Law nodded and he and Lightner turned away.
“I’ve worked on these big sweeps in the past, sir. Frohike’s right—you bring in so many drunks it’s all but impossible to recall them, unless you happen to know one of them personally.” The detective’s sheepish look said that had happened to him on occasion.
Law sighed. “So, that was less than helpful for Doctor Powell,” he said as they headed for the line of hackneys waiting just across the street. Apparently business around the jail was a lucrative one.
“It certainly doesn’t g-give him an alibi.”
“I’ll come back tomorrow and talk to the two coppers,” Law said. “Maybe Powell will get lucky.”
“1811 Sullivan Street,” Jasper told the driver.
They settled into the battered old carriage and Law turned to him. “There’s somethin’ off about this.”
Jasper laughed. “Just one thing? I’m th-thinking more like a dozen somethings. But d-do go on,” he said.
“Why would Powell steal Martello’s tools and then leave them laying around?”
“It does seem unlikely,” Jasper said.
“You think somebody planted them?”
“Honestly, I d-don’t know what to think.”
“Harold uses the shop too.”
“We’ll ask him about the t-tools, as well.” Something—some elusive detail just out of sight—was bothering Jasper. The way his mind worked—or didn’t—after his injury, it was better that he try not to chase the memory or thought, and let it come to him.
Unfortunately, two new bodies added to the victim list didn’t make him feel as if he had a great deal of time to sit and ponder.
At the rate people who’d known Frumkin were dying, he couldn’t help wondering who would be next.
* * *
“Why, good evening, my lord, Detective.” Mrs. Stampler’s eyes lit up behind her thick spectacles.
Mrs. Stampler had answered the knock so quickly that Jasper assumed she’d seen them come up the drive.
“S-Sorry to bother you so n-near the dinner hour,” Jasper said. “But I was wondering if I might have a word with you and your gr-gr-grandson?”
Mrs. Stampler’s faded blue eyes went wide. “Is this about poor Doctor Powell? Why, you could have knocked us both down with a feather when we heard he’d been arrested for murdering that woman.” Her lips twisted sourly when she said that woman.
Jasper ignored her question. “Is Harold about?”
“Why yes, he’s in his room. He’s just devastated. He quite admires Doctor Powell, who has been such a friend to us since we came to New York. Poor Harold is so—” Her gaze flickered and both Jasper and Law turned to follow her stare. “Ah, there you are, my dear. His lordship and Detective Law have some questions for you. Are you feeling up to answering the gentlemen?”
Harold nodded, his dull blue eyes rimmed with red.
“Oh, that’s my good boy,” Mrs. Stampler cooed.
Harold didn’t appear to hear her, and she cast a somewhat worried glance at Jasper. “I think maybe some tea would be good.”
Jasper smiled and nodded, glad for a reason to get rid of her; she was too strong a personality and Harold tended to shrink into himself around her even at the best of times: this was not one of those times. “That sounds p-p-perfect—I’m afraid I missed my tea.”
The old woman wittered on about the dangers of missing meals and stumped toward the kitchen, leaning heavily on her cane.
“So, Harold,” Jasper began.
“Doctor Powell would never hurt Miss Fowler. He loved her.”
“Oh?”
Harold nodded vigorously. “He did. It didn’t matter that they argued, they were always friends the next day.”
Jasper knew they’d argued a lot because the diaries—which he’d only skimmed—mentioned their arguments often.
“What did they argue about?”
Harold shrugged.
“It’s all right if you overheard them. Perhaps what you heard might help Doctor Powell.”
Harold looked doubtful at that. “Just about living here. Miss Fowler wanted to leave, but Doctor Powell said it wasn’t the time.”
Jasper waited. “Anything else?” he asked when the younger man appeared to have become stuck.
“He said he loved her.” Harold’s cheeks darkened.
“What d-d-did she say?”
“She loved him, too.”
“Was that all she said?”
“No. She hated it here. She hated Mr. Beauchamp and wished he was dead.”
“What did D-Doctor Powell say?”
