Jasper hazarded a guess at what footing the bill meant.
Dell cleared his throat. “Do you have any plans in that direction? Er, housing, that is?”
“My man will secure l-l-lodgings for me.”
Dell’s eyes widened, and Jasper believed he was taking note of his stammer for the first time. That was not difficult to believe, considering he’d not allowed Jasper to get more than three words out before now.
Dell stared at him the way a child gaped at a circus acrobat, waiting for the next trick.
So Jasper opened his mouth and obliged him. “If I d-do require more than a week, please assure the b-board I fully expect to pay my own shot.”
The other man’s expression was one of barely suppressed glee. At first Jasper thought it was because he couldn’t believe an English aristocrat could do something as common as stammer.
But then Dell said, “It just so happens I’ve got my finger in quite a few pies and would be glad to show your servant some fine properties I believe would suit Your Lordship.”
Jasper tried to erase the mental image of Dell putting his grubby fingers in pies or anything else. He looked to where Paisley was supervising the loading of trunks onto a ragged wagon. His valet’s ramrod-straight spine was even stiffer than usual, and he was positively vibrating with indignation at the sight of Jasper’s expensive Cave luggage being forced to suffer a ride on such a conveyance.
When Jasper failed to accept Dell’s offer, the American cleared his throat and tried again. “What I meant to say is, if he requires acquaintin’ with the better parts of the city, I’d be glad to show him around.”
Jasper’s lips twitched at the thought of his crushingly snobbish servant spending even an hour with a loquacious mushroom like Dell and not killing him.
“Thank you for your g-generous offer, Mr. Dell. I’m afraid Paisley is most p-particular in his requirements, and to indicate he required help would be insulting.” He gave Dell a conspiratorial look. “I’m sure you know how sensitive one’s s-servants can be to perceived criticism, particularly old family r-retainers.”
Dell cocked his head, breathing in and out through his mouth.
“Besides,” Jasper continued, “P-Paisley was with me in the Crimea—surely the streets of New York City p-pale in comparison to a war zone?”
Mention of his time in the army had its intended effect and distracted Dell from persisting with his tiresome offer of assistance. But the diversionary tactic was not without cost, and Jasper spent the following minutes fielding asinine questions from the war-obsessed but geographically ignorant Dell.
He was trying, without success, to describe the position of Sevastopol when Paisley approached.
“I shall ride with your luggage, my lord.” The day was stiflingly hot, but Paisley’s words came out with ice crystals on them.
Dell bristled. “It ain’t as if you have to worry about thievery—you’re with me. And I’m known and respected all over these parts,” he added, as if they might have missed that information the first half dozen times he mentioned it.
Paisley cut Dell a look filled with venom, bestowed the slightest of bows on Jasper to communicate his opinion of their current predicament, and strode back to the wagon.
Dell’s voice appeared to have seized.
“You must excuse P-Paisley, Alderman. I’m afraid he tends to be oversedulous when it comes to the care of my p-possessions. I’m sure he didn’t mean to cast aspersions of any sort,” Jasper lied.
Dell’s cheeks were bright red. “Humph.” He turned away from the departing wagon and gestured to the waiting carriage. “After you, my lord.”
One good consequence of traveling with such a garrulous companion was that Jasper was free to give his attention to the scene passing outside the carriage window.
It was not so different from London, and the journey from the docks was like a trip up the social ladder. The poorest of the poor clung to the waterfront like barnacles, feeding off the money that came in with the ships, pilfering inadequately guarded cargo, meeting the demand for manual labor that ebbed and flowed with the tide itself, and catering to the merchant sailors who flooded the docks, their pockets stuffed with money they were eager to spend.
Even at noon, there were already dozens of prostitutes lolling about half-naked in their quest to net an oysterman, whaler, or gentleman traveler coming over on a ferry to conduct business.
“Commissioner Matsell didn’t want you here, my lord, and when he and the mayor heard it was a done deal, he wanted to start you in Five Points. ’Course Matsell was recently discharged and the new commissioners want you at White Street—”
“Wh-White Street?” Jasper asked.
