Crooked in His Ways

by S. M. Goodwin

  “Very.”

  “Does your ship carry c-cargo or people?”

  “Both, actually. We deliver manufactured goods and bring back rum, cigars, and workers from the West Indies.” He gestured to a couple of decanters on a tray. “You want one?”

  “N-No, thank you. “

  “Well, I need one.” Sanger poured two fingers of dark liquid in a glass, threw it back, and then poured another before slumping onto the settee. He snorted and shook his head. “I never expected to come back to this.”

  “T-Tell me about Miss Fowler.”

  “What do you mean?”

  Jasper cocked his head. “Come now, Captain.”

  Sanger sighed, his dark eyes flickering from his glass to Jasper. “Fine. You want me to tell you if I loved her? Or was I just playing around with her? Is that what you want me to talk about?”

  “If you like.”

  He tossed back his drink and then stared into his empty glass.

  The exotic, spicy scent of rum filled the humid, stultifying room.

  “How l-long have you lived here?” Jasper asked when the other man stared blankly.

  “You mean in this place?”

  Jasper nodded.

  Sanger laughed bitterly. “A little over a year.” He glanced in the direction of Frumkin’s house. “Have you talked to him yet about Anita?”

  “Him?” Jasper asked, even though he knew who Sanger meant.

  “Yeah, Beauchamp.” His face twisted into a sneer. “He’s the one who drove her to it.”

  “Drove her to what?”

  Sanger frowned. “Well, she killed herself—didn’t she? I mean, you said she drowned?”

  “Why would Mr. B-Beauchamp have driven her to suicide?”

  Sanger’s jaw moved back and forth, his gaze distant. And then his broad shoulders sagged. “Forget I said anything. I’m just—hell. This is a goddamned shame. Anita was a beautiful girl.” His eyes narrowed. “Yeah, she was younger than me, I know that,” he said, although Jasper hadn’t said a word.

  Sanger chewed his lip. “It’s not like I was looking for anything when I moved in here, just trying to keep my head down and do my job. I didn’t need anyone here—I already get plenty—” He looked at Jasper and shook his head. “I don’t know why I’m babbling. Jesus! It’s just such a shame.”

  “So you two were l-lovers?”

  Sanger scowled. “Don’t beat around the bush, pal.” Sanger gave a half-groan, half-sigh. “Yeah, we got together every now and then.” He cut Jasper a nervous look. “I’d appreciate it if you didn’t tell Powell that. The man was … well, besotted, I guess is a good word for it.”

  “He’s the jealous sort? You think he k-killed her?” Jasper asked, knowing the man meant nothing of the sort, but wanting to jar him into speaking without thinking so much.

  “What? No. I’m not saying that—Jesus. I never said that. It’s just, well, Powell is a romantic. Anita knew that and thought it was sweet. You saw the guy—he’s brokenhearted, isn’t he?”

  Jasper ignored the question. “She p-p-packed all her things—can you think where she m-might have been going?”

  Stanger’s eyes opened wide. “She was leaving?”

  “You s-sound surprised.”

  “Hell yeah, I am. She had a lease that—well, let’s just say that Beauchamp doesn’t go easy on people who—” He grimaced, although the expression seemed to be more for himself than Jasper. “I didn’t think that Beauchamp would have let her out of her lease.” He picked up his glass and raised it to his mouth before noticing it was empty. He stretched over to grab the bottle, sloshed in three fingers of rum, and raised it to his lips.

  He would be jug-bitten within the hour if he kept up such a pace.

  “Is it c-company policy to keep records of all items delivered to your ship?”

  Sanger looked confused by the change in topic. “Er, yeah, there should be a record of that. The purser handles that type of thing. Why?”

  “We know Mr. Beauchamp has been extorting money from you, C-Captain.”

  Stanger choked, and rum sprayed out of his mouth, misting his knees and the table in front of him. “What? I don’t know wh—”

  “You sm-sm-smuggled rum for him.” Jasper pointed to the bottle beside Stanger’s arm; he recognized it as the same type currently stacked in crates in the carriage house.

  “That fucking bastard!” Sanger’s nostrils flared, and his eyes went wide with rage and shock. “He ratted on me? After all the bloody money and all the—” He lost the power of speech, his hand tightening dangerously on the glass he’d forgotten he was holding.

