Absence of Mercy

by S. M. Goodwin

  ABSENCE OF MERCY

  A LIGHTNER AND LAW MYSTERY

  S. M. Goodwin

  This book is dedicated to my agent Pam Hopkins and my editor Faith Black Ross.

  Pam, thanks for believing in my work.

  Faith, thanks for loving Jasper and making his story even better.

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Huge thanks to Pam Hopkins, who reads everything I send her and is always supportive and enthusiastic about my work; she really is the world’s best agent!

  I’d also like to thank Faith Black Ross and the wonderful staff of Crooked Lane Press who welcomed me with open arms right from the get-go and have made working with them a true pleasure.

  Thanks to my fantastic beta readers: Shirley & Brantly, who listened patiently as I killed off people in a variety of ways. I’d especially like to thank George, who read this manuscript more than once and whose thirty plus years’ experience as a criminal prosecutor have proven endlessly helpful.

  Thank you to the New York Public library and the Smithsonian, both of whom have responded to bizarre requests and emails about 1850s maps of NYC. I’m especially grateful for the NYPL’s digitization of the New York City Directories. Those are an amazing treasure trove that make me proud to admit I love reading the 1850s version of the phone book.

  I owe a massive debt of gratitude to those authors and reviewers who’ve generously donated their time by offering to read an advance copy of ABSENCE OF MERCY: Dianne Freeman, Tessa Harris, Darynda Jones, & Edwin Hill, to name the early reviewers. It’s an honor to have your names associated with my work.

  Last, but not least, thanks to my family—especially my mother and my spouse, both of whom put up with more whining than any human beings should have to endure!

  PROLOGUE

  New York City

  April 1857

  Felix Dunbarton was drunk.

  And why not? he thought as he staggered down Broadway; this new deal had the money pouring in. Oh, there was no denying the risk was high—life-threateningly high—but Felix stood to make millions in the years ahead. Soon he could replace all the money he’d borrowed, with nobody the wiser.

  Bawdy offers came at him fast and thick from the women festooning every lamppost and lounging in every doorway. From dawn till dusk this section of Broadway was the most stylish street in the city—hell, in the entire country. But after the sun went down?

  It was a whole new world.

  A heavy mist softened the harsh light from the streetlamps, giving the night a dreamlike quality. The air on these few blocks was like a fog all its own, a miasma of cloying perfumes warring for attention: gardenia, rose, lilac, and a dozen other scents his olfactory organ couldn’t identify. Beneath it all was a far less pleasant odor.

  Felix passed two identical women and snickered to himself. They’d draped their bodies close enough to the gaslit shop window that he could see their nipples, which they’d rouged and accommodatingly displayed above matching blood-red satin corsets.

  “Good evening, Mr. Dunbarton,” the Harris sisters chimed in their lilting Dublin accents, their red hair far too bright to be the product of nature.

  Felix tipped his hat but kept walking. After peddling their wares for three years, the two sisters were most likely riddled with syphilis or gonorrhea.

  He’d first encountered the twins just after they stepped off the boat from Ireland and into Madam Solange’s whorehouse. Back then her brothel was in the dangerous Five Points area and the Frenchwoman’s girls had been much cheaper than they were now. But the wily madam knew how to attract a higher class of customer and had speedily parlayed her avarice, lack of conscience, and business acumen into a far tonier house on Mercer Street.

  Everything Madam offered was first-rate: the finest liquor, the softest sheets, and the youngest girls. Every savvy gentleman knew that the younger the whore, the smaller the chance of disease. The age of consent in New York City was ten years old—at least until the bloody-minded reformers had their way and ruined everything.

  Felix hadn’t needed to call on Madam’s services for almost five months now—not since he’d been clever enough to secure his own entertainment at a fraction of the cost, not to mention how much more convenient his little arrangement had been.

  Until tonight.

  Felix ground his teeth at what he’d encountered when he showed up at the usual Saturday rendezvous place an hour ago: nothing. Not a damned person in sight—including the jackass they had paid a bloody fortune to have the girls ready and waiting.

