Law whistled appreciatively, lowering the chair he’d been leaning back in with a thump and clapping. “Well done, O’Malley.”
“I c-concur, well done.”
O’Malley’s face threatened to catch fire.
“So,” Jasper said. “Where is, er, M-M-Mister Waggers?”
O’Malley’s face fell. “Well, that’s the thing, sir.”
Jasper patiently waited for the thing.
“They claimed Mister Waggers just up and died. They said they’d been feedin’ him better than they ate, but he died less than a day later.”
“Ah. W-Well, that’s unfortunate.”
“Wait,” Law said, glancing from O’Malley to Jasper. “Does this mean no reward?”
“I d-don’t recall,” Jasper confessed. “Didn’t I g-give you the letter from Mister Brinkley?”
“Yes, sir. Um, it doesn’t really say,” O’Malley said and then, for no apparent reason, blushed yet again. “Er, I talked to Miss Brinkley—this was before the arrest, sir.”
Jasper grinned. “Did you now? Quite p-p-pretty—and lively, too—isn’t she?”
O’Malley nodded, his blush spreading to the tips of his ears. His eyes slid to the open doorway. “I know Cap’n Davies didn’t want me goin’ over there, but I needed some information from Mr. Brinkley. He was out of town, but I talked to Miss Brinkley. I hope I didn’t do wrong.”
“You did exactly r-r-right, Patrolman. You are the policeman of r-record; it was your duty. So, what did M-Miss Brinkley say?”
“Well, she just said they wanted the truth about Mister Waggers. She said that she believed her father would give the reward even if something, er”—he opened his book and quickly flipped through the pages—“um, ‘even if something foul had befallen Mister Waggers,’ was her words.”
He bit back a smile. “So it seems you should g-go and let them know, Patrolman.”
Jasper recalled the rather mortifying conversation he’d had with Grace Brinkley that day—right after she’d told him about her father’s plans to acquire Jasper as a son-in-law.
“I can see you’re as taken with the idea of marriage as I was,” Miss Brinkley said when Jasper had just gaped like a landed trout.
He’d been mortified by his gauche behavior. “N-No, it’s not that. But … well, you are rather young.”
She’d given an enchanting gurgle of laughter. “Don’t worry, my lord, I don’t want to marry you, either.”
Jasper hadn’t known whether to be relieved or insulted. “You have a beau?” he guessed.
“No, not yet.” She’d spun her parasol, her expression contemplative. “You see, Papa wants the best for me—and, to his way of thinking, a man like him isn’t it. But Papa doesn’t understand that I lived too long in a mining camp to ever be a proper society lady.”
“Ah,” Jasper had said, comprehending. “You want a young man who will make his own way in the world.” Young being the operative word.
Her brilliant blue eyes had shone. “That’s it exactly. He doesn’t need to be a wealthy man—in fact, I’d rather not be forced to mix in society. I think I prefer the … rough and tumble sort.” She’d cut him a sly look. “And a bit young—like me,” she said, echoing his earlier words.
Jasper smiled as he recalled the conversation. He looked at the two rough and tumble young men across from him, an idea popping into his head.
“Er, Captain Davies w-w-wants Detective Law to accompany you to the Brinkley house, Patrolman.”
Law squinted at Jasper. “But I thought he said—”
“Since you don’t have the body, they’ll just have to t-t-take your word about Mister Waggers’s fate,” Jasper said, shaking his head at Law, who gave him a quizzical look but didn’t argue.
“Oh, there’s another thing,” Patrolman O’Malley said.
“Yes?”
“Well, the dognappers sold Mister Waggers’s body to a—” He again flipped through his book.
“A taxidermist?” Law asked.
Both Jasper and O’Malley turned to stare at him. O’Malley nodded. “Yeah, that’s the word. But how did you know?”
“Powell told me people sometimes brought him dead animals to stuff and that he’d pay a little for them—depending on the animal and condition.” He hesitated and then said, “What did the dog look like?”
O’Malley took the leather folding case out of his pocket and handed it to Law, who took it, and then hooted. “By God—that’s one of the dogs he had in his ice chest.”