“White Street is the temporary headquarters of the Metropolitan Police—the real police in the city.” He gave Jasper a reassuring smile that exposed less than a full complement of yellow teeth. “You’ve got people lookin’ out for you, my lord.”
So, they would not throw him directly into the festering urban wound known as Five Points, at least not right away. “S-So I will be stationed out of White S-Street?”
“Er, no.” Dell gave him an odd smile.
“But you s-said—”
“Superintendent Tallmadge didn’t want you at White Street.”
Jasper was beginning to get a headache.
“You’ll be goin’ to the Eighth Precinct, one of our nicer stations. I’ll bring you by once we’ve stopped by the Astor and—”
“I should like to stop by the station f-first, Mr. Dell.” Jasper forbore adding that he’d like to do so without a wittering sycophant attached to his hip, since he doubted he could dislodge the man even with a hammer and chisel.
“But I thought you’d want refreshment first?” When Jasper failed to respond, Dell leaned forward, as if confiding a secret. “I’m not sure how much of the current situation you’ve been apprised of, but there’s a bit of a, er, well, stand-off between Mayor Wood and Superintendent Tallmadge. I just want you to know that you can put your trust in me, since I’m a neutral third party.” Dell had the decency to blush at what was obviously a lie, but that didn’t stop his mouth from moving. “Anyhow, the matter of the new force is under adjudication—as we say here.”
“I see.” And Jasper did see: he’d walked into the middle of a political quagmire. Sir George had been confident that contentions between the outgoing Municipal Police and the newly legislated Metropolitan Police would have been resolved by the time Jasper arrived. It appeared that wasn’t the case.
“I think it would be just as well if you avoided the station until you speak with Superintendent Tallmadge. He’ll be back by tonight and come by the hotel.” Dell gave Jasper an ingratiating grin. “We can wait in comfort; the Rotunda bar and restaurant is known for its fine food, drink, and the best company.”
“I’m most eager to meet the superintendent and sample what the Astor House has to offer, Alderman. P-perhaps after I meet my new captain—what is h-his name?”
“Er, Captain Owen Davies.”
“I’d l-like to meet Captain Davies and p-pay my respects.”
Dell must have seen something in Jasper’s expression that made his shoulders slump. “Well, if you’re certain—”
“Quite.”
The man was a politician and nothing if not adaptable. “Actually, that’s an excellent idea—I should have thought of it myself. It’ll help you to get the lay of the land.”
“How many officers work at the Eighth Precinct?”
Dell scratched his head. “I don’t rightly know. See, some of the wards are—well, let’s just say they’re not firmly under Mayor Wood’s control, so there are more men who support the new police than you might think still out in the various precincts. Davies is one of the precinct captains who stayed, but—” Dell stopped and gave Jasper a nervous grin, all the while turning his sweat-stained hat with sausage-like fingers, his ragged nails encrusted with dirt—or worse. “Anyway, Davies might chafe at the bit, but
he’ll assist you in every way possible and pull aside the best patrolmen for your training.”
The tremor in Dell’s hands was marked, and his bulbous green eyes, which seemed to be in constant motion, landed on Jasper’s own hands, which were gloved in black leather and resting motionlessly on the head of his walking stick. Dell frowned and shoved his hands into the sagging pockets of a worn and dirty frock coat that looked as if it had once been ochre.
Jasper moved the stick, laying it across his lap, the motion breaking Dell’s rapt gaze.
“I understand there is already a c-core of detectives in each of the p-precincts.”
“Er, yes, my lord, that’s true—and some fine ones, I’m sure. But the commissioners are interested in scientific methods and were most impressed with the time you spent with the Frenchie, er, Medoc? Modic?”
“Vidocq,” Jasper supplied.
“Yeah, him. Anyhow, there was some article you wrote on—”
Jasper did not help him out; he was curious to see what the inventive man would come up with.