  Fueled by frustrated lust and fury, Felix had ransacked the entire building looking for someone—anyone—to vent his wrath on. But all he’d managed to find was something so goddamned sticky it almost yanked off his shoe with every step.

  As if on cue, he stutter-stepped again.

  “Dammit!” Felix stopped and fished his flask from his breast pocket; thank God Cates had refilled it before he’d left the house tonight. He took two deep pulls and returned the flask to his pocket before teetering on one leg to examine the bottom of his shoe. He couldn’t see anything in the near darkness between the streetlights, but when he put his foot down, it stuck.

  “Christ,” he muttered. Well, Solange’s was just around—

  “Good evening, sir.”

  Felix yelped and spun around. It took a moment before he spotted the source of the voice—just inside the garbage alley, her face obscured by fog and shadows.

  “Who is it?” Felix slurred, mortified that he’d shrieked like a woman.

  “My name’s Amy, sir.”

  Felix frowned. “Do I know you?”

  “No, sir.”

  He peered into shadows. All he could see was the filthy hem of her skirts and her shoes—small brown ankle boots, hardly the footwear of an experienced trull, more that of a girl.

  It’s just a girl.

  Emboldened, he threw out his chest and strode toward her—his bloody shoe sticking with every step. He stopped at the alley entrance, looking for other, larger shapes in the darkness. A wealthy man couldn’t be too careful; pimps often lurked in the background, waiting to cosh and rob a man while he was dipping his wick.

  “Why don’t you come out into the light, sweetie?”

  “I’m not s’posed to be workin’ this area. If the others see me, they’ll give me a thrashin’.”

  “We’re all alone.” That wasn’t quite true—there were at least five whores lounging within spitting distance, but they were hidden by the fog.

  The girl shook her head.

  Felix stared at the outline of her young, girlish figure and felt a pleasurable stirring; perhaps he might get what he needed tonight without paying Madam Solange’s extortionate rates. He grinned and shuffled unsteadily toward her, not stopping until they both stood in shadow. She was staring down, her hair a thick blond curtain covering her face.

  “Look at me, girl.” Her head swung up, and he stared down into a face that was wide-eyed, girlish, and tear-streaked.

  “Why are you crying, sweetie?”

  She swallowed hard enough for him to hear it. “I’m scared.” She caught her plump lower lip with white, even teeth and gazed up at him.

  She was a beauty. Felix’s breath hitched, his heart sped up, and blood roared in his ears; he began to harden.

  Why not have a bit of fun? He slowly stripped off his right glove, finger by finger, taking his time and savoring her rapt expression. When his hand was bare, he began to open his trousers.

  “There’s no need to be scared,” he said in a voice rough with need. “I’ll make sure—” The girl’s eyes darted over his shoulder and Felix swung around, alarm bells screaming in his head.

  But it was just a woman—another whore, judging by her clothing. His
hand froze on his half-open fly. “Who the hell are you?”

  The woman wore a fringed shawl wrapped around her head, and it obscured all but her eyes—eyes that were so heavily made up it was impossible to discern shape or color.

  He took a step toward her. “I said, who are you?”

  Amy’s voice came from behind him. “She don’t speak good English, but she’s helpin’ me—it’s safer together on the street.”

  Felix stopped a few feet away from her and chuckled. “You want to watch, do you?”

  “Yes.” Her hoarse, gravelly whisper was that of an old, old woman, and she barely reached his shoulder; she was no danger to him.

  “Perhaps I should charge you for the pleasure,” he taunted, and then snorted at her widening eyes. He pivoted unsteadily on one foot and had to catch himself against the rim of the rubbish bin to keep from falling on his ass. The world tilted and spun and his stomach surged up his throat. He gritted his teeth against the nausea, forcing it down. “Wha—” He rubbed his eyes to clear his watery gaze before glaring down at the girl, his vision still wavering. “What the hell are you waiting for? Get over here.” She took a few tentative steps toward him. “That’s right,” he said in a soothing voice. “Now, on your knees. Good girl,” he praised when she complied. Felix caught his lower lip between his teeth as he stared down at her kneeling form, his groin heavy. “Undo my trousers.” She made short work of the remaining buttons and then pushed down his drawers.

