Absence of Mercy

by S. M. Goodwin

  “You speak all those languages?”

  Lightner crouched down at eye level with the girl. He gently tilted her face to the light. “I think they’ve g-given her laudanum.”

  “I reckon she’s no older than twelve and maybe as young as nine.”

  The girl reached for the silver handle on the Englishman’s cane, which Hy saw was studded with small—likely precious—blue stones.

  “You like that?” Lightner asked, his smile the most genuine one Hy had yet seen. “Why d-don’t you keep it safe f-for me?” He handed her the cane, and she took it in both hands while he stood slowly before meeting Hy’s gaze. “What are your p-plans for Madam Solange?”

  “I thought a few days in lockup might calm her some.”

  Hy saw amusement in his eyes. “Assaulting a p-police officer?”

  “Aye, sounds about right.”

  “It will also give us some t-time to deal with the g-girl. How goes the s-search of the building—anything?”

  “Nothin’ here but her.” The girl was turning the cane around so that the stones caught the gaslight from the wall sconce. “We talked to everyone who was here the other night, and it seems Solange told the truth—at least about Janssen not making it here.”

  Lightner looked down at the girl. “Do you have a p-place to take her?”

  “I don’t think she should stay in the city, or Solange’ll find her.”

  The Englishman nodded. “Are you f-finished here?”

  “Aye, mostly.”

  “I’d like you to find Mr. B-Baker.”

  Hy grinned. “I’d like that too, sir.”

  “Send word if you get him. If I don’t see you again t-tonight, then meet me at my hotel in the morning.” Lightner extended his hand to the girl, who took it without hesitation, a trusting action that felt like a boot in Hy’s gut because he suspected she’d been just as trusting with Solange.

  “Where you takin’ her, sir?”

  “Somewhere safe. It’s my g-guess that when M-Madam Solange stops shouting, she’ll c-claim we’ve abducted her young r-relative. I w-wouldn’t be surprised if w-we were ordered to return her.”

  Hy thought the same thing. Whatever the nasty bitch had paid for the pretty little girl, she doubtless wanted it back.

  “I think it’s b-better if you don’t know where I’m t-taking her,” Lightner added. “That way M-M-Madam and her powerful friends can’t have you thrown in jail if you refuse to t-tell.”

  “But what if they throw you in jail?”

  Lightner’s smile made Hy shiver. “Oh, D-Detective, I certainly hope they t-t-try.”

  CHAPTER 16

  It was just past six o’clock when Jasper’s hackney rolled to a stop in front of Mrs. Dunbarton’s house. He looked from the stone mansion to the girl, who’d fallen asleep on the bench seat across from him. Jasper wasn’t surprised she didn’t wake; she was in the arms of Morpheus, a state Jasper knew all too well.

  He climbed from the carriage and closed the door quietly. “Stay here,” he told the driver, narrowing his eyes. “Do not m-move an inch.”

  “Aye, sir. I ain’t goin’ nowhere.”

  It was likely that Mrs. Dunbarton was doing what socialites all over the city were doing—preparing for an evening out—but she was his best hope.

  The man who opened the door was dressed in the clothing of a butler, but his demeanor was more like a soldier’s as he gave Jasper a cool foot-to-head inspection.

  “May I help you?”

  Ah, a fellow Englishman. Jasper gave him a card, and the man’s expression did not so much as flicker.

  “I need to speak to Mrs. Dunbarton r-rather urgently.”

  He’d expected resistance—given the odd hour—but the butler took a step back and motioned Jasper into a large, cool foyer.

  Jasper glanced back toward the street at the driver, who was sitting on the box seat and staring into space. “I’ve l-left somebody in the cab—a child—c-could you have a servant go wait b-beside it, just in case she wakes?”

  The butler exhibited not even a twitch at such an odd request. He turned and snapped his fingers. The footman who answered the abrupt summons was a monster of a man—likely one of the two Mrs. Dunbarton had mentioned yesterday. Jasper couldn’t help noticing that the man’s livery was gray and navy blue.

  The butler led Jasper to a sitting room. “Please have a seat.”

