Sometimes he wondered how much of that time—before Balaclava and the accident—Lord Jasper had forgotten; how much of his life had been lost to the head injury? Of course, that was not the sort of question Paisley could ever ask his employer.
“Sir?”
Paisley looked up to find the boy waiting with the boots and box.
Lord, but he was having a difficult time staying present.
“Hand me the left boot.” Paisley turned it sole-side up. “You see this wear, here?” John looked at the shoe and nodded. “His lordship has an uneven tread, which results in more wear on the outside of the shoe. Eventually, I will send the shoes to a respectable cobbler—if such a thing exists in this country—and have them resoled. But for now, I can manage to repair this stitching myself.” He flipped open the lid of his shoe box, which he’d had for almost thirty years, and picked up the smallest awl. “If you aspire to become a gentleman’s gentleman, you will want to start your own kit,” he said.
John nodded, his intelligent eyes flickering over the neatly organized compartments. He was an exceptionally clever boy and rarely needed telling twice when it came to instruction. Even in the few days that he’d been there he’d shown far more facility with various chores than the young footman who was currently valeting his lordship, Thomas.
Paisley knew that Lord Jasper believed he was excessively hard on young Thomas, but the man really had no right to come near fine clothing or footwear.
“Lift out the top tray and you will see some leather scraps. Practice making an even row of holes with that smallest awl,” he told the boy, sitting back and letting John become comfortable with the tool.
Paisley had been appalled when his lordship had sent the urchin to him. The boy had behaved like a feral cat when it came to bathing but had calmed almost immediately when Paisley had presented him with clean clothing, his eyes going round and greedy at the sight of the rather worn, secondhand garments Paisley had managed to assemble on such short notice. Paisley supposed they might be the first clean clothes the boy had ever donned.
After John’s initial scrap with his lordship’s groom—the cantankerous Scot named Clark—John had quickly settled into his work in the kitchen.
Mrs. Freedman—who was almost pathologically particular about her kitchen—told Paisley the boy did the work of two scullery maids.
But while John appeared to enjoy his work in the kitchen, he’d jumped at any opportunity to work above stairs. And when he’d been presented with his first real outfit of clothing—complete with boots—he’d become a different boy. He’d taken to following Paisley about, asking questions and watching carefully. Paisley’s position in his lordship’s house was particular in that he fulfilled the functions of valet and butler and housekeeper. And that was just how he liked it.
In England, he’d occasionally butted heads with his lordship’s other senior servants: a housekeeper and a cook. So in setting up this household, he’d decided to dispense with the position of housekeeper entirely.
Unfortunately, he could not dispense with a cook.
While he admitted that Mrs. Freedman was one of the best cooks he’d ever encountered, the woman was bossy, headstrong, and particular to a maddening degree. He’d come to believe that she often disagreed with him merely to be vexing. Even her care of his recent injury had seemed oddly … aggressive, almost as if she found his predicament amusing.
Paisley had nothing against women. Indeed, he quite liked them when they knew their place and offered the proper respect. But Mrs. Freedman refused to know her place and, rather than respect his judgment and follow his orders, she had a disputatious nature and took joy in argument.
Paisley saw that his knuckles were white as he gripped the arms of the chair; he was getting worked up, yet again, just thinking about the woman.
He sighed and put Mrs. Freedman from his mind.
Instead, he looked at the boy, who was sitting cross-legged on the floor, tongue poking out the corner of his mouth, focusing every ounce of concentration on the piece of boot leather. If he continued to be so dedicated to his job, he would one day make a fine valet. In Paisley’s opinion, the life of a gentleman’s gentleman was eminently satisfactory.
Of course, he’d worked for Lord Jasper for most of his career, so he supposed he was fortunate. Not only was his lordship a fine figure of a man and a pleasure to dress, but he had always allowed Paisley almost complete authority when it came to the operation of his household.