But Dell gave up. “Well, on criminal matters, anyway.” He gave Jasper an ingratiating smile. “The Detective Department of the London Met is the best in the world. Even better than Paris, although that Veddick gent certainly got results, didn’t he?” Dell didn’t require an answer to carry on a conversation. “Yes, all the civilized—”
The carriage shuddered to an abrupt stop, and a staccato rapping made Dell squawk with surprise. A head popped up outside the window.
Dell glared at the figure and said some very vulgar words. “I beg your pardon, my lord,” he said to Jasper, then yanked down the window and demanded testily, “Who the hell are you?”
“Er, Patrolman O’Malley, sir. I’m from the Eighth.” He wore a dark-blue uniform very similar to a bobby’s.
“What is it?”
The young man’s eyes slid from Dell to Jasper and then back. “Sergeant Billings sent me, sir.”
Dell turned to Jasper. “Billings is a good man,” he said in a voice meant to be a whisper but so loud it could be heard over the noise of the street. He turned back to the patrolmen. “Yes?”
“Er, there’s been a murder, sir, behind Solange’s, and Detective Featherstone is at the scene.”
Dell turned to Jasper again. “Featherstone is not one of ours.” Dell’s head swiveled back to the boy. “Investigating crimes is Featherstone’s job, isn’t it?” He made as if to close the window, but the boy’s next words stopped him.
“The sarge said you were fetchin’, er”—his eyes swiveled to Jasper and then back to Dell—“the, uh, English detective today.”
“Yes, that’s correct; this is Lord Lightner you’re currently delaying.” Dell spat the inaccurate honorific at the quailing patrolman.
“Er, Billings said you might want to bring in the new detective. And the mayor sent a man who said—”
“The mayor?” Dell shrieked. “How the hell did he get into this? Lord Lightner isn’t under his direction.”
“Er, the mayor—”
“I don’t give a good goddamn what the mayor says,” Dell said, apparently forgetting he’d just been claiming friendship with said mayor a few moments earlier.
“Sergeant Billings said you’d say that, sir. He said to mention the dead man is Mr. Alard Janssen.”
Dell recoiled as if he’d been jabbed in the forehead. “Good God—Janssen’s been murdered?”
“Yes, sir.”
Dell’s brain whirred so loudly that Jasper could hear the cogs clacking.
He gave an abrupt nod. “Go on, then—we’ll be along behind you.” He turned to Jasper. “This is … er, well, it ain’t good.”
“What is n-not good?”
He cut Jasper an uncomfortable look. “Beggin’ your pardon, my lord, but Solange’s is a whorehouse. As nice as it is, I reckon it ain’t the kinda place Your Lordship is used to.”
Jasper was amused. “You n-needn’t apologize, Mr. Dell. We have brothels in L-London.”
Dell was not a man to appreciate irony. “If what that young muttonhead said about the dead man being Janssen is right, then you might be the best person to handle this.”
“And why is that?”
“Janssen and Governor King were the main voices for trainin’ up a scientific police department. It wouldn’t be no lie to say Janssen was one of the men who had you brought here. He and King were real close. I doubt the governor would want a man like Featherstone investigatin’.” Once again he gave Jasper an ingratiating smile. “You could say that you bein’ on this investigation would be a way to thank Janssen for his part in bringin’ you here.”
Jasper wanted to laugh at the irony. Instead, he gave the profusely sweating politician a grave smile. “Well then, Alderman, when you p-put it that way, I’ll be honored to offer my assistance.”
CHAPTER 5
Jasper felt like a performing bear as he knelt beside the dead body to conduct a cursory examination. There were at least a dozen people standing about: perhaps six patrolmen, several passing pedestrians who’d stopped to watch, and—if he was not mistaken—three working women.
They were in the rubbish alley behind Madam Solange’s, and all eyes had been fastened on Jasper since the moment he’d arrived.
In addition to O’Malley—a pale, skinny young man with protruding ears and a faint Irish accent—there were four other patrolmen in a clutch, muttering to one another while O’Malley eyed them with open hostility.
