door, struggling to leash his temper. After all, they were just doing their job.

  A hand landed on his arm before he could push open the door. “Hey, you need to wait your turn, pal. We’ve been—”

  Jasper’s body responded even as his mind urged caution.

  He grabbed the w
rist with his left hand and twisted the man’s bent arm away from his body. He didn’t use excessive force, but neither did he stop until his aggressor had folded to his knees on the splintered wooden porch.

  “Hey! Heeeey!” The younger man squealed, trying to pull away. But Jasper held him at an angle that caused more pain when he struggled.

  Jasper looked up at the other three men, who’d at first bunched up behind their fellow but now took several steps back.

  He glanced down at the man kneeling at his feet, who was whimpering softly, but was wisely motionless.

  “I’m not gonna do anything,” his captive promised, although Jasper hadn’t asked.

  He released his wrist and then pushed open the door, unmolested this time. He could hear talking—the low hum of male voices and one female voice raised—coming from above, and he took the stairs two at a time.

  By the time he reached the fourth floor landing his skin was on fire, but his lungs, thankfully, were functioning fine thanks to his daily exercise. At the end of the hall, just in front of Miss Martello’s door, two men had someone—he couldn’t see who—crowded into the opposite corner.

  “You might as well tell us what we want to know, sweetheart. It’ll be easier on you if you’ll just—”

  “Step away from her,” Jasper said quietly.

  The men spun, the movement allowing him to see Miss Martello’s wide-eyed, frightened, and furious face.

  “Go back into your lodgings, Miss Martello,” Jasper said. He nodded encouragingly as she began to inch toward her door. Once she’d shut it, he turned his attention to the two rough-looking characters who’d been badgering her.

  “I’m Detective Inspector Lightner with the M-Metropolitan Police. You need to l-leave.”

  One of the men, wearing a gray suit that was so grimy it looked as if it could stand up on its own, laughed. “You’re the stuttering duke’s son.”

  Normally Jasper would have been amused by the newspaperman’s misplaced modifier. Today his amusement evaporated like a drop of hot water hitting a red-hot stove.