Paisley had only been twenty-two when the Duke of Kersey had engaged him to valet his younger son. He’d felt ages older than the young lord, who was the first gentleman he’d been solely in charge of. That had been almost twenty years ago. He’d been in Lord Jasper’s employ far longer than he’d lived with his own family. He knew him better than anyone else in his life.
After the dreadful head injury in the war, Paisley sometimes suspected he knew the man even better than he knew himself. Although his lordship never said, Paisley had seen his blank looks right from the beginning and interpreted them correctly before that doctor in London had told him about Lord Jasper’s memory condition.
“Lord Jasper doesn’t want me to speak to his family,” the arrogant Harley Street physician had said the day he’d summoned Paisley to his office, keeping him standing before his massive baroque desk as he’d looked down his nose. “But somebody needs to know, and he mentioned you’d been with him and were aware of the scope of his injuries. Well,” the doctor had gone on, not waiting for an answer. “Part of his brain is still scrambled and likely always will be. He has holes in his memories—large ones from what I can tell.”
“Will they become worse?” Paisley had dared to ask, earning a scowl for having the temerity to speak.
“It’s hard to say. He needs to get that metal plate out—we’ve got better methods than those used in a field hospital. Men have been known to die in hot weather with such chunks of metal in their heads—too much heat could cook his brain.”
Paisley’s jaw had dropped at that horrific vision, one he had never been able to scour from his own brain. He’d watched his lordship as closely as possible without being oppressive. Or at least so he’d thought, until Lord Jasper—in an exceedingly rare display of displeasure—had caught Paisley following him when he’d gone out one evening.
His lordship had still been taking morphine at that time, mainly for the wound in his shoulder, which had stubbornly refused to heal. He’d demanded his coat, hat, and cane and left the house at almost midnight. Of course Paisley had followed.
He’d somehow lost sight of him and began to quicken his pace. When he rounded a corner, his lordship had been waiting for him, his eyes not vague from morphine, but snapping with anger.
“If I w-w-wanted a nursemaid, I would engage one. The n-n-next time you have a thought to sp-sp-spy on me, pack your b-bags instead.” He’d used the same cool, quiet tone as ever—which had somehow been more cutting than actual yelling.
And that had been the last he’d seen of Lord Jasper for almost five days.
Paisley had never followed him again, no matter how fearful he’d been on some occasions. After all, his lordship was right: Paisley wasn’t a nursemaid, and the invasion of his privacy was repugnant. Paisley would have been angry in his position, as well.
“How’s that?”
Paisley looked at the piece of leather John held toward him and smiled at the neat, almost perfectly straight row of punched holes.
“Very good. Now, let me show you how to do it on his lordship’s favorite shoes.”
CHAPTER 41
July 9
“Paisley? Paisley.”
Even though Paisley knew he was dreaming, he still burned with mortification at having slept through the morning, forgetting to wake his master, leaving the—
A hand gently shook his shoulder. “Paisley, w-w-wake up, old thing.”
His eyes flew open.
Lord Jasper smiled down at him. “Sorry to d-d-distu
rb you when you were sl-sleeping the sleep of the righteous, but I’m afraid you’re in my b-b-bed.”
“Oh, I say,” Paisley said stupidly, and then sat up so quickly he only narrowly missed bashing Lord Jasper in the face—which already looked as if it had been bashed quite enough.
He leapt to his feet, winced, and then put his damaged foot down more gently, never taking his eyes off his employer. “Your new Gieves and Hawkes suit is ruined, my lord.”
Bloody hell! That wasn’t what I meant to say.
But his lordship laughed. And then grimaced, lifting his hand to his forehead, which had a goose egg with a nasty scrape that was oozing clear fluid and blood.
Paisley walked gingerly to the gas lamp beside the nightstand and turned it up to shed more light, noticing as he did so that he was still fully dressed. A glance at the clock showed it was just past three. A second glance at the drapes showed it must be three o’clock in the morning.
When he turned back, his lordship was pulling off a stock that had been used to within an inch of its life, his fingers shaking slightly.
“Allow me, my lord.” Paisley reached for his necktie.
