Crooked in His Ways

by S. M. Goodwin

  “No.” He hesitated, looked at Law again, and then said. “But then the Atlantic Guards came down Elm, they was bein’ chased by some others.” He scratched his head. “I dunno who they were—they had a red stripe on their trousers.”

  Jasper looked at Law.

  “The Roach Guards, sir.”

  Flynn’s hands were so tightly clasped his big knuckles were white. “They saw my uniform and started yelling. And then I ran.”

  “That was p-p-probably wise,” Jasper reassured him, not merely humoring him; the gangs were composed of violent men who were often backed by the warring police factions. It was better to run. “Any idea what time that was?”

  “No.” Flynn shook his head hard enough to make Jasper dizzy. “Sarge is gonna gimme the sack, ain’t he, Hy?”

  “Naw, we won’t let him. Will we, sir?”

  Jasper stared up at the tall detective, returning the other man’s amused smirk with a quelling glare. For once, Law remained unquelled. Jasper knew the younger man found his small acts of philanthropy amusing because Law had commented on it before.

  Well, perhaps Jasper did tilt at the occasional windmill, but Flynn—with his mental limitations—was not as dangerous to the populace as coppers like Featherstone. No doubt Flynn was fine when paired with an older, more experienced patrolman.

  “It will be f-f-fine,” Jasper reassured the young giant. “You can go now, Patrolman.”

  Flynn shot out of the chair, darting from the room quickly for his size.

  “It ain’t a surprise he ran from the gangs yesterday,” Law said, leaning against the doorframe. “He got caught by some Dead Rabbits when he was just a lad and that’s how his head got clubbed in.”

  “How old was he?”

  “Maybe ten or eleven. Cap’n Davies hired him because of his size—he looks good if he’s in a line. But by himself?” Law shook his head. “As far as beat coppers go, he’s a lot better than some,” he said, echoing Jasper’s thoughts. “So, we takin’ the body over?”

  Jasper smiled. “You are.”

  Law blanched.

  Jasper knew the younger man didn’t like being around corpses, but it was an occupational hazard he needed to face sooner rather than later.

  “When you’re done, meet me over at the F-F-Frumkin house. I want to question the Stamplers about Miss Fowler and then take a look at her rooms.” He paused and added. “If you get there f-f-first, you can start with the Stamplers without me.”

  Law laughed. “Thank you, sir. I guess this is punishment for that comment earlier?”

  “Think of it as a p-p-perk of seniority. Something for you to l-look forward to.”

  Law found that humorous. “Aye, fair ’nough. What are you goin’ to do, sir?”

  “I’ll stay here and c-canvas the occupants about two very pretty girls and an old l-lady with st-stuff on her hat and a cane.”

  CHAPTER 24

  Hy dropped off Miss Martello’s body and left a message for Kirby, who’d just stepped out of the hospital on an errand. Rather than wait around for the doctor he’d gone to meet Lightner.

  He made good time from Bellevue, getting to Anita Fowler’s place before the inspector.

  He’d just opened the windows in the airless, scorching room when the Englishman opened the door. “You beat m-m-me here,” he said, removing his hat and tossing it onto the small settee. “Wasn’t Kirby there?”

  “He’d just stepped out.”

  “Ah.” He went to stand in front of window that Hy wasn’t blocking and pulled off his gloves. Hy didn’t know how he could stand wearing them in this weather.

  “Well, I spoke to tw-twelve of the sixteen occupants,” Lightner said. “At l-l-least five of them were pr-pretty girls—bl-blonde and brunette, and even one ginger.” He smiled at Hy. “Nine of the residents I talked to said they sp-spoke to Flynn either on their way in or out.”

  Hy grimaced. “So Flynn’s information isn’t exactly reliable.”

  “No, nor is it comprehensive. N-Nobody had a visitor who was an old woman with a cane. However, two of the residents were quite old and utilized c-canes. One went out yesterday and saw Fl-Flynn but didn’t speak to him.” He sighed. “One of the women is g-gone for the month. We m-m-might as well go back to talk to the others, not that I hold out m-much hope that—”

  “I want to talk to the English detective!” The loud, angry voice came from the landing outside Anita Fowler’s second floor room.