  “Yes, yes, that’s a good gir—”

  Something snapped around his neck and jerked his head back. Felix staggered, his mouth wide open but no breath going in and no sound coming out. He scrabbled at the cord or rope—a garrote, his stunned brain shrieked—trying to wedge his fingers beneath it. But it was too tight, and only getting tighter.

  Something hard rammed into his lower back and drove him forward. The girl was still kneeling and Felix stumbled over her, his hand fumbling to break his fall while he slammed into the brick wall headfirst.

  There was the sound of an egg cracking and then pain—stabbing, agonizing, explosive pain.

  He slid to the rough cobbles, and the rope around his neck tightened like a tourniquet. Darkness spread from the edges of his vision. Felix whimpered, but the sounds were only in his head. Oh God! God! Please—

  Lips kissed his temple. “Good-bye, Felix.”

  His eyes flew open at the voice, shock lifting him from his agonizing stupor.

  And then cold metal sliced through layers of wool and linen, not stopping until the blade bit deep in his side.

  Intense nausea accompanied fiery pain, and his stomach contracted, attempting to void itself. The ring of pain around his neck lessened and he made one last push to scream. But all that came out was a gurgle so soft only Felix heard it.

  CHAPTER 1

  London

  April 1857

  Detective Inspector Jasper Lightner stared at the dead couple tangled in the bloody bedding. According to Detective Sergeant Murphy, they were—ironically—named Joseph and Mary Bickle.

  Mr. Bickle had a neat slit across his throat that stretched from ear to ear. A bloody cleaver lay beside him, and he cradled his wife in his arms. From a certain angle, he looked to be asleep.

  The same could not be said of Mrs. Bickle, who’d been struck so hard in the forehead with the cleaver that her head was almost in two pieces. The unseasonable spate of freezing weather had left the small room so cold that frost glinted on Mrs. Bickle’s exposed brain matter.

  “What do you reckon as to the cause of death, sir?” Sergeant Murphy, a half foot shorter than Jasper, grinned up at him.

  Jasper’s lips twitched, but he ignored his waggish subordinate’s levity. Instead he crouched down and peeled back the bloody, frozen-stiff blanket to expose the bodies. The woman wore a soiled, threadbare chemise and the man filthy flannel drawers sans shirt. Mrs. Bickle’s right arm and shoulder bore several bruises, and four long scratches ran down Mr. Bickle’s left bicep. “Estimated time of d-death?”

  Murphy chewed his lip as he stared at the bodies, then shook his head. “It’s too damned cold, so checking for rigor won’t give an accurate result?”

  Jasper nodded.

  “But I’d say it’s been a good thirty-six hours.”

  “And why is that?”

  “Well, right here.” Murphy pointed to Mrs. Bickle’s feet. “The rats have been chewin’, and this looks like it was frozen when they were workin’ on it. This cold snap has been brutal, but to freeze ’em like this? I reckon it took a while.”

  This was not a murder that required a great deal of intellect or experience to unravel, but Jasper spent the next three-quarters of an hour inspecting the victims and the room with Murphy because that’s why the Detective Department of the Metropolitan Police employed him: to instruct on criminal investigation techniques.

  When he and Murphy finished making sketches and taking notes, Jasper turned to the two silent men hovering just inside the doorway. They were staring with blatant fascination at Jasper’s famous walking stick. Today he carried the bronze eagle, which he’d propped against the wall.

  “You may t-take them now,” he said.

  The men jolted at the sound of his voice and went into action.

  “Did the neighbors hear or see anything, Sergeant?” Jasper savored a tiny surge of pleasure at completing a sentence without a stammer.

  Murphy flipped open the notebook Jasper required all men he trained to keep—and utilize. “There was only one neighbor here when I arrived—an older woman from ’cross the hall. She heard the couple arguin’ four nights ago—but nothing since.”