Lord Jasper dropped his hands and smiled. “I’m as weak as a k-kitten for all that I slept a g-good twenty-four hours.”
“Was nobody down below tonight?” Paisley suddenly thought to ask.
“Not a soul on the front door. No lights on, either. It seems like a blatant c-case of mice playing while the cat is away.”
“I’m terribly sorry, sir, I didn’t—”
“Oh, hush. I am only t-t-teasing. It is far too late for anyone to be hanging about in the f-f-foyer. I daresay you were all a bit worried.”
Paisley risked a glance at Lord Jasper’s face, to ascertain if he was still teasing. But no, he appeared to be serious. “Yes, my lord, we were all worried. A bit,” he added, biting his lip at the slightly hysterical tinge to his voice.
“Well,” Lord Jasper said with a heavy sigh. “I’m afraid I don’t have much of an exciting t-t-tale. I was caught up in a fishing net, c-c-conked on the head by a fishing boat, half-drowned, and then three-quarters crushed while two w-w-well-meaning rivermen brothers by the n-n-name of Rory and Jerry Sl-Sl-Slackbottom squeezed the water from my lungs. They then t-tucked me beneath a gunnel with a few old b-buoys and continued p-putting out their nets.”
“Good Lord,” Paisley said under his breath, stepping behind Lord Jasper’s slightly swaying form to lift the utterly ruined coat from his shoulders.
Once his lordship was in a chair, Paisley knelt to remove his Trickers, also ruined.
“You said you slept for twenty-four hours, but it has been days, my lord.” He didn’t like the whiny tone in his voice, but it was too late to call it back.
“Ah, yes. Well, they were just in the m-m-middle of putting in the nets again when I finally woke. N-N-Not a good time to r-run me to shore, I’m afraid. So I spent a day g-going upriver and a day c-coming back down before they could drop m-me off.”
Paisley had to bite his tongue.
“I suppose I should s-send word to Detective Law tomorrow m-m-morning.”
“I shall send Thomas the moment you are in your bath, my lord.”
Lord Jasper yawned and blinked owlishly at Paisley’s stern tone but made no comment.
It was rather like undressing a six-foot toddler, as any of his lordship’s efforts to help were more of a hindrance.
Once he was stripped and in the tub, Paisley picked up his discarded trousers and coats, checking the pockets. He frowned. “Where is your wallet, my lord?”
“Hmm?”
“I can’t find your wallet.”
“I couldn’t either. I m-m-must have lost it somewhe—” the last word was mangled by an enormous yawn.
“How did you get back here?”
“God, this feels m-m-marvelous,” he muttered, shivering violently enough to send water slopping over the edge of the tub.
Paisley stared at the only part of him visible, the top of his head, which was resting on the slanted back of the tub. He waited for an answer and was just about to repeat the question when a snore rose up.
He sighed. Well, what did it matter how he got back? He was here.
Paisley sat down to pen a quick message to Detective Law—warning him not to visit until after nine; no matter how tired his lordship was, he doubted he’d be able to keep him in his bed much past that time.
After he’d sealed it, he decided that he might as well knock on Mrs. Freedman’s door. He felt sure she would want to hear the good news, no matter how uncivil the hour.
Paisley was not aware that he was smiling until he was limping down the corridor toward the servants’ stairs and caught a glimpse of his foolishly grinning face in the mirror.
CHAPTER 42
Captain Davies appeared less than elated to see Jasper still among the living.
“Well,” Davies said, his mouth twisted with distaste as he eyed Jasper up and down. The Welshman’s gaze lingered on the hideous bump and gash on his forehead, scraped brow, and swollen eyelid, leaving Jasper with the distinct impression that Davies wished the damage had been a bit more severe.
“G-Good morning, sir,” Jasper said, glancing over at Law, who was grinning from ear to ear, which he’d been doing ever since appearing at Jasper’s kitchen door at the inhospitable hour of nine o’clock that morning. And embracing Jasper—almost crushing his ribs—to the amusement of his American employees and Paisley’s horror.