  If Captain Sanger had killed Frumkin, he could have been the next Edmund Kean and should be on the stage.

  “Mr. Beauchamp is dead, C-Captain.”

  Sanger’s jaw sagged so low it was comical. “What?”

  “He was m-m-murdered.”

  He stared at Jasper. “Murdered.” He gave a disbelieving snort. And then his lips spread into a joyous smile. “There is some justice in this world.”

  CHAPTER 26

  “Both of them—just like dogs, sniffing around that girl,” Mrs. Stampler said, her long, narrow nose twitching a lot like the animals she was describing. She pursed her lips. “I don’t wish to speak ill of the dead.”

  But here it comes, Hy thought.

  “But that girl teased them all, kept them in knots—dancing to her tune.”

  “All? Who’s all?”

  “Sanger, Powell, and even Beauchamp, er, Frumkin.”

  She clucked her tongue and glanced at her grandson. Harold sat inhumanly still. His eyes were open, but it was difficult to see what he was looking at: Hy? The wall behind Hy? Hy’s poorly knotted necktie?

  Hy knew Lightner had wanted him to keep nosy Mrs. Stampler and her creepy grandson away from Powell, so he’d told the good doctor to take half an hour to get himself together and then he’d planted himself in the Stampler parlor.

  He was grateful Lightner hadn’t wanted him to sit with Powell; being around weeping men made him anxious. Maybe that made him an arsehole, but so be it.

  So instead, here he was, trapped with the Stamplers, which wasn’t much better. He’d asked the old woman if he could keep the door to the entryway open so he could hear Lightner when he was done talking to Sanger. Really, he wanted to make sure Powell didn’t bolt off somewhere.

  There was something damned suspicious about the doctor, and Hy didn’t think it was just his disgusting habit of stuffing dead things.

  Mrs. Stampler had made tea for the occasion, complete with a heaping plateful of her tasty lemon shortbread. Hy had already eaten half the plate and finished a cup of tea so weak you could barely taste it.

  He had no idea what Lightner wanted to ask the Stamplers, but the old lady’s comments about Anita Fowler gave him a good opening.

  “What did you think about Miss Fowler, Harold?” Hy kept the question casual.

  Mrs. Stampler made a noise like an angry chicken. “Why, Harold had no—”

  Hy glanced at the old woman, who—much to his surprise—shut her mouth. Maybe he was learning something from Lightner, after all.

  Harold swallowed. “She was, erm,” he muttered the last word under his breath.

  “What was that?” Hy asked.

  “Pretty!” The word shot out of Harold’s mouth like it had been fired from a cannon. His unnaturally pale cheeks had round red spots. He gave his now frowning grandmother a swift glance before adding, in a softer voice, “And nice. She was nice.” There was a hint of rebellion in his words.

  The old woman looked grimmer by the minute, and Hy reckoned Mrs. Stampler would comb her grandson’s hair once they were alone.

  “So, were you two friends, Harold?” Hy asked.

  Mrs. Stampler shifted in her chair but kept her mouth shut.

  All the color that had been building in Harold’s cheeks drained away and he gave a vigorous shake of his head. “No, not friends.”

  �
��Any idea of where she would have gone?”

  Harold shrugged.

  “No, none at all,” Mrs. Stampler said, even though Hy was still looking at her grandson. “I don’t know where her people were from.”

  “She wasn’t from here?”

  “No. She was from the South.” Mrs. Stampler’s eyes narrowed in thought. “Deep South if I was to guess.”

  “Harold?” Hy said.

  “Er, I don’t know.” His flushed cheeks, which had just begun to get back to their normal color, flared again: he was lying. Hy suspected that he didn’t want to say anything about Fowler in front of his grandmother.

  “Did you ever see Miss Fowler with either Captain Sanger or Doctor Powell?” He threw the question out to either of them, unsurprised when it was the old woman who answered.

  “All I’m saying is that I heard comings and goings at all times of the night.” Her mouth drew tight, like somebody pulled a cord. “I told Mr. Beauchamp about her unseemly behavior and he spoke to her, but she didn’t listen to anyone. She was a willful girl.”

  “Were there other men who came around?”