  Yes, Jasper thought, eyeing the frozen bodies, this looked like an argument that had been over for some time.

  “None of their n-neighbors thought to check on them?” Jasper tightened his lips, as if that could pull the slip back into his mouth.

  Murphy—inured to Jasper’s speech impediment—paused in his page flicking to cut his superior a look of amusement. “It’s not that kinda ken, sir.”

  Jasper now knew that ken was a street word for dwelling. It was one of the many words he hadn’t known when he began this job. While Jasper had been teaching investigative methods to the sergeants, they’d educated him about a previously unknown version of London.

  He glanced at the dismal room around him, which reeked of stale gin, boiled cabbage, and unwashed bodies. The Bickles lived in a dark room, meaning it was in the middle of a subdivided building and had no windows. The house would once have been a single-family dwelling—and, judging by the ornate cornices still in evidence, a very nice one. Now it housed at least twenty families.

  Jasper was no longer as shocked by the squalor as he’d been when he started at the Met, but he was still horrified that people could tolerate such a hardscrabble existence.

  The men from the deadhouse were having a difficult time detaching the frozen bodies from the blood-soaked ticking. They’d split the seams, and damp straw was escaping from the mattress.

  Jasper turned away from the gruesome operation. “How long have they l-lived here?”

  “They took lodgings ’ere”—Murphy cleared his throat—“here three weeks ago.”

  Jasper smiled; they were a fine pair of bookends. While Murphy’s heavy cockney brogue wasn’t the same thing as a stammer, it wasn’t likely to help his assent within the Met. He was impressed that Murphy was trying to improve himself, or at least improve his chances for advancement.

  Jasper had stopped trying to fix his stammer years ago. He’d also stopped trying to hide it. Most importantly, he’d stopped not speaking just to avoid butchering words. He no longer allowed others to shame him into shutting up. He supposed that, in itself, represented a certain sort of achievement.

  Murphy flipped a few pages and said, “Mr. Bickle was a butcher over at a place in Smithfield.”

  Which would explain the cleaver.

  “And Mrs. Bickle was a workin’ woman.”

&
nbsp; Ah. So, had Bickle killed his wife because she was a poor earner?

  Or perhaps it had been her idea to sell her body and he’d learned of it after the fact and killed her in a fit of jealousy? Or maybe he’d merely reached the end of his endurance for a life so grim and devoid of hope?

  What does any of this matter? a bored voice in his head asked. There’s no mystery here: gin, desperation, and poverty. It’s clear how they died and equally clear nobody except you cares.

  People like the Bickles left no record of their lives, no imprint on this world, but Jasper could make sure their deaths did not go unnoticed.

  Ah, so you are a file clerk for the dead?

  Jasper ignored the taunting question, wondering—not for the first time—if everyone had to tolerate voices in their heads, or only those who carried a chunk of metal in their skulls.

  The men had lifted the Bickles onto the pallet, mattress and all. They rammed their burden through the narrow doorway and clattered into the dark, narrow hall before disappearing.

  A uniformed peeler appeared in the open doorway. “Lord Jasper Lightner?”

  “Yes, I’m Detective Inspector Lightner.”

  “Commissioner Mayne sent me, my lord,” the bobby said, missing Jasper’s pointed response. “It’s the ’ome secretary that wants to see you.”

  Beside him, Murphy stiffened, no doubt impressed by a summons from both the head of the Met and the Home Office.

  Jasper’s reaction was a bit more visceral. A summons from Sir George Grey could mean only one thing: Jasper’s father. And anything having to do with his father was never good.

  He nodded at the messenger. “We’re almost f-finished here, and then—”

  “Commissioner Mayne asked that you go directly, my lord.”

  Which meant right this instant.

  Murphy piped up. “I can finish up ’ere, my lord, er”—he grimaced—“that is, Detective Inspector.”

  Jasper sighed. He’d only just trained Murphy to leave off my lord–ing him, and now he’d need to break him of the annoying habit all over again.