“He hated him, too.” He chewed his lip, cut a quick glance at Jasper, and then added. “He wished he was dead, too.”
“He said that?”
Harold nodded, his face twisted in misery.
“When is the l-last time you saw Miss Fowler?”
“The night she left.”
“Did you speak to her?”
“No, she didn’t see me. I saw her go—down the driveway. I wanted to help with her bags but—” He stopped and glanced through the doorway that his grandmother had gone through.
“Do you recall how many b-bags she had?”
He thought for a moment. “Four.”
“Four?” Jasper repeated, glancing at Law.
Harold nodded. “Two heavy bags, a small bag, and her reticule.”
“Ah.” Harold was the perfect witness: precise without offering too many details. “What about Doctor Powell?” Jasper asked.
Harold frowned. “What about him?”
“When did you last see him?”
Harold’s face crumpled. “When the police were taking him.”
“So, this morning.”
“Yes.”
“When did you see him before that?”
“Last night.” He hesitated and then blurted, “Grandmother said we should see if he was all right. We could hear him—something broke. I went over and knocked and knocked. Finally he came to the door but he was—”
“Yes? He was what, Harold?”
“Grandmother said he was drunk and should lie down. But he didn’t want to. He said we could work on the ugly dog, since the cat was going to be a while.”
“Ugly dog?” Jasper asked, just to keep him talking, rather than out of interest.
Harold visibly perked up. “Doctor Powell buys animals sometimes—if they’re in good condition. He doesn’t pay a lot, but people bring them because otherwise they’d get nothing. That’s how he got lots of other animals. So last night we worked on the dog. Well, he sat and mostly let me do it. He’d already scraped, gutted, and cleaned it so it was ready for shaping.” His gaze sharpened, his expression uncharacteristically lively. “He had this idea about using papier-mâché.”
“Oh?” Jasper prodded, glad to have the boy feeling more comfortable.
“Mm-hmm, but I can’t tell you too much about it because—if his experiment works—then he is going to write a paper about it. It could be revolutionary.”
“Ah,” Jasper said, not having a bloody clue what he was talking about.
Harold cut Jasper a nervous look. “He kept drinking and I had to carry him back in because, well, he couldn’t walk.”
“Does that happen often?”
“Working on the animals or the dr-drinking?”
“Either or b-both?”
“When he has a lot of projects and we work on them most nights. He always has a drink, but usually, well, usually I don’t have to carry him. Except lately.”
Jasper tried to untangle the garbled words. “L-Lately?”
Harold nodded.
“What nights this past w-week did you work with him?”
Harold was staring at the ceiling, his lips moving—as if counting—when his grandmother entered.
Jasper immediately stood and took the tray.
She beamed at him. “Why, what a gentleman. You can put it right there.” She pointed to a low table between the settee and t
he chairs.
Jasper waited until Mrs. Stampler sat before resuming his seat.
The old lady glanced from Jasper to her grandson. “It’s so quiet in here.”
“Harold was trying to recall which nights he’d sp-sp-spent working out in the shop with Doctor P-Powell.”
Mrs. Stampler began to fuss with the pot, chuckling. “Every night, I should think. I couldn’t believe he didn’t even want to go to the Battery to see the fireworks. I said to him, Harold, you can work on the animals anytime. The fireworks only come one time a year!” She looked up at Harold, who was staring at his hands while she rinsed out the pot.
“So, did you go?” Jasper asked.
“It was Doctor Powell who took us.” She turned to her grandson. “And weren’t you happy about that?”
Harold ignored her question and looked at Jasper. “I don’t care for fireworks,” he said coolly, giving his grandmother an almost hostile look.
But the old woman just smiled. “You got to work on your animals too. Don’t pout.” She shook her head at Jasper. “I swan, some nights I think Harold would sleep in the little shop if I didn’t go bring him back.”
“Monday, Wednesday, Thursday, Saturday, Sunday,” Harold suddenly proclaimed in an overloud voice.
“Those were the days you w-worked with him?” Jasper asked.
Harold nodded.
“But not Friday—when M-Miss Fowler left?”