  Lightner gave Hy a questioning look.

  “I don’t recognize the voice,” Hy said.

  “Should I open the door?” Hy asked as the voices in the hall grew louder.

  Before Lightner could answer there was a light tap on the door and then it swung open.

  “Excuse me, my lord.” Mrs. Stampler gave a slight shiver at the word lord, as if the mere act of saying the Englishman’s title gave her some sort of thrill.

  “Good afternoon, M-M-Mrs. Stampler.”

  A head shoved in beside the old lady. “She won’t let me speak to you—I’m Kitty Brannen, the cook over at Mr. Beauchamp’s and I need to tell you somethin’ and she’s—”

  “What you need to do is know your place,” Mrs. Stampler snapped.

  Hy couldn’t help gaping. Gone was the sweet, grandmotherly matriarch. In her place was a narrow-eyed, tight-lipped virago. She even sounded different—her soft Southern accent more pronounced.

  Miss—or Mrs.—Brannen turned on the bone-thin, towering old woman, her expression just as vicious. “My place is wherever I want it to be. I ain’t no slave, no matter how much you might like me to be.”

  Mrs. Stampler inhaled so hard that the slitted nostrils of her long, pointy nose turned into black circles. “Why of all the—”

  “Mrs. Stampler,” Lightner said.

  Hy had no idea how the other man did it, but the Englishman’s soft voice was better than a bullhorn for shutting people up.

  The old lady’s head swiveled toward Lightner like a dog obeying a whistle. “Um, yes, Lord Jasper?” Mrs. Stampler asked, all sweetness and light again.

  “D-Do you happen to have any of those lemon cookies that Detective Law m-mentioned?”

  “Why, yes, my lord. They are rather a specialty of mine.” Her pale, papery cheeks flushed with pleasure. “Would you care for some tea, as well?”

  “That would be l-lovely. C-Could you g-give us perhaps thirty minutes?”

  “Of course, my lord.” Mrs. Stampler cut the cook a triumphant look and turned with a dismissive sniff.

  Kitty Brannen glared at Mrs. Stampler’s departing form.

  Lightner extended a hand. “How do you d-d-do Miss Brannen? Or is it missus?”

  “That would be Miss, my lord.”

  Lightner bowed low over her hand, something Hy could never get away with doing in a million years without looking like a regular horse’s arse.

  The courtly action had the predictable effect on Miss Brannen, who made a soft cooing sound, just like every other female the Englishman had come into contact with.

  Was Hy jealous? Well, maybe a little. Still, he had to admit that Lightner’s adage about catching more flies with honey was a good one. If there was one habit Hy was determined to develop, it was the Englishman’s courtesy. Even if Hy couldn’t quite swing the bowing.

  “Come in, M-M-Miss Brannen, have a seat,” Lightner gestured to one of the two chairs around Miss Fowler’s small kitchen table.

  “Oh, why thank you.”

  Lightner took the chair across from her. “Thank you so m-much for coming forward.”

  Miss Brannen smiled, the expression taking ten years off her age. “After I spoke to Detective Law,” she smiled at Hy, “somethin’ else came to me, and it’s been botherin’ me.” She shifted in her chair to get comfortable, clearly wanting to make the most of her opportunity on center stage. “You see, it’s about the blood stain.”

  Both Hy and Lightner gave the woman their complete attention.

  “Er, and what
st-st-st-stain would that be?” Lightner asked.

  “Well, I first noticed it just before last Christmas.”

  “Oh?”

  “Uh-huh. I probably wouldn’t have remembered nothin’—er, anything,” she corrected, “if not for the whatnot drawer.”

  “Whatnot drawer?” Lightner repeated, looking perplexed.

  “Oh, just a place where you put things you don’t wanna throw away.” She grimaced. “But I’m gettin’ ahead of myself. Back around Christmas I noticed the pastry marble was darker—like maybe somebody had been cuttin’ meat on it.” Her face tightened. “I accused two of the kitchen girls of doin’ it. I ain’t proud of what I done,” she added, her careful accent slipping as she got excited.

  Hy knew the feeling.