Their detective was a man named Featherstone, an English surname, but the detective was clearly a product of America. There was a palpable sense of dislike between all the patrolmen—regardless of national origin—and the detective. If body posture was anything to go by—and Jasper believed it was—Featherstone might be more despised than the interloping son of an English duke. At least for the moment.
Alard Janssen lay on his back in the rubbish. His expression was one of openmouthed shock, but his eyes were closed. Jasper assumed that somebody other than Janssen had closed them. He was dressed in expensive evening garments, which were hacked and bloody on one side. Jasper didn’t see a hat, gloves, or cane.
Janssen was a man who’d enjoyed rich food and too little exertion, and his paunch was significant. Jasper figured him for sixteen or seventeen stone. In addition to his weight, the blood vessels on his nose and cheeks exhibited the sort of bloom associated with heavy, sustained alcohol consumption.
His necktie had been stretched out and his shirt collar was half torn off, revealing ligature marks and abrasions that looked to have been made by rough rope. Jasper took out his handkerchief and plucked a few fibers from the swollen wound, tucking the folded handkerchief back into his pocket. There was a large swelling over the larynx, which had been crushed.
There were fingertip-size bruises and shallow scratches around the neck wound, meaning either the killer or the victim had grabbed the area. Flesh beneath Janssen’s nails indicated that he must have struggled.
Jasper bent low to sniff Janssen’s mouth. The odor of death was strong, but—
He frowned and took another deep breath, then another. There was a subtle sweetness, a smell so slight that he might have missed it had it not been an odor that sped his heart rate.
“Why’s he doin’ that?” one of the prostitutes—who couldn’t have been more than thirteen or fourteen—asked O’Malley, who stood beside her looking not much older himself.
His peach-fuzzed cheeks turned a brilliant red. “You hush up, Annie Holiday,” he hissed.
Jasper checked Janssen’s eyelids, neck, and jaw before taking the dead man’s arm and continuing his exam. Next he removed one shoe, then began at the knee and worked down to Janssen’s toes. When he’d finished, he turned to the young patrolman.
“Please m-move everyone all the way out of the alley.” There was grumbling and foot-dragging, but soon there was just Dell, Featherstone, and the uniformed policemen.
Jasper unbuttoned Janssen’s trousers.
“Good God!” Dell gasped. “What the hell are—”
“If you are squ-squ-squeamish, I recommend you g-go with the others,” Jasper said sharply.
The alderman gaped but remained where he was.
Jasper pulled up Janssen’s shirt and loosened the tape on his drawers before pulling them down far enough to examine the dead man’s stomach.
“Wh-what are you looking for?” Dell asked.
Jasper smiled slightly at the other man’s stammer. “Signs of p-putrefaction, which are first v-visible in the lower right abdominal area.” Blood had pooled beneath the skin on the front of Janssen’s body, which indicated that he’d either died on his front or been put in that position soon after.
Once Jasper finished examining the rest of Janssen’s chest, he turned to Featherstone. “Help me t-turn the body.” The detective blanched but moved quickly enough. Once Janssen was facedown, Jasper lifted his shirt and coats and examined his back.
“What are you looking for now?” Dell had inched closer but wrinkled his nose and stepped back when he noticed that Janssen had soiled his trousers.
“Marks that would indicate h-how he was killed, in what p-position, perhaps ab-brasions.” There was bruising on the midback that was likely from the killer’s knees, perhaps as he pulled on the garrote. Judging by the height of the bruise and Janssen’s own height—approximately six feet—the killer would have to be at least five foot seven, and likely taller, if he’d made the marks while standing. Then again, the marks might have come from the murderer kneeling on Janssen once he’d brought the man to the ground.
Janssen’s head was covered in thick brown hair; there was no swelling or blood.
The last thing Jasper examined was Janssen’s side. The shirt had been so badly shredded that strips of fabric were buried in the wound, some of the blood dry and hard. It took several minutes to carefully pull the cloth away. When he peeled back the last piece of jagged material, his eyes widened: in addition to one, two, three, four stab wounds, it looked as if a chunk of flesh had been removed.
Absence of Mercy Page 4
