Both Dell and the mayor appeared startled by the old man’s shocking pronouncement, but Symington either didn’t notice or didn’t care.
“It’s my opinion that Stephen’s carousing finally caught up with him. If a man consorts with degenerates, he should expect such an ending. In short, he lay down with dogs and came away with fleas.”
Jasper wasn’t sure if that proverb really applied to this situation, but he took it in the spirit it was intended.
He was out of questions, but it seemed a shame not to poke the nest a bit. “Was the l-last suspected murderer—the p-prostitute who committed suicide—from Horgan’s?”
“No,” Wood said. “She was from an even worse pesthole, Molly O’Reilly’s.”
“Is that shut d-down as well?”
Wood’s eyes swiveled to Dell, who—for the first time—wore an uncomfortable expression.
“What the hell difference does that make?” Symington asked.
“None at all,” Jasper admitted.
Dell and Symington frowned at him, their bemused expressions like matching bookends.
“Then why the devil did you ask it?” Symington asked.
“It is my j-job to ask questions,” Jasper reminded him gently.
“Well, I’m done answering them.”
“Well then,” Wood said after a long, awkward moment, his anxious eyes settling on Jasper. “I’m sure you must have some questions regarding—”
“If you want to yammer at the man, do it some other time, Wood.” Symington fixed his venomous gaze on Jasper. “I want this matter finished quickly. Is that understood?”
Jasper smiled. “Of course you do, Mr. Symington.” He turned to the mayor. “D-Do you have a moment, s-sir?”
Wood’s eyes slid to the old man, who waved him away.
“Oh, just go with him.”
Outside in the corridor, Jasper asked, “I just wanted to m-make sure you never had any d-dealings with any of the victims, sir.”
Wood recoiled. “What? Why would you ask? What do—” He stopped, his eyelids fluttering. And then he lifted his hand in a staying gesture. “Er, wait a moment—I now recall Dunbarton donated to my campaign fund, and I invited him to my office for a drink. But just the once. I wouldn’t say I knew him.”
“Was anyone else with you at the t-time?”
The smooth impulses of a politician kicked in. “Not that I recall.”
“If you r-remember differently, p-perhaps you might let me know.” Jasper handed him a card. “I’m at the Astor House.”
“Yes, of course. Please don’t hesitate to ask if I can assist you in any way.” Wood crushed Jasper’s hand and disappeared back into his lair, his door clicking decisively behind him.
Jasper stood in the hall, his mind whirling from the bizarre encounter. In the span of less than an hour, he’d been threatened, flattered, offered a business opportunity, threatened again, and lied to.
The day was off to magnificent start, and it had barely begun.
CHAPTER 21
Hy tried not to be too annoyed that he’d gone all the way up the island to talk to Haslem’s mother only to learn that the woman was gone for the day. Or at least that’s what her lodger had said.
Lizzy Horgan’s brothel was a big building, but Hy and O’Malley were making good time searching the place, especially considering all the people wandering about and getting in their way. But at least Haslem wasn’t one of them since he’d buggered off.
Hy had been tempted to go to Haslem’s room immediately, but then he imagined the expression of disappointment on Lightner’s face and did as he was told. After all, he owed the Englishman; the man had rescued his arse.
While he worked, he considered Lightner. Hy figured it was natural to be fascinated by a person who was so different from anyone he’d ever known.
It wasn’t just that the man was the richest person he’d ever met, it was the way he acted.
Hy suspected that growing up in an orphanage was about as different from a duke’s son’s upbringing as possible. All his life, Hy had used his size to intimidate those around him; in the Points, a man had to plainly stake his claim or he’d end up at the bottom of the pecking order.
But all day yesterday and again today, he’d seen Lightner interact politely with people, no matter who they were: whores, crooked coppers, even the beggars he passed on the street.
Hell, even when he was beating Ryan with his cane, he’d remained civil, not hurling insults, raising his voice, or using his wealth as a weapon. He’d been as courteous to Lorie and Lizzy Horgan as he was to Hy—well, after he’d forgiven Hy for lying to him.
That’s because to a man like Lightner, you’re no different than a whore or a madam or a bigot like Ryan.
Hy had to accept that this was likely true; he couldn’t even imagine what Lightner must make of them all. It wasn’t anything he’d thought before—how outsiders saw him—and it made him uncomfortable in a way he couldn’t describe.
“Detective?”
Hy turned at the sound of O’Malley’s voice.
“I’m finished with the second floor. Do you need help up here?” The other man was trying to stay civil, but Hy could see he didn’t appreciate being paired with a copper who’d assaulted his superior and then spent two months in the Tombs. Hy couldn’t blame him; he wouldn’t want to be associated with himself either.
“Did you find anythin’?” he asked.
O’Malley took a small, brand-new notebook from his pocket, and Hy hid his smile. Lightner had already inspired the boy. It wasn’t a new idea, carrying notebooks—they were all supposed to do it—but Hy was ashamed to admit that none of the detectives at the Sixth, including him, had ever bothered.
But he had one today.