  The room was almost aggressively free of knickknacks and clutter. That didn’t surprise him; Jasper had a difficult time imagining Mrs. Dunbarton collecting thimbles or dolls.

  He’d just gone to look at the prospect out the east-facing window when the door opened and Mrs. Dunbarton strode in. The woman must have been roosting somewhere in the foyer to have gotten there so quickly.

  “I thought Cates must have been mistaken when he told me Lord Jasper Lightner was in my sitting room.” She was dressed in the same clothing she’d worn earlier. “You’ve come for the list?”

  Jasper frowned. “I b-beg your pardon?”

  “The list of donors?”

  “Oh. N-No, not exactly.”

  She cocked her head, her expression curious.

  “This is c-certainly the m-m-most unusual c-call I’ve ever made on a lady.” Lord, how he wished he wouldn’t have a fit of the stutters in front of this woman.

  “I feel honored.”

  “I h-hope you will continue to d-do so. I’ve brought you a y-y-young girl.” He grimaced. “That is n-not how it sounds.”

  “Please, do go on.”

  She put Jasper in mind of a small bird—the sort you might dismiss at first glance but would later realize was quite taking. Perhaps a coal tit, or some equally bright-eyed little creature.

  “I t-took her from a b-brothel. She was to be s-s-s—”

  “I understand.” One moment she was a sweet little bird; the next she was one of the Erinyes. “And you brought her to me.” Her tone was flat, almost detached.

  “She n-needs to get out of the city. Quickly. You’re the only p-person I could think of who might be able to help. If you c-cannot, perhaps you might steer m-me toward somebody who can?”

  She studied him in a way that brought back a long-buried memory of one of the tutors his father had employed to break Jasper of his stammer. Mr. Devlin had been ancient—or so he’d seemed to a seven- or eight-year-old Jasper—and when he’d looked at him, Jasper had felt as though the old man were looking into him.

  That was the way Mrs. Dunbarton was staring, as if she could see his inner workings. He felt … exposed.

  Who knew you could be such a fanciful idiot, Jasper?

  He opened his mouth to apologize for intruding on her evening when she did something he’d not yet seen her do: she smiled.

  “You’ve brought her to exactly the right place, my lord.”

  * * *

  Mrs. Dunbarton was able to discern the girl’s name using a series of gestures.

  She was called Agota, she was twelve years old, and she came from Budapest. The gestures were not accurate enough to determine how long she’d been in New York, but Jasper and Mrs. Dunbarton did learn she’d come with her mother. Her crying indicated that something bad had happened and that they’d been separated or her parent was dead. The girl shivered when the name Solange was uttered. There were finger-shaped bruises on her arms, and Jasper assumed she’d fought her captors and that was when she’d been drugged.

  Mrs. Dunbarton herself took the little girl up to bed, after instructing her butler, Cates, to escort Jasper to the dining room. When he’d tried to protest, she’d mocked him.

  “Why, Lord Jasper, do you mistake me for a debutante? Are you concerned with despoiling my reputation? Or are you just stodgy? I’m a widow, sir, and have earned my right to dine with whomever I please in my own house.” Her thin lips had twisted into her standard smirk. “Or perhaps you don’t wish to dine with me? Perhaps you have other, more pleasurable plans?”

  Well. What could a man say to that?
<
br />   “In the interest of n-not appearing st-stodgy, I accept your kind invitation.”

  The dining room, like the other parts of the house he’d seen, was uncluttered and tasteful, the furniture chosen for comfort rather than fashion. There were decanters on the sideboard, and Jasper enjoyed a whiskey while inspecting the large painting over the dormant hearth. It was a seascape—a Turner, he believed, although he was no art critic—that depicted the ocean either during or right after a storm.

  Like the woman who owned it, it was not the sort of image that soothed. As he studied the tempestuous sky, he wondered what he was doing there.

  Dining alone with widows is nothing new for you, old chap.