  “I asked Eliza and Hannah—they help out twice a week. But they both swore up and down they never did it. You see, it’s special stone—just for makin’ pastry and such. It’s real easy to stain. I figured they were just lyin’, but what can you do?” She shrugged. “Anyhow, I have a special poultice I make for stains like coffee and tea, but I don’t like to use it too much ’cause it can leach out the color—even outta stone. The one thing it don’t work so good for is blood.”

  “So, it is a c-counter. But you mentioned the whatnot drawer?” Lightner prodded.

  “Yes—it’s a drawer that never worked right, even though the house was almost new. I soaped it over and over, but it still wouldn’t slide good. So we just keep things in it we don’t need too often—broken tools that maybe can be fixed so you don’t wanna throw ’em out, you know?”

  The Englishman nodded his encouragement, although Hy suspected that a duke’s son had never seen a whatnot drawer in his life. Pretty much every drawer in the small lodgings Hy shared with his cousin was a whatnot drawer since Ian never put anything back where it belonged.

  “So back in February—I know it was February ’cause we had that awful, awful freeze—I was lookin’ for the broken snow scraper I’d put in there ’cause I couldn’t find the good one.” She frowned. “It’s amazin’ how many things in that kitchen grow legs. Anyhow, the drawer was even stickier than usual, and when I got it open I saw all this browny-red all over.” She hesitated, her dark eyes creasing with a combination of disgust and excitement. “Um, I didn’t know it was blood ’til I started to clean it up. There was a lot of dried blood. And you know where the joint on a drawer meets the front part?” Jasper and Hy both nodded, enrapt. “Well, there was some hair caught in there; red hair. At the time, I thought, why that hair looks just like Mr. Beauchamp’s hair, but I couldn’t think what his hair and all that blood would be doin’ all the way down in my kitchen.”

  CHAPTER 25

  The stain on the counter was still visible as a darkened shadow on the porous marble top. The drawer had been cleaned, of course, but the wood was stained a reddish-brown. It was clear that something fairly bloody must have sat on the marble and then dripped off into the drawer, which would have needed to be ajar to have caught any overflow.

  The stain, while interesting, wasn’t conclusive of anything—it could have been a bloody roast.

  But if what Miss Brannen said about the red hair was true, that was much more difficult to explain away.

  After thanking Miss Brannen for bringing the matter to their attention, they were making their way back to the other house when a hackney pulled up and disgorged a man in a uniform.

  “I reckon that’s our Captain Sanger,” Law said as they waited for the driver to hand down a valise.

  After paying the driver, the tall, broad-shouldered man picked up his bag and walked toward them, leaning heavily on a lovely ebony wood cane. He paused when he saw Jasper and Law.

  “G-G-Good afternoon,” Jasper said, holding out his hand in the American fashion, which necessitated the man having to put down his bag. “Are you by any ch-chance Captain Sanger?”

  The man’s pale blue eyes narrowed. “Yeah, who’s asking?” He took Jasper’s hand with the obligatory overly masculine, bone-grinding grip.

  “This is Detective Law, and I am Detective Inspector Li-Lightner. We are with the police.”

  Sanger snorted. “Which ones?”

  Jasper knew they deserved that question. He ignored it. “Welcome b-back. You’ve been gone some time.”

  “Right. And I’m eager to get upstairs. So, if you could tell me what this was about?”

  Jasper nodded at Law, who’d been the one to look into Sanger and his ship.

  “When did your ship get into port?” Law asked.

  “A couple days ago.”

  “But you’re just getting back home now?”

  Sanger frowned, looking from Law to Jasper. “Look, if you don’t tell me what’s going on—”

  “Have you r-r-read the newspaper since you’ve r-returned?” Jasper asked.

  “No, I was a bit busy. Coming home always means a lot of paperwork—a lot of work, period—and I barely even get a minute to eat there’s so much government foolishness to handle. This time was worse than usual since I’m stuck using this—” He held up his cane. “As if that wasn’t bad enough, one of our passengers died during the journey. We wired word back about the death, so when we arrived we had a hell of a time dealing with the family, their lawyers, and keeping the goddamned newsmen away from the story.”

  “A p-passenger died?” It seemed the Spirit of Freedom was not a healthy ship.

