Crooked in His Ways

by S. M. Goodwin

  “And then, to make matters worse, the Metropolitan Shipping Line, which had been sold earlier in ’56, just seemed to have one problem after another. There were firings, replacements, more confusion. Things just … got lost.” She shook her head. “Gordon had learned by then that unclaimed items were kept for four months and then the contents seized and sold to cover costs. So Gordon waited and waited, expecting word any day. But nobody ever got in touch with him.”

  “Because whoever opened the crate in New Orleans stole the wallet?” Hy guessed.

  Mrs. Stampler shrugged. “Stole it, lost it, threw it away, didn’t care—who knows? All we know for sure is that the police never got the card with Albert’s real name—or at least the one he’d used in New Orleans. All they had was the name Albert Beauchamp, a man with no connections in the city.” She tsk-tsked. “Just one muck-up after another. In any event, what does Albert do next? Why, he comes back here, to New York City.” She laughed again, waving the gun. “Even in death he was making our lives miserable. But you know what, Detective?”

  “Er, no.”

  “It turned out to be a blessing in disguise.”

  “Why is that?”

  “Albert’s damned will! We searched the house—but we couldn’t get into that safe. Yes, the will caused us a great deal of trouble—and it turned out to be a good thing we were still in New York when the will was finally found. Otherwise, we would have done all that work here for nothing. If not for that newspaper story we’d never have known that Albert had a daughter here.”

  Hy shook his head, sickened; somebody at the Eighth Precinct had blood on their hands for selling that information.

  “So,” he said, “you both decided to kill Miss Martello,”

  “Oh, you needn’t look so tragic about it, Detective,” the old woman chided, chuckling. “She was a miserable young woman who wanted to die—you should have heard her railing against her father. She hated the man. Hated life, really. She was still frozen in the past—angry for what Albert had done to her mother and her all those years ago.” Mrs. Stampler snorted. “She had nothing to complain about—she wasn’t burnt and crippled like poor Gordon, she was just a bitter, unhappy woman. She didn’t struggle or fight—I told her what to write, and she wrote it. Her passing was peaceful; not for a second did she put up a fuss.”

  “You did it?” Hy said.

  “You look so amazed, Detective. But then people are so easily fooled. They see a cane and think a person’s a cripple. What about Lord Jasper, there? He uses a cane, and he isn’t a cripple. Besides, I could hardly send Harold to finish her off—a handsome young man in a hen roost like that would have been noticed. Another old lady? Nobody cares or even notices. Miss Martello wasn’t a problem. But Miss Fowler, now,” she clucked her tongue. “That young woman was an entirely different kettle of fish. She was a scrapper—too much for me to handle—but I knew the deed had to be done quickly. I had to send poor Harold by himself to take care of that, but then we got another piece of luck—almost like the Lord was looking out for us—and Vogel killed her.”

  Hy’s brow furrowed. “Wait. Why did you want to kill Fowler?”

  “Oh, she knew something was wrong right from the night she found Frumkin’s body—and robbed him—but then returned to find the door locked. She was always looking and watching. Back in June, we got careless and she noticed that Harold had gone into the house, but then came out of the carriage house. When she confronted him about it, we knew she’d need to be dealt with eventually, but we didn’t want a murder investigation, so we admitted to finding a passage between the carriage house and our apartment and confessed to selling some of the smuggled goods ourselves. We told her that we’d give her a share of money to keep quiet. We kept wondering if she’d ever guess that a tunnel connected all three buildings, but it never seemed to occur to her.”

  “So that’s how you got Frumkin’s body out of his house that night. But if she didn’t know that, why did you want to kill her?”

  “We knew that once you and Lord Jasper came snooping about that she couldn’t be allowed to talk to you and let anything slip. Fortunately, she had her own reasons not wanting to talk to the police.