  Mrs. Stampler snorted. “Isn’t two enough?”

  “Were you both here last Christmas?” Hy asked, changing direction.

  Mrs. Stampler frowned. “Yes.”

  “Where are you from, ma’am?”

  “Virginia.” Her frown deepened. “Why?”

  “And how long have you been in New York?”

  “Is there some reason you’re asking me these questions?”

  “Standard procedure when there’s a death. And now that there’s been two—”

  “But the newspapers said it was an accident, that she drowned.”

  “Whereabouts in Virginia?” he asked.

  “Richmond.”

  “Ah, that’s right, you mentioned that the first time we spoke. Do you have family back in Virginia?”

  She hesitated, then shook her head. “No, it’s just Harold and I, now. Harold’s father died when he was just a baby and my daughter—Harold’s mother—died four years ago.”

  “My condolences.”

  “It was a merciful passing,” she said, somewhat mollified by Hy’s sympathy. “She’d been sick for many years—bed-bound.”

  “What made you decide to move to New York?”

  “Doctor Verringer’s Institute is here in New York City.” At Hy’s questioning look, she said, “He’s the world’s foremost authority on asthma and is known for galvanizing the pneumogastric nerve.”

  Hy stared.

  “Grandmother goes to see him twice every week,” Harold volunteered, his color back to normal now that Miss Fowler was no longer the topic of conversation.

  “And, er, how is that going?” Hy asked.

  “I’m afraid it hasn’t been as helpful as I’d hoped, but he has done all he can for me.”

  “Oh?”

  “Yes, the last round of treatments will be done at the end of the month. That was to be the end of our stay in New York.”

  “Just out of curiosity, how did you come to lease these rooms from Beauchamp? Did you see them advertised somewhere?” he asked Mrs. Stampler.

  Surprisingly, it was Harold who answered. “Doctor Powell told me about it.”

  “You knew him before moving in here?”

  “Yes, I met Doctor Powell at Elwood Learner’s shop. It’s a taxidermy supply store,” he explained at Hy’s questioning look. “I told him that grandmother and I had just come to New York and were seeking furnished lodgings.”

  Mrs. Stampler nodded. “You see, we’d initially planned to stay at a hotel just down the street from Doctor Verringer’s, but the hotel was dreadful. We were thrilled when Doctor Powell introduced us to Mr. Beauchamp—er, Frumkin—and he told us he had a ground floor apartment available.” Her face puckered. “I must say that regardless of what those newspapermen said about him, Mr. Beauchamp always treated us in a gentlemanly fashion. We’ve quite enjoyed our stay, and this is as cozy as home. We shall miss it when we leave.”

  “And you say you’re leaving at the end of this month?”

  “Yes, that is our plan.”

  “Will you return home?”

  “I want somewhere warmer.” She smiled at her grandson. “And Harold wants a greater variety of subjects for his work.”

  Hy was almost afraid to ask. “Oh?”

  Harold smiled, exhibiting large, slightly yellow teeth. “Biloxi.”

  Hy glanced down at his notebook, jotting down nonsense as he tried to remember where the hell Biloxi was—somewhere in the South, he knew, but—

  “Harold’s father’s people were from Mississippi, so it will be an opportunity to explore that side of his heritage.”

  “That’s a big move,” Hy said.

  Mrs. Stampler nodded and sighed. “It is, and I believe it will probably be my last.” She gave Harold a fond smile, but he was still staring at Hy.

  “I’m going to get an alligator.”

  Mrs. Stampler chuckled indulgently at her grandson’s strange pronouncement.

  Hy stared, confused. And then it hit him. “Oh, you mean to stuff?’

  Harold’s too-plump lips turned down at the corners. “Taxidermy.”

  Hy saw a flash of something in the other man’s opaque blue eyes, but it was there and gone too fast for him to guess what it meant. He was a strange bird, that was for sure.

  “Harold can be a stickler when it comes to proper terminology,” Mrs. Stampler said, once again chuckling.

  Harold made Hy’s flesh crawl. So did his fascination with stuffing dead things.

  “So, you’ll be leaving the city at the end of the month, then?”

  “Yes.”

  “And Beauchamp—er, Frumkin—knew that?”

  “Our lease was always on a month-to-month basis. If you’d like, I can show you my copy.”