Harold’s cheeks colored. “He went to the shop after Miss Fowler left. He didn’t ask me to go help, though, he just worked alone until he left.”
“What time did he l-l-leave?”
“At a quarter past eight,” Harold answered without hesitation.
“Do you r-r-recall when he got home?”
It was Mrs. Stampler who answered. “I wake up early—just after first light.” Her lips pursed disapprovingly. “I saw him come in after dawn. He looked as if he’d slept in his clothes.” She perked up. “But he was awake and aware enough to take us out on the Fourth.”
“When was that?”
“We left around seven, I suppose.” Her cheeks pinkened. “He took us for dinner, and then to watch the fireworks. Harold was restless, so we only stayed a quarter of an hour and left at ten forty-five, so we were home by eleven.”
“From the Battery?” Detective Law asked, his tone skeptical.
“Oh, goodness me, no. We didn’t venture into that mess. There was a much smaller display at St. John’s Park.” She sniffed disapprovingly. “It must have been a lovely area before those wretched tracks were laid. But the trains were not running that evening, of course.”
“What happened when you g-g-got back?”
“I worked with Doctor Powell until midnight.” Harold’s lips pressed into a frown.
“I ask that Harold is always back at midnight,” Mrs. Stampler said, explaining the reason for her grandson’s obvious displeasure.
“So that is the l-last time you saw him—midnight?”
Again, it was Mrs. Stampler who spoke. “I heard Harold get up at three o’clock and we had a discussion about him going to check on Doctor Powell. I said I didn’t think it was a good idea to pry.”
“So you didn’t g-go?” he asked Harold.
A sly look flickered in Harold’s dull blue eyes but was gone in an instant.
Mrs. Stampler took out the strainer and began to fill the cups. “Go ahead, Harold. I know you went.”
“I just wanted to make sure he was all right,” Harold said, appearing unperturbed at being caught. “But the door was locked and he didn’t open it when I knocked. I could see he’d fallen asleep with his head on the bench. I thought about knocking harder, but there was only the hanging lantern still burning so I didn’t think he would have to worry about fire—” he broke off and shrugged. “Well, I thought he’d be safe.”
“And, of course, he was,” Mrs. Stampler soothed, handing Jasper a cup. “Black, my lord?”
“Yes, thank you.” Jasper glanced down at the cup; the tea was so weak he could see the bottom of the cup.
“Biscuit?” She offered him a plate of shortbread.
“Thank you.” Jasper took two; the woman made superlative shortbread.
Law took three shortbreads to go with his own pale, milky tea and gave Jasper a sheepish look.
Jasper set down his cup and saucer and took out the photo of Vogel, handing it to the old lady. “Have you ever seen this man?”
“Oh, my—look, Harold—it’s that horrid man.” She handed Harold the photo. He studied it with a frown.
“How do you know him?”
“He was here—oh, when was that? Months and months ago.”
Jasper looked at Law, who was holding a piece of biscuit midway to his mouth, staring.
“Er, how many months ago?”
Mrs. Stampler took a sip of tea and seemed to enjoy it, so she took another. “Well, after Christmas, I suppose it—”
“Before Christmas,” Harold corrected.
Rather than look annoyed at the interruption, she just laughed. “Well, that’s my old memory for you—Harold is as sharp as a tack. I’d believe him before me.”
“Where d-did y-y-you see him?” Jasper’s stammer often became worse when he was excited. This certainly qualified.
“Why here—in the house,” the old lady said. “He was marching upstairs as if he owned the building. When I asked who he was looking for he told me to mind my own business!”
That sounded like Vogel.
“I thought about notifying the police, but when I looked outside I saw his carriage—it was rather magnificent, wasn’t it, Harold?”
Harold nodded, once again expressionless as he ate his shortbread.
“It was hardly the vehicle of a burglar,” Mrs. Stampler clarified, although Jasper hadn’t asked. “And besides, I heard him open and slam a door, so I assumed Mr. Beauchamp must have given him a key to that third floor room. It certainly wouldn’t have been the first time strangers went up there. I think I mentioned before there were often people—deliverymen, or to pick up crates, who came.” Jasper nodded. “I watched out the window, just in case, but he left without anything more than his hat.”