  “But we had to ensure her silence, so Harold followed her when she packed her bags and left. He trailed her from the hotel to one of the piers, where she was to leave the glove and pick up the money. But Vogel and two men got to her and—well, I’m sure you can imagine the rest. Harold decided to retrieve any money or valuables she might have left in her room at the Adelphia. He was wise to leave Albert’s jewelry, but the journals were a miraculous find. Lord, the things she wrote about us! Of course, not until we read her diary did we understand why Vogel killed her.” She laughed. “Quite a clever little baggage—but not clever enough. And so greedy! She’d not taken the glove with her when she went to the pier—as the letter Harold found in her luggage instructed her to do. Instead, she’d tucked the glove in her diary. No doubt planning to use it again in the future.”

  Harold had finished dressing and lowered himself slowly to his knees and started tying up Hy’s second leg.

  Once his legs were secure, Hy would be good and surely fucked. But if he kicked out at Harold now, the old lady had the gun and something told Hy she wouldn’t mind using it. And then there was Lightner. Hy might be able to run out of the cellar, but what about the Englishman? She’d likely shoot him or set the damned place on fire.

  This is the end of your life, Hieronymus.

  The voice was deep and godlike.

  He needed to do or say something …

  “If you burn us up in here it will get back to you, Mrs. Stampler.”

  She laughed at his pitiful bluff. “Oh, I don’t think so. Your Lord Jasper didn’t know a thing until he came today. He was staring at some piece of paper and I suspect he saw Harold’s handwriting.” She clucked her tongue. “Vanity on my part, that was, teaching the boys such copperplate handwriting. Doubtless you saw the letter to the lawyer? Another mistake. It wasn’t until later that we—”

  “Hello? Is anyone down there? The door was open.”

  Harold’s hands stilled and Mrs. Stampler’s gun arm swung toward the stairwell and the sound of Captain Sanger’s voice.

  It was now or never.

  Hy kicked Harold right in the jewels and yelled, “Help!”

  The old lady swung the gun back to Hy and pulled the trigger just as he used his free foot to tip the chair onto its side.

  Fire bit into his shoulder and his head banged against the stone floor, ringing his bell good.

  He saw something fly across the room and heard Mrs. Stampler scream.

  “Grandmother!”

  Hy twisted his head around in time to see Harold jump on a pair of writhing bodies.

  Feet thudded unevenly down the stairs.

  “She’s got a gun,” Hy yelled, assuming it was Sanger.

  “Not any m-m-more she doesn’t,” Lightner said in a breathless voice. “Harold—don’t move or I shall have to k-kick you again—bloody hell!” the Englishman yelled. “You stop b-biting right this m-m-minute, Mrs. Stampler, or I shall be forced to t-take measures.”

  Hy let his head fall to the floor with a thud and laughed.

  EPILOGUE

  July 18

  Jasper was reading about the riots that had gone on for the last few days in the Seventeenth Ward when there was a knock on the library door.

  “Detective Law to see you, my lord.”

  “Show him in.” He folded the paper and laid it aside.

  He’d not seen the other man since the imbroglio with the Stamplers.

  He smiled at Law. “You catch me having a lazy afternoon, Detective.”

  “I reckon you needed a bit of rest, sir.”

  Jasper gestured for him to have a seat. “Bring the d-d-detective a coffee and some of that—what was it c-called?”

  “Mrs. Freedman calls it buttermilk pie, sir.” Paisley cocked an eyebrow, his bland gaze fixed on J
asper.

  “Yes, yes,” Jasper said with a laugh. “I’ll have another p-p-piece as well—and some coffee.”

  “Very good, sir.”

  “I’ve never had a milk pie. Good, is it?” Law asked when the door shut behind Paisley.

  “That is far too tame a word for it. I t-tell you, the woman shan’t be satisfied until I’m too fat to f-f-fit out the door.”

  Law laughed. “There are worse things in life, I reckon.”

  “So, how is your sh-shoulder, Detective?”

  “It was just a scratch.” Law rolled his left shoulder, only wincing a little.