O’Malley flipped through pages covered with surprisingly neat handwriting. “I went through eight rooms, checked wardrobes, moved carpets to check the floor for bloodstains, stripped the beds to the mattresses, checked for panel rooms, examined walls and furniture for blood spatters that would be consistent with stabbing—” He paused, a slight flush and smile on his face as he regurgitated Lightner’s description word for word.
Hy had to admit it sounded impressive.
“I talked to the girls and compared their statements with the ones you took, but there wasn’t no dev—deva—”
“Deviation,” Hy finished for him. “I’ve just got this last room, and then I’m done.” He opened his own book and shared his report with O’Malley, just so the man didn’t think Hy believed himself above it.
When he was done, O’Malley nodded. “Let me help with the last one.”
Hy wanted to do Haslem’s room alone, but then, being a loner hadn’t worked out so good at the Sixth.
Well, that and thinkin’ with your prick.
Hy grimaced at the thought. “Aye, gimme a hand.”
Haslem might be a man, but he had just as many feminine items as any of the women. In fact, Hy thought some of the fancy perfume bottles—although he was no judge of such things—looked expensive. The only thing unusual was the absence of a jewelry box or chest, like the others all seemed to have. It wouldn’t surprise Hy if Haslem had taken it with him. He couldn’t blame him; most coppers would help themselves in a situation like this.
“So, that’s that,” O’Malley said, after moving one of the beds back to its original spot.
That had been another courteous—unusually so—thing Lightner had said: “Leave the rooms as you find them.”
Hy couldn’t recall another copper being so considerate of mere whores. Well, the Englishman hadn’t been very thoughtful at Solange’s, but even there it was only the madam’s room that they’d tossed.
As Hy shoved the second bed back into place, he noticed a cigar box pushed up against the wall.
He sat on the bed and opened the box. Inside were a few letters, picture postcards, and some newspaper clippings about jobs picking apples in an orchard up in the Valley.
“Detectiv
e?”
“Hmm?”
“What do you think about him?”
Hy looked up from a packet of letters tied together with a ribbon. “Haslem?”
“No, Detective Inspector Lightner.”
Hy shrugged, not wanting to confess he found the Englishman fascinating. “Why?”
“Featherstone said he couldn’t be very smart, since he stutters so bad.”
Hy snorted. “I wouldn’t take anything Featherstone says to heart.” Featherstone had started out at the Sixth not long after Hy and Ryan. The man was arrogant and thick but thought he was better than men from the Points just because his family owned a farm outside Hoboken. “Featherstone is worried about his job—and he’s right to worry; he’s a shit copper and a bully who couldn’t find his own arsehole with both hands.”
O’Malley gawked, and Hy turned back to the letter. It was written to M. and signed S. Just some general romantic foolery, but then the last sentence didn’t fit:
Please don’t forget the new handbills, darling. I shall think of your beautiful eyes often on your few days away. S.
The letter had no date.
“Detective?”
Hy looked up. “What?”
“You think he’ll stay here and not go back to England?”
“Who are the two people in this room?”
O’Malley scowled. “How come you always answer a question with another question?”
“Noticed that, did you?”
“You just did it again,” he accused.
“You’ll make a fine detective.”
O’Malley must have decided to take the remark as a compliment, as he looked pleased. He got out his book again and flipped through it. “Er, this room belongs to Mary Haslem, but nobody uses the second bed.” He glanced around and then crouched low and whispered, “There’s something odd about her, don’t you think?”
Hy snorted. “How old are you?”
“Eighteen. Why?”
Hy shook his head, wondering if he’d ever been that naïve.
“Is that important?” O’Malley pointed at the letter Hy still had in his hand.
“I don’t know.” Hy put the letter in his coat pocket and closed the box before shoving it under the bed.
“You never answered my question, Detective,” O’Malley reminded him.
“What question?”
“Whether Inspector Lightner will stay or go back home. Featherstone says the mayor, Davies, McElhenny, or the gangs’ll drive him away. They’ve got a pool goin’ at the station, and it’s up to almost thirty dollars. You think he’ll leave?”
Hy thought about the man who’d walked into the Tombs as if he owned it and sent the lazy guards scurrying to do his bidding. And then he recalled the way Lightner had disarmed Ryan and O’Connor, both of whom were big and brutish, without even turning a hair.
“Detective?” O’Malley prodded. “What do you think?”
“I think if I were you, I wouldn’t bet against him.”
CHAPTER 22
The Finch house sat where East Twenty-Seventh Street met Fifth Avenue. On either side of the ten-foot double doors were stone lions as high as Jasper’s hips. Massive bronze lanterns flickered with gaslight, burning brightly even in the middle of the day.
The Finches’ butler, Loring, almost pulled the door off the hinges in his haste to welcome Jasper into his employer’s home after viewing his card. Jasper decided he’d get Paisley to print up more, as they appeared to have an almost magical quality.
“When was the l-last time you saw Mr. Finch?” Jasper asked as he handed Loring his hat and gloves.
“Last night at dinner, sir.”
“What t-time was that?”