  “Yeah, an older woman choked on a fishbone at dinner.” Sanger grimaced. “Died right in the middle of the dining room. But that wasn’t enough to satisfy the family—at least not immediately—and they called in the health inspector to make sure the old woman didn’t contract anything on board my ship. She didn’t,” he added with a belligerent stare.

  So, nothing to investigate there.

  “But it took over forty-eight hours in quarantine, at anchor, to sort all the mess out. So we just got everyone off the ship this morning. All right?”

  “What happened to your l-leg?” Jasper asked.

  Sanger blinked at the change in direction. “I got bit by a dog when we were in Charleston.” He sighed. “Look, I’m tired. You need to—”

  A hackney pulled up into the space the other carriage had just vacated, and the door flew open. A man leapt out, his eyes bounced around the three of them, and he charged toward Law.

  “Tell me it’s not true, Detective.” He thrust a crumpled newspaper in Law’s face. “I want to see the body; somebody has made a terrible mistake.”

  “Take a step back,” Law growled down at the shorter man.

  Sanger grabbed the newcomer’s shoulder. “Christ, Powell—get hold of yourself.”

  So, this was Doctor Powell.

  Powell shrugged off Sanger’s arm with a violent twitch of his shoulders, his breathing frantic.

  “Doctor Powell,” Jasper said.

  Powell shoved the paper at Jasper. “You’re the duke’s son, aren’t you? Tell me this is a mistake.” Tears ran down his face, his jaw hanging open while he breathed in short, jerky gasps. “Oh God. Anita—what—”

  Sanger looked from the doctor to Jasper “Did something happen to Anita?” he demanded, sounding rather rattled himself.

  Well, this was interesting.

  “I’m afraid so,” Jasper said.

  “Jesus. It’s true,” Powell sobbed and then staggered up the walkway toward the house.

  “Christ,” Sanger said, glaring at Jasper. “What happened? Is she—”

  “Miss Fowler’s b-b-body was found floating around Pier 37 yesterday.”

  “Good God.” Sanger gawked at him. “My ship just docked at Pier 42.”

  Jasper knew that, too.

  Sanger frowned when they didn’t say anything, his gaze flickering between Jasper and Law. “Say, is that why you’re questioning me? You fellows don’t think that I—”

  “We don’t think anything yet, C-Captain Sanger.” Jasper turned to Law. “Why don’t you make sure Doctor Powell is all righ
t. Tell him I’ll b-be in to speak to him after Captain Sanger and I have a f-few words. Perhaps you might check in with Mrs. St-Stampler—tell her we’ve not forgotten them.”

  He could see Law knew what he wanted—none of them talking to each other until Jasper and Law could talk to them first.

  “Could I help you with your bag?” Jasper asked the visibly stunned captain once Law had gone.

  “No, I got it. Er, you want to talk to me now—right now?”

  “That would be b-best.”

  “Sure, sure. Just follow me.”

  Sanger’s apartment was across the landing from Miss Fowler’s.

  The captain fumbled with his keys a moment before unlocking the door. The room was sweltering, the air heavy and sluggish.

  “I’ll just open some windows.” Sanger dropped his bag beside the door and tossed his hat onto the nearby hat rack before limping over to the windows.

  “That must have been a bad d-d-dog bite.” Jasper removed his gloves and put them in his hat, setting both on the small table beside the door.

  “Yeah, a little dog—they’re the worst.”

  Sanger’s apartment was identical to Fowler’s, but much better furnished.

  “How lo-lo-long have you been away?” he asked, studying a charcoal drawing of a house—the sort of manor house Jasper associated with the islands in the Caribbean.

  Sanger shoved the last window open with a grunt and turned. “This trip takes about six and a half weeks. We have a lot of stops both ways.”

  “This is your usual r-route?”

  “Yeah, at least for the last eighteen months.”

  “So you were the captain on the r-run that left last December?”

  Sanger’s eyes narrowed. “Why are you asking?”

  “It’s an investigation, Captain; I’m investigating.”

  “Yeah, but why me?” When Jasper merely waited, the other man huffed out an annoyed sigh. “I was supposed to go in December but I got sick—you can ask Powell.” His lips flexed into an unpleasant smile. “I know you’ll ask, so I’ll just tell you—I was passing a stone.”

  Jasper grimaced. “Ah, very painful, I’ve heard.”