  It was more than a scratch, but Jasper knew better than to argue.

  “Believe it or not, my fingers hurt worse than the gunshot wound.”

  Jasper did believe it; a person didn’t realize how much they relied on their hands until they were damaged.

  “How’s your, er, head?” Law asked.

  “The doctor t-t-told me to quit hitting things with it.”

  Law grinned. “Did he charge you for that advice?”

  “Of course. He insisted I stay home one m-m-more week before returning to work. Who am I to disagree?”

  “Ah, playin’ hooky, eh, sir?”

  “Just so, Detective.” Jasper didn’t tell the other man that this had been the first time ever that he’d not argued about enforced rest—not while his vision had developed a disturbing tendency to double when he was doing nothing more strenuous than reading or sitting. He could not, in good conscience, go to work when he’d potentially be a hindrance in a dangerous situation. He would wait another week and reassess at that time.

  “So,” he said, changing the subject. “Anything of interest happen while I’ve b-been lounging about?”

  “I got called in by Walling to help over on Staten Island,” Law said.

  “Ah, yes—the arson at the new quarantine facility. Is it as b-bad as the papers say?”

  “Worse. Those oystermen burned most of the new construction down to the ground.” Law frowned. “It should never have happened—those men have been threatening to torch the place for ages. The police should have been prepared.”

  Jasper knew he was correct; there had been violent protests over the quarantine facility for years but they’d begun to come to a head with the expansion that was currently underway. The residents didn’t want to live next to thousands of people with life-threatening diseases.

  “Cap’n Walling said he’ll want your help when you come back,” Law said.

  Walling was the head of the Metropolitan Police. Although Jasper had never met him, he sympathized with the poor man, who’d inherited a riot-infested city and a fractured, unruly force.

  “Oh,” Law reached into his coat pocket and came out with an envelope. He pushed it across the table.

  “What is that?” Jasper asked, not reaching for it as he suspected he knew what it contained.

  “It’s your part of the Brinkley money.”

  “I did n-nothing on that case. T-Take it and split it with O’Malley.”

  Law frowned, his expression one Jasper hadn’t seen before: mulish. “I didn’t do nothing for it, either, sir.”

  “Well, then g-give it to O’Malley.”

  “Should I offer some to Davies?”

  Jasper snorted.

  “All right, sir,” Law said, unsuccessfully hiding his smile. “I’ll give it to O’Malley. But you know he’ll have something to say about it.”

  “I’m sure you c-can handle it. Did you hear anything from New Orleans?”

  “They arrested Gordon Dupuy. I thought they’d be eager to ship him up to us, just like they did Frumkin’s body, but it sounds like they’re dragging their heels.”

  “What d-does District Attorney Hall have to say about that?”

  “He said he’d file for extradition if they didn’t send him along willingly. We’ve got a strong case what with the conspiracy and all.”

  “And the Stamplers—er, Mrs. Chenier and Howard, that is?”

  “She’s still claimin’ it was all her and that the boys didn’t know anything.”

  That had been the old lady’s argument from the moment Jasper and Law had arrested them. Jasper was relieved the case was now in the hands of the district attorney. It would be a mess, complicated by the fact that one conspirator was over a thousand miles away, not to mention that Mrs. Chenier could be very convincing when she put her mind to it.

  “The good news is that we’ve pretty much returned everything in Frumkin’s black book to the owners. Oh, and Vogel’s butler came into the station—he had a telegram from Mrs. Vogel, from Halifax. She’s on her way to—”

  “Venice?” Jasper guessed.

  “Ah, so you did know where she went.”

  “It was only a guess.” Jasper was happy that she would be far away from the circus surrounding her husband’s death.

  “Featherstone made a deal with the DA over Vogel—he admitted to seeing Vogel kill Fowler in exchange for a reduced sentence.”

  Jasper frowned.

  “He’s gettin’ five years, sir,” Law said, reading his expression correctly.