“He kept an ice chest full of dogs?” O’Malley gasped. His flush had drained away, leaving him pale as a sheet of paper.
“Yep. But not just dogs. He had a cat and two ground squirrels waitin’ to be gutted and skinned.”
O’Malley looked positively bilious.
Law glanced at Jasper. “Should we go over an’ see if he’s workin’ on the dog? Or maybe it went bad while he was in lockup. I know when I was there he’d just sawed the head off a cat and—”
Jasper looked pointedly at O’Malley, who was gripping the doorframe. “Why don’t you both g-g-go and inform the Brinkleys of Mister Waggers’s, er, demise. Ask them if they w-w-wish for the body, if it can be located. Don’t tell them about the st-st-stuffer—yet. I shall take a trip over to Doctor Powell’s. There was s-something I wanted to take a look at in the c-carriage house.”
“Oh?” Law said, looking interested.
“The rivermen who found me mentioned how, years ago, their f-father used to run smuggled goods to a series of houses right in the m-m-middle of Manhattan—not even close to the water. They said there were t-tunnels between the houses and out-b-b-buildings. Apparently one of the houses used to belong to M-M-Mr. Vanderbilt. Given what we know about Fr-Frumkin’s pursuits, I’m curious to see if something of that sort exists between his house and the carriage h-house. Apparently, the smugglers would k-k-keep the goods in the tunnel in case of a raid, leaving the carriage house empty. I’ll see about M-Mister Waggers while I’m there,” he added.
* * *
Doctor Powell’s shed was locked when Jasper tried the handle. He peered in the tiny window but could see nothing other than an empty workbench.
“He’s not here.”
Jasper gave an undignified squawk before turning to find Harold Stampler. “Good Lord, Harold, you gave m-m-me a scare,” he said.
“Sorry.” He didn’t look sorry, but then Harold never looked anything in particular.
“Where is he?” Jasper asked, once his heart stopped racing.
“He went to stay with his sister in Albany.” Harold frowned. “He said he’s going to move there because there are too many memories here.”
Jasper could well believe that. “Do you h-have a key to his shed?”
“Shop,” Harold corrected.
Jasper smiled at the younger man’s pedantry. “S-Sorry, his shop?”
“No. He took everything out.” Harold frowned. “He didn’t even finish the animals we’d been working on.”
“Ah.” He nodded. Well, that was probably for the best, he supposed. He couldn’t imagine Brinkley being pleased to learn that somebody had stuffed Mister Waggers without his permission.
“Grandmother wants you to come to tea.”
Jasper was amused by the blurted, awkward invitation. He found both Stamplers odd, but he was glad for the invitation because he wanted to have a look in all the apartments in both houses Frumkin owned—as well as the carriage house—to search for any possible tunnel entrances. So this would be a good opportunity to have a look at the Stamplers’ apartment.
“I would be honored.”
“I’ll take you in through the front instead of the kitchen,” Harold said when Jasper headed for the closer back door to their apartment.
He didn’t offer any explanation, so Jasper followed him. The hallway between their unit and Powell’s was stacked with several packing crates.
“Are you l-leaving?” he asked Harold as the other man ushered him into th
eir lodgings.
“Yes.” Harold gestured to the chairs in the parlor. “Sit and I’ll get grandmother.” He lumbered off before Jasper could demur, which he now felt like doing. If he’d known they were in the middle of packing, he wouldn’t have barged in on them.
“Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes, my lord!” Mrs. Stampler stumped toward him and, for a moment, he was horrified that she might embrace him; Americans did appear to enjoy embracing one another. Fortunately, she caught herself at the last moment. “Harold and I were just beside ourselves with delight when we read that you’d come home.”
He’d only returned at three o’clock that morning. “G-Goodness. There’s a st-story out already?”
She riffled through the stacks of papers, letters, and other debris one associated with packing, and pulled out a special edition printed by the Herald. There, in shockingly large letters, Met’s English Copper Alive and Well!