“What’s the status on the dog?” Davies asked, as though Jasper hadn’t been lost and presumed dead for days.
Jasper ignored the suspicious choking sounds coming from Law’s direction.
“Patrolman O’Malley is on his way in as w-we speak, sir. Detective L-Law informed me the patrolman spent the last few days engineering a, er, well, a trap for the d-d-d-dognappers.” How annoying to stammer on that ludicrous word.
Davies appeared to be combing through Jasper’s words, looking for something to complain about.
“Hmmph. Well, don’t let him go over to Brinkley’s on his own—understand? I want you to go with him.” Before Jasper could respond, he turned to Law. “And you. The next time you decide to just skip work to cruise around in a boat for days on end, don’t bother coming back.”
He slammed the door to their office behind him.
“You reckon that’s a Welsh way of saying he missed you?” Law asked, chuckling.
“Apparently absence does not always m-m-make the heart grow fonder.” Jasper sighed and turned back to the report they were almost finished drafting.
“So, Doctor P-Powell is at liberty.” He glanced at Law, who nodded.
“The captain said we had to let him out because we couldn’t hold him for Fowler’s murder after one of the coppers from the Ninth admitted to seeing him. And we couldn’t hold him for Frumkin’s murder because of Martello’s confession.”
Jasper nodded. He didn’t believe the suicide letter for one minute, but he knew it was difficult to ignore given the saw’s presence at Martello’s apartment. “Did you ever t-talk to the remaining tenants about the comings and g-g-goings the day Martello died?”
“I managed to talk to the last two tenants before meeting you that night—well, when I was supposed to meet you—at Abattoir Row. Neither of them had girl visitors or an old lady visitor. Neither had gone out that day. That just leaves one last tenant to talk to. I’ll pop by there today.” He hesitated and then said, “I know you think there was somethin’ off about the suicide letter, but we just don’t have anything to prove it, sir.”
Jasper knew the other man was right. Even the bruises on Miss Martello’s body were not conclusive of murder—she might have had a struggle at any time that day or the day before, perhaps with one of the newspapermen hounding her.
Law was right; they had nothing. But none of this felt right.
“Do you think Vogel lied about it?”
“Hmm?” Jasper looked up from the p
aperwork.
“Do you think he really did kill Frumkin? I mean, if you believe Fowler’s diary, Vogel had left and the kitchen door was locked. But there was that ten-minute period of time when she was with Powell. What if Vogel didn’t leave, but was the one to lock the door, with himself inside?” He frowned. “But then why didn’t the servants find him?”
“It is a p-p-puzzle,” Jasper conceded.
“How come we never get any normal, straightforward murders?”
Jasper grinned. “Where would be the f-f-fun in that, Detective?”
“I expect I could do without quite so much fun,” Law grumbled.
Jasper felt a momentary pang of guilt. His disappearance—even though it hadn’t been his fault—had clearly taken its toll on Law. The younger man looked as if he’d lost a stone in a matter of days, and the purplish smudges beneath his eyes were a testament to his anxiety.
The door that Davies had just slammed opened. “Sir?”
Jasper looked up to find Patrolman O’Malley standing in the doorway. “Ah, Patrolman. I received your message that you wanted to m-meet. You have g-good news?”
“I do, sir.” He hesitated and then added, “And, if I might be so bold, it’s good to have you back, my lord.”
“Thank you.” Jasper was touched that the other man appeared genuinely pleased that he was not dead. Unlike Davies, who’d looked personally offended.
“Come in and sit, Patrolman. Your m-message indicated you’d caught your criminals dead to rights.”
O’Malley grinned. “Aye. And they’re down in the lockup. I already questioned them, but I thought you might want to go over it again.”
“Why, n-no, that’s not necessary. Not if you are s-satisfied.”
O’Malley’s grin threatened to split his head in two. “They confessed, sir—not to just the one we caught them on, but to five others, including Brinkley.”
Crooked in His Ways Page 31