  That was true; Jasper disported himself exclusively with widows. Though somehow he doubted Mrs. Dunbarton was interested in the sort of disporting he generally got up to. Jasper couldn’t help smiling at the ridiculous thought; he couldn’t recall the last time a woman had taken a dislike to him the way Mrs. Dunbarton had. Although she appeared to be thawing toward him—somewhat—since he’d brought the girl.

  Even so, he couldn’t picture this evening ending the way his dinners with widows usually ended: naked, sweaty, and satiated.

  Jasper wasn’t sure if that thought disappointed him or not.

  Sometimes I think you lost more in the Crimea than mere blood and bone, Jasper.

  Perhaps he had, or perhaps those few moments in what Tennyson had aptly called “the valley of Death” had simply put life into its proper perspective. Jasper knew—and was bloody thankful—that he’d never feel so alive again. He’d felt every nerve in his body that day. Sometimes he thought he’d used up a lifetime of emotion on that seven-minute journey through hell.

  The door opened behind him, and he turned.

  “She fell asleep almost as soon as her head hit the pillow.”

  He lifted his glass. “Would you like a d-drink?”

  “Yes, please—the one in the tall decanter.”

  Jasper poured her a glass of what looked to be sherry.

  “Do you think Agota will suffer negative effects without any opiate in her system?”

  “Tomorrow you m-m-might put just a few d-drops of laudanum in some water if she exhibits agitation, nausea, or nervousness.”

  “You sound as if you speak from experience.”

  Jasper had to laugh. “Is there anything you w-wouldn’t ask a person?”

  “Very little,” she admitted. “That is why I’m dining alone with you this evening.”

  “Well. I h-hope that is a lesson to you.”

  It was her turn to laugh.

  The door opened again, and servants bearing trays streamed into the room.

  “I hope you don’t mind eating unfashionably early, but I’m afraid I can’t abide dining at midnight.”

  “I’m f-famished,” he said, not untruthfully.

  “This will be a humble repast compared to what you’re probably accustomed to,” she said, as the first course—a mere nine or ten serving dishes—was arranged on the table. “And I don’t like to be bothered by hovering servants, so you shall have to serve yourself. I hope that is not a problem?”

  Jasper smiled. “If I b-become confused, I’m sure you c-can instruct me.”

  “I cannot imagine a situation in which you require my instruction, my lord.” She motioned for the footman to move a dish nearer Jasper. “You must try some of the larded oysters; they are my cook’s specialty.”

  The door shut behind the last servant. “Go on, my lord, I know you want to talk about your case.” She put a sizable dollop of creamed parsnips on her plate while Jasper helped himself to oysters.

  “I n-never discuss work over a meal,” he lied. “Tell me about your work.”

  “Let us leave work behind us,” she countered, adding a poached fillet to her plate. “You already know a good deal about me: I was a failure as a debutante, I asked a man to marry me, and I’m a callous widow who doesn’t abide by the norms of mourning. What about you, my lord? I understand you are a wealthy man, and yet you work? And how is it that you’ve managed to escape the matrimonial noose? How old are you?”

  He swallowed his mouthful of oyster. “This is d-delicious,” he prevaricated, taking a sip of wine.

  “Cook won’t tell anyone what spices she uses, but I’ve determined that it is sheep lard that gives the dish its distinctive character. Did you really want to know? Or are you simply avoiding my impertinent questions?”

  “Yes, with g-great care, and thirty-four.”

  “I’m not sure you will be so successful at remaining a bachelor if you remain in New York. You must be aware of the American obsession with the English aristocracy.”

  “An obsession you’ve m-managed to avoid.”

  “Well, not entirely.”

  Jasper’s eyebrows shot up.

  “Here I am, dining with you, after all.” She smiled, looking like a mischievous little girl bent on tormenting some unfortunate little boy. “I must admit I’m looking forward to all the heartache this meal will cause when word gets out. In fact, I may put an advert in the New-York Daily Times. I can almost hear Caroline Astor’s howls when she learns I’ve gotten the jump on her.” She laughed. “Just think, my lord! A simple dinner might spark another spate of murders—my life might be in danger. Would you investigate?”

  “I w-would insist on it,” he said, smiling.