“You see that? An edition just for you, my lord. Of course, you were front page news when you were missing, too. I’m sure everyone in the entire state knew about you.”
Except for the two rivermen who’d found him, apparently.
As mortified as he was to be the subject of such speculation, he hoped Paisley had saved a few papers. He’d send one to his father; the duke abhorred it when the Lightner surname made it into a newspaper.
“Th-Thank you for your concern,” he murmured. “I’m afraid I d-didn’t know you were in the m-middle of packing. I really shouldn’t—”
She waved aside his protests. “I already have the kettle on. We’ve been slaving all morning and afternoon. Haven’t we, Harold?”
“Yes.”
So Jasper sat.
“You could have knocked me over with a feather when I read about that nasty Vogel fellow,” Mrs. Stampler said, settling into her chair. “And the papers said they found him in pieces. Seems like justice considering what he did to poor Mr. Beauchamp—well, I guess his name is Frumkin, that’s right,” she nodded to herself and then turned to her grandson. “You go fetch the tea, Harold.”
Harold moved off toward the kitchen with his eerily soundless tread.
“I see you have quite a knot on your poor forehead, my lord. How are you feeling?”
“I’m quite recovered,” he lied. He was bloody exhausted and looking forward to going home once he took a look around—which reminded him.
“I have a r-r-rather bizarre question,” he said, as Mrs. Stampler turned her attention to the myriad papers on the coffee table and stacked them, clearing a place for the tea tray, he presumed. “Is there b-by any chance a trapdoor or cellar door anywhere in your apartment? It might be locked?”
She looked up. “A locked trapdoor?”
“Yes, I’ve r-r-recently learned some houses in Manhattan have tunnels between the house and c-c-carriage house. Apparently they were built for sm-smuggling.”
“Between our apartment and the carriage house?”
He smiled at her obvious confusion. “It might or might n-not exist.”
“Oh, goodness me. A tunnel? No,” she shook her head. “Why, I’ve never even heard of such a thing. What gave you that idea?”
“It was j-just something the rivermen who rescued me said.”
Her eyes popped. “They said Mr. Frumkin might have a tunnel to his carriage house?”
Jasper laughed. “No, no, just that sm-sm-smugglers sometimes built houses with tunnels.”
“Ah,” she said, nodding in comprehension. “That makes sense given all the illegal goods in the carriage house.” She gave him a stern look. “And he always seemed like such a nice man.”
Jasper thought Mrs. Stampler must be the only person who’d ever thought so kindly of the extortionist.
“After I enjoy some tea and—dare I hope—some of your delicious shortbread, might I p-p-poke around your apartment before I go search the c-carriage house.”
She bestowed a gracious smile on him. “Of course I have shortbread. And you are more than welcome to look wherever you like.”
Harold approached with the tea tray, and Jasper reached for the papers Mrs. Stampler was still holding. “Here, where shall I p-put them for you?”
“Oh, you’re such a gentleman,” she said. “Over there.” She pointed to the opposite wall. “On that bureau will be fine.”
Jasper navigated the piles and boxes. Just as he was about to put the stack down a piece of paper fluttered to the floor. He bent to pick it up, glancing at it. And then looked again; the handwriting on the letter was quite singular.
“Is something the matter, my lord?” Mrs. Stampler asked.
“Er, no, nothing the matter.” He quickly looked at the rest of the page, which was nothing but some sort of list of tools and such. “I believe this m-might be your p-packing list.” His eyes settled on a line toward the bottom of the list: Salve for Gordon.
Gordon?
Now where had he heard that name recently?
For the second time in almost as many days, pain exploded like fireworks inside his skull.
The last thing he heard was, “Catch him, dear—we don’t want him falling on the lamp.”
CHAPTER 43
Hy couldn’t stop grinning as he made his way toward Sullivan Street.
When Lightner had described Miss Brinkley as beautiful, he’d neglected to mention that special light that seemed to shine out of her sparkling blue eyes.
Listen to you: sparkling blue eyes.
Hy’s face heated, even though nobody could hear his foolish thoughts.
Besides, what was wrong about being taken with a beautiful, spunky girl?