  Jasper had tried, twice, to talk to the dirty copper about an old man—Jemmy Hart—who’d helped Jasper with his first case in New York and subsequently disappeared, but Featherstone had refused to see him, as was his right. Because there was no trace of Hart’s body, it was unlikely that Jasper would ever learn what happened to him.

  “You thinkin’ about poor old Jemmy, sir?”

  “Yes,” Jasper admitted. “I had—”

  The door to the library opened and Paisley stood in the open doorway, his eyes wide, his hands without any tray.

  “Yes?” Jasper asked.

  “It’s—well—” Paisley’s eyes slid to something in the hallway and widened.

  “I’ll not be kept standing out in the bloody corridor as if I was a dunning agent,” a very familiar—and unwanted—voice boomed.

  Jasper stood, his own eyes bulging when a stocky figure shoved past Paisley.

  “F-Father?” Jasper said stupidly.

  The Duke of Kersey glared up at him, red-faced from either heat, anger, or both. “Good Lord, Jasper—what the devil happened to your face?” he demanded, his piercing blue gaze darting from Jasper to Law, who’d stood and was staring at the duke as if he were an exotic animal that had just wandered into their midst.

  Which Jasper supposed he was.

  “What are you d-d-doing here?” Jasper asked, unable to come up with anything more intelligent to say.

  “Jasper, darling—you look dreadful.”

  “Mother?”

  The duchess entered in her husband’s wake. Beside her stood a young woman who looked strangely familiar.

  Jasper frowned. “Who—”

  “Hello, Jaz,” his brother said, appearing beside the stranger. “Aren’t you going to invite us in?”

  Crispin wore a smile, but Jasper saw the strain beneath it.

  He looked over Crispin’s shoulder, no longer surprised to see yet another face—this one belonging to Letitia, his brother’s wife.

  Her smile was as uncertain as her husband’s. “You look so surprised to see us, Jaz. Didn’t you get His Grace’s telegram?”

  Jasper turned to the duke, who—for the first time in Jasper’s life—looked uncomfortable.

  “No,” he said, his gaze flickering over his family, and settling on the stranger. “I’m s-s-sorry,” he said, “But I’m afraid I d-d-don’t recall your name?”

  Crispin put his arm around the young woman and guided her forward a step. “You’ll never believe it, Jaz. But this is Amelia.” Crispin cut their father an uncharacteristically grim look. “She’s alive, Jaz.”

  Jasper looked into eyes the same color and shape as his own. Her lips, thin, but shapely like their mother’s, flexed into a hesitant smile.

  “Jasper?” said the woman who was supposed to have died twenty years ago.

  Jasper sat down before
he fell down.

  “Well,” he heard himself say from a long way off, in a voice that didn’t sound the least like his. “I suppose we c-c-could all use some t-t-tea, Paisley.”

  Also available by S. M. Goodwin

  Lightner and Law Mysteries

  Absence of Mercy

  AUTHOR BIOGRAPHY

  S. M. Goodwin has worked as a bartender, college history professor, and criminal prosecutor. S.M. currently lives at 8,000 feet elevation in the Sangre de Cristo Mountains with a whole bunch of dogs, chickens, geese, ducks, and other critters.

  This is a work of fiction. All of the names, characters, organizations, places, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to real or actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2021 by Shantal LaViolette

  All rights reserved.

  Published in the United States by Crooked Lane Books, an imprint of The Quick Brown Fox & Company LLC.

  Crooked Lane Books and its logo are trademarks of The Quick Brown Fox & Company LLC.

  Library of Congress Catalog-in-Publication data available upon request.

  ISBN (hardcover): 978-1-64385-744-2

  ISBN (ebook): 978-1-64385-745-9

  Cover illustration by Karen Chandler

  Printed in the United States.

  www.crookedlanebooks.com

  Crooked Lane Books

  34 West 27th St., 10th Floor

  New York, NY 10001

  First Edition: September 2021

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