  “Tell me,” she said, raising another loaded fork to her mouth. “How is it that you came to be a policeman?”

  “I went to school in P-Paris and became acquainted with the g-gentleman credited with forming the S-Sûreté. When I returned from the Crimea, Sir Richard Mayne heard of the c-c-connection and invited me to join the Detective D-Department of the Metropolitan P-Police in an instructional capacity.” As usual, he left out the part about the home secretary and his initial, sensitive investigation in Paris.

  “What did you study?”

  “Medicine.”

  “You are a doctor?” For once, she didn’t look mocking.

  “I l-left school before my studies were c-complete.”

  “Even so, that must be useful in your work?”

  “It c-can be.”

  “Tell, me,” she said, hopping to another topic. “Did you happen to meet Miss Nightingale during the war?”

  It was a question he got often. “W-We did not meet in Scutari, but my father and W. E. N. have always h-hunted together, although their p-politics could not be more d-different. As a child I went to Embley P-Park several times. Florence and Parthenope are a few years my senior and viewed me and my b-brother as pests. Are y-you an admirer?”

  “I admire her industry but find much of her writing harsh when it comes to the feminine sex. How many siblings do you have?”

  Jasper hesitated, as he always did when it came to this question. “J-Just my elder brother.”

  “You don’t sound sure.”

  Jasper laughed.

  “I’m sorry—I’m terribly rude, I know.”

  Jasper didn’t think she sounded sorry. “I had a sister—f-far younger—but she died when I was f-fifteen.”

  Her mocking expression disappeared. “I’m sorry.”

  Jasper was too, even though he’d hardly known Amelia. Not only had she been over a decade younger, but he’d been away at school for most of her short life.

  “Are you close to your brother? Or do you envy him his position as heir?”

  “We are close, and n-n-no, I’ve never wanted what my b-brother has.” Leticia’s face flickered through his mind, her image as insubstantial as mist.

  Mrs. Dunbarton picked up her wineglass, which Jasper noticed was—surprisingly—empty. He stood and fetched the bottle, lifting it questioningly.

  “Please.” Her eyes roamed his body in a bold fashion that made him wonder if she really needed more alcohol. But she was no child, so he filled her glass.

  “D-Do you have siblings?” he asked once he was seated.

  “No, muc
h to my father’s displeasure. I am his only child by marriage, but he has seven sons and daughters with his mistress.”

  The same thing happened in England, but gently bred females didn’t mention it at the dinner table. Jasper looked up from his thoughts to see her take a sip from her glass; she had an anticipatory glint in her eyes, and he realized that she enjoyed baiting him and he’d risen to it every time.

  Bested by a mere girl.

  He could not deny it; she was a force of nature.

  Nor could he deny that he found her company increasingly enjoyable.

  CHAPTER 17

  Hy shifted from foot to foot in the foyer, nervously examining his surroundings.

  First off, the hotel room had its very own foyer. Who needed a foyer in their hotel room? He’d stayed in two hotels—inns, really—on his only two journeys out of New York City. Neither one had had a foyer.

  In fact, he couldn’t recall having ever seen a foyer before. He wasn’t sure if he’d even known the word existed before Lightner’s servant told him to “wait in the foyer.”

  He knew he’d never seen a servant who carried himself with so much dignity. More starched up than Lightner, that was for sure. And prouder looking than the president of the United States. Hy knew that for a fact, since he’d seen the last president—Mr. Pierce—several years ago when he’d come through New York; the man had looked like a bootblack compared to Lightner’s servant.

  Hy pulled out his watch; it was a quarter past four—he’d been standing in the foyer ten minutes and had left the scene almost half an hour ago. He hoped to God that O’Malley had kept prying eyes at bay. He’d have taken the body to Bellevue, but he knew Lightner would want to see the scene, with the body as it was found.

  “Detective.”

  Hy about jumped out of his skin at the sound of the crisp voice.

  “His Lordship will be ready to leave in a quarter of an hour.” The servant was dressed now, looking twice as intimidating as he had wearing his robe and sleeping cap—which should have diminished his dignity but hadn’t.