You mean other than the fact that she’s the daughter of one of the richest men in the country?
Hy grimaced. Well, there was that.
“Where is Lord Jasper?” Brinkley had demanded when Hy and O’Malley were brought before him. He’d pounded his huge fist on his fancy desk. “I distinctly told your captain I wanted Lord Jasper on this case. I know he’s back.” He waved a copy of the special edition Hy and O’Malley had seen on their way from the station to Brinkley’s mansion.
Brinkley was an old man, but he had the sort of fierce presence that made him appear dangerous—a lot like Vogel, in fact. Hy wondered if all self-made men were like that.
“Er, he’s back, that’s true, sir, but he’s, um, well, he’s doing too poorly to be out and about just yet.”
Hy had felt O’Malley startle at his barefaced lie and hoped the younger man knew enough to keep his mouth shut.
Fortunately, the door to Brinkley’s office had opened just then.
“Oh, Papa,” a voice had said from behind them. “Are you terrorizing these poor policemen?”
Hy had turned to find the most beautiful woman he’d seen in his entire life approaching him, her small hand outstretched.
“Hello, I haven’t met you yet. I’m Grace Brinkley.”
“Det—” He’d cleared his throat. “Detective Hieronymus Law.”
She’d grinned, her eyes twinkling as if he’d said something funny, her small hand still gripping his tightly. “Hieronymus. Why, what a lovely name.”
“Now, Gracie,” Mr. Brinkley said in a harassed-sounding voice that had pulled Hy’s attention away from the angel in front of him. “Don’t be teasin’ these poor men.”
Miss Brinkley had finally—unfortunately—released his hand and gone to her father, stopping beside the intimidating man and squeezing his shoulder. “Lord Jasper doesn’t need to be here, Papa. These two gentlemen have worked hard—and they’ve found out what happened to Mister Waggers.”
Hy opened his mouth to point out—rightfully—that it had been all O’Malley, but Miss Brinkley wasn’t finished.
“Go ahead and tell him, Patrolman.” She’d spoken to O’Malley, but she’d been smiling and gazing at Hy—poor, scruffy Hieronymus Law.
And if that hadn’t been enough—after Mr. Brinkley had listened to O’Malley’s story and written them a $500 cheque, as co
ol as you please—Miss Brinkley had walked them to the door—the front door this time, not the servants’ entrance, which was the door they’d come in.
She’d chattered at them the whole way.
O’Malley had been too stunned to speak, his gaze fastened to the check he held tightly with both hands, as if somebody might snatch it away.
Hy was older and wiser and should have done better holding up his end of the conversation with Miss Brinkley, but it grieved him to recall what a lump he’d been in her presence.
The truth was, he’d never spoken to a woman who was both so pretty and so rich.
The house was even fancier than Inspector Lightner’s—and he didn’t know how many times bigger. He was ashamed to admit that the house, Miss Brinkley, and being glared at by her father—as if the old man could see right into his brain, and the thoughts Hy was having about his daughter—had cowed him.
He still couldn’t get his mind around the last thing she’d said, at the front door.
O’Malley had already barreled down the steps, still staring like a yokel at the check.
Hy, meanwhile, had done his own yokel impression with Miss Brinkley.
He knew it had to have been his imagination, but he would swear that she’d almost glowed as she stood there in her pink dress in front of the big wood and glass door.
She’d scattered his wits even worse by offering her bare hand, yet again.
“You have such big hands, Detective Law.”
His jaw had threatened to come unhinged. When he’d been unable to respond, she’d merely smiled.
“I do hope you’ll come back if you find out anything else about poor Mister Waggers—anything at all, no matter how trivial.” She’d cocked her head and squeezed his hand tightly.
“Er, um, yeah.”
Her smile had been radiant—as if he’d said the cleverest thing she’d ever heard instead of sounding like a dolt. “Papa would so like to give him a decent burial.” She’d released him then, which served to wake him from his stupor.
“Of course, ma’am.” He’d tipped his hat, flushing with pleasure at the thought of delivering the dog to her and making her smile like that again.
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