  “Yes, if you wouldn’t mind,” Hy said.

  “Not at all. Harold, will you fetch my brown leather satchel?”

  Harold lumbered into the adjacent room, and Hy turned to Mrs. Stampler, “You saw Miss Fowler leave here the night she disappeared?”

  The old lady wrinkled her nose, as if Hy had just passed gas.

  “Oh. Well, no, I didn’t say that—I told Lord Jasper I saw her come home, but not leave.”

  “So how did you know she’d packed her bags?”

  Mrs. Stampler opened her mouth, but it was Harold, who must have been loitering around the door in the other room, who spoke. “I saw her. She had an argument.”

  “About what?”

  “Oh, Harold, you really shouldn’t—”

  Hy and Mrs. Stampler both spoke at the same time.

  “About what?” Hy repeated, ignoring the woman’s affronted look. “Harold, if you know something about Miss Fowler, you need to tell me. Everything,” he added.

  Harold stood as motionless as a frightened deer.

  Mrs. Stampler glared at Hy for a long moment before turning to her grandson. “You’d better tell the detective.”

  Harold swallowed. “Doctor Powell wanted her to stay—wanted to marry her. Miss Fowler told him no. She didn’t love him.” Something that looked like satisfaction flickered across his bland features. “The baby wasn’t his—”

  “Harold!” Mrs. Stampler’s pale, long-fingered hands clutched the bag her grandson had just given her “Harold, you—”

  Hy ignored her. “Miss Fowler said she was pregnant?”

  Harold nodded.

  “Hello?” a muted voice called from the hallway.

  “Oh, do come in, Doctor,” Mrs. Stampler said.

  Doctor Powell pushed the door open wider. “I’m ready now,” he said, looking dully from Hy to the Stamplers.

  Harold jumped up. “I’m sorry, Doctor Powell.”

  “Sorry for what, Harold?”

  Harold shifted from foot to foot, his gaze darting to his grandmother and then back. “I told about Miss Fowler and the baby.”

  Pain spa
smed across Powell’s face, but he forced a not very convincing smile. “It’s all right, Harold.” He patted the much taller man on the shoulder. “I was going to tell them. It was only a secret to protect Miss Fowler. There’s no need to keep it to myself any longer.”

  Harold’s huge shoulders slumped with relief. “Toby brought a new dog today, Doctor Powell. I put some ice on it. I’ve never seen a dog like it. It’s the most—”

  Powell raised his hand, his lips quivering as he tried to maintain his smile. “Not just now, Harold. But thank you for thinking of the ice. I’ve got more in my room, in my icebox. Why don’t you take it to the workshop and make sure the dog keeps until we can work on it?”

  Harold didn’t need to be told twice, moving fast to get out of the room.

  “Is Lord Lightner still in with Sanger?”

  Hy opened his mouth to tell the man he was using the wrong title—people always did—but then saw Powell was barely a step from crying.

  “He should be—”

  As if on cue, there was a light tread on the carpet-covered stairs and the squeak of wood.

  “S-Sorry to keep you waiting, Doctor,” Lightner said, coming to stand beside the smaller man.

  “You’re welcome to sit in here,” Mrs. Stampler offered. “I could bring more tea and—”

  Lightner opened his mouth, but Powell beat him to it. “I’d rather talk to the police in my own apartment, Mrs. Stampler.” He nodded at the Englishman and then went toward his rooms.

  “Would you j-j-join us please, Detective?”

  “Er, excuse me, ma’am,” Hy said to the old woman, who was looking as if somebody had just lowered the curtain on the stage in the middle of the play.

  “Would you care for something to drink?” Powell asked when they entered his parlor. He gestured to a small table with several bottles and fancy glasses.

  Right next to the liquor were two stuffed squirrels, one wearing a dress and the other dressed in a black suit and top hat.

  “Nothing for me, D-Doctor.” Lightner turned to Hy, a glint of amusement in his eyes as they flickered over the walls and flat surfaces, all of which were covered with stuffed critters.

  “Detective?” Powell offered.

  “Uh, no thank you,” Hy said, stepping away from an especially vicious-looking snake that Lightner bent to study. Hy thought it looked far more alive than any of the furred creatures.