“Did you see him again?”
“Why yes, he was here on the Fourth. We were just going out with Doctor Powell when he barged in.”
“Vogel came here?” he asked, wanting to clarify.
“Oh, is that his name?”
Jasper nodded.
“Yes, he came here. He was just as abrupt and rude as the last time.” She pulled a face. “I recalled him immediately since he’d been so ugly.”
“Did you t-talk to him?”
“No. I told Doctor Powell that the man had a key, so we decided to let him be. Like I said, there were so many comings and goings, I couldn’t tell you how many. Men hauling large crates, although there haven’t been nearly as many since last Christ—” Mrs. Stampler’s already white skin turned even paler and she clutched the fine strand of pearls she always wore. “Oh no … those crates! You don’t think that is where poor Mr. Beauchamp was—” Her eyelids fluttered and she swayed in her chair.
Jasper and Law both jumped up. “Mrs. Stampler?” Jasper said, dropping to his haunches to look at her face. He glanced at Harold, who was hovering over the chair. “Do you have any sal volatile or—”
Harold darted off before he could finish, fumbling through the drawers on the small secretary desk against the wall before returning with a small crystal bottle, which he waved beneath the old lady’s nose.
Her head jerked up and she blinked rapidly, staring around her as if she were lost. “Oh, my lord,” she said, her skin flushing darker as her eyes focused on Jasper and Law, who’d both taken a few steps back to give the Stamplers room. “What a ninny you will think me. I’m terribly sorry.” Her chin quivered. “I read about the salt and the crate in the paper,” she said, her voice barely a whisper. “I can’t believe I never thought of that before.” Two tears squeezed out
of her hazy blue eyes. “How terrible. I’m not sure I’ll be able to sleep tonight.”
“We don’t believe anything happened with M-Mr. Frumkin upstairs,” Jasper fibbed.
“Oh, you don’t?” she asked weakly. “Why, thank goodness.”
“I’m terribly sorry to have d-d-disturbed you so near dinner. I believe that is all the questions we have.” Jasper glanced at Law, amused to note the other man looked as ready to bolt as he felt. Law shook his head. “So then, we’ll be on our w-way. Thank you both so much f-f-for your time and patience.”
Harold gave him a narrowed-eyed glare, justifiably displeased at him for upsetting his grandmother.
“Of course, of course,” Mrs. Stampler said, her manner vague.
“Thank you for the tea and lovely b-biscuits.” Jasper shut the door and neither of them spoke until they were out of the house and on their way to the street.
“Jaysus,” Law muttered. “Almost had ourselves a fourth body.”
Jasper bit his lip to keep from laughing. Really, it wasn’t funny—it was macabre. But then the macabre could often be humorous.
“Inspector!”
He turned to find Sanger limping unsteadily toward him; Jasper somehow suspected that not all of his instability was due to the dog bite.
“Glad I caught you,” Sanger said, stumbling a little before coming to a halt. “I talked to Tom Lansing.”
“Tom L-Lansing?”
“Yeah, the captain who took my place back in December when I was sick. You mentioned about the crate that—” Sanger paused and pulled a face. “Well, you know—the crate they found Frumkin’s body in?”
“You found out who d-d-delivered it?”
“Well, not exactly, but I learned it was delivered the day they sailed,” Sanger explained. “Lansing found four deliveries that day—all from different companies.” He fumbled in his coat pocket and then handed Jasper a folded slip of paper. “You’d have to check with them to see who delivered what.”
Jasper quickly surveyed the list, his eyes snagging on the bottom company. He handed the piece of paper to Law, whose ginger eyebrows shot almost to his hairline.
“Vogel Distribution is on that list,” he said to Sanger.
Sanger nodded, yawning and swaying from side-to-side. “Yeah, it’s the company that supplies all our beef and pork—owned by Vogel’s Fine Meats.”
Crooked in His Ways Page 27