Loring helped Jasper out of his overcoat. “He dined earlier than usual—only six thirty—but received a message a little after seven and left soon after.”
“Do you know who sent the m-message?”
“I’m afraid not, sir; it came by a street messenger.” He hesitated and then added, “Mr. Finch came back around ten thirty and went into the library for a time before leaving again.”
“D-Do you know where he went?”
“I’m afraid I don’t, sir, but he did have a package with him.”
“Package?”
“Yes, sir. Just before he left, he rang for paper and string to wrap a package.”
“What t-time was that?”
“Around eleven.”
“D-Did you know what it was he was wrapping?”
“He didn’t say, sir.”
“Describe the p-package.”
“It looked like a slim packet of paper, sir. I offered to wrap it for him, but he declined. He left perhaps ten minutes later.”
“How did he appear?”
“Appear?”
“Was he n-nervous? Happy? W-Worried?”
“Oh, I’d say he looked … determined.”
Now there was an interesting choice of word. “Anything else?” Jasper asked.
“Nothing that I can think of, sir.”
Jasper declined an offer of tea, and Loring left him to his own devices in the library. The room was dominated by a life-size portrait of Stephen and Caroline Finch. Mrs. Finch was young—certainly no older than twenty-two or twenty-three in the painting—and bore an unfortunate resemblance to her sire. The heavy jaw and beaked nose that suited Symington did not flatter his daughter.
Finch, while a good two decades older than his wife, was a golden god of a man. Jasper had known from the examination that he’d been handsome, but the artist had captured the sparkle in his eyes, and the smile on his mouth was that of a hedonist: here was a man who’d enjoyed life. And if there was a certain vapidity about his wide, doll-like blue stare, well, likely he’d had the charm to keep others from noticing.
Not Symington, though. Jasper could see from this painting that the older man and his son-in-law would have been different enough to constitute separate species.
Finch must have married for money, while his young wife would likely have been infatuated with such a handsome sophisticate. Symington, for all his bluster and dislike of his son-in-law, would have gained connections to a stratum of society that otherwise would have remained out of reach to him and his daughter.
Like any man of good breeding, Finch had a library, although the collection was rather pedestrian, with most of the books being custom-bound classics that looked as if they’d never been opened.
An ornate, carved desk with a pristine surface sat in front of a window overlooking the street. Jasper found a ledger in the top drawer.
Mr. Finch, it was immediately clear, had a dilettante’s attitude toward record keeping. Some months were entirely blank, and then he must have relented, as the entries for other months were recorded down to the most minor expenditures:
Brougham wheel replaced; repair and re-varnishing of rear box: $27.13
Silk top hat: $9.50
1 case Sicilian Madeira: $3.96
And so on.
Up until about nine months ago, he’d received one sizable deposit every month. Jasper assumed that must have been from Symington, until Finch came into his inheritance. His suspicion was confirmed when he found a copy of a will tucked in a pouch at the back of the ledger. Symington hadn’t exaggerated by much when he said Finch had inherited a good chunk of Upstate New York.
Based on the dearth of any sort of documentation or correspondence, Finch seemingly had done very little business. Or if he had, he was secreting proof of it elsewhere.
There were a few handbills about charitable enterprises, a thick stack of pamphlets on various social issues, four lengthy reformer tracts on poverty in New York City—none written by Finch—a handful of theatrical programs, five articles clipped from the New-York Daily Times about the Fugitive Slave Act, and a small stack of bills from a jeweler’s on upper Broadway—an expensive establishment, judging by the cost of the items. The oldest bill was from a year and a half ago, the newest less than five days ago.
>
Jasper flipped through them, amazed at both the number and extravagance of his purchases. One of the older bills, for a gold ring studded in emeralds—one hundred eighty dollars—caught Jasper’s eye because he’d seen a ring just like it on Mary Haslem’s finger earlier that day. The most recent bill was for sapphire earbobs—costing two hundred ten dollars. Those had been delivered the very day Finch was murdered.
Jasper paused; now where had he seen sapphire earrings lately?
He shrugged, stopped chasing the elusive memory, and placed the bills on a pile along with the newspaper clippings, pamphlets, and tracts before pulling the servant cord.
Loring appeared within moments, which told him the servants were likely gathered in the kitchen discussing the man searching their master’s study.
“Yes, my lord?”
“Would you happen to have some p-paper to wrap this?” He gestured to the pile on the desk.
“Of course, my lord.”
“C-Could you wrap it the same way as the package Mr. F-Finch took with him?”
Loring’s brow furrowed briefly at the odd request, but he nodded. “Of course, sir.”
“Was that unusual—him g-going out that late?”
“Er, yes, I suppose it was. But Grew would know his habits better.”
“Grew?”
“Mr. Finch’s gentleman.”
“I’d like to talk to him.”
“He’s in Mr. Finch’s chambers, sir, selecting clothing for when the mortuary contacts us. Shall I have him come down?”
“Why d-don’t you take me up to him?”
Jasper thanked God for American servants; an English butler would have guarded the entrance to his master’s inner sanctum like a bulldog.
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