Absence of Mercy

by S. M. Goodwin

  He recoiled at her cold mockery but smiled rather than rising to the bait.

  Her own lips curled into something that should have resembled a smile but didn’t. “Handsome, wealthy, and good-natured. What a blessing for American women that you stammer—otherwise you’d be far too perfect. Don’t worry; I daresay such a small flaw shan’t deter my countrywomen from shamelessly flinging themselves at your feet.”

  Jasper was reminded of Captain Davies. But at least the Welshman had good reason to hate him; why the devil did this woman loathe him so vehemently?

  “I f-feel like there is a compliment hidden in your words s-somewhere, Mrs. Dunbarton, so I shall say thank you.”

  She snorted and turned to the butler, who was hovering nearby with an anxious frown. “Put your two biggest servants outside and make sure nobody else is admitted. Follow me, my lord.” She strode toward the stairs.

  Jasper easily kept pace with her far shorter stride, despite her brisk pace. “H-How long have you b-been here?”

  “A newspaperman appeared at my front door just after two o’clock to ask my opinion on the recent murder. I daresay he was hoping to catch me unawares.”

  Jasper had difficulty imagining the small woman in front of him ever being caught unaware.

  “I knew poor Zuza would be like a babe in the woods.”

  “Zuza?”

  “Mrs. Janssen.”

  “She has n-no family here to support her?”

  She gave a short bark of laughter. “You mean nobody other than me?”

  Well, yes, actually.

  Jasper couldn’t imagine this harsh, combative woman being much of a comfort to anyone, but it was hardly his place to say so.

  When he didn’t answer, she said, “No. Her mother and father are on a tour of the Continent, and her only brother died last year. I’ve sent word to an aunt, but she lives in Boston.”

  Once they reached the landing, she led him down a long, brightly lighted corridor: no tomfoolery with shrouded mirrors, stopped clocks, and covered windows when Mrs. Dunbarton was in charge.

  “I daresay the lack of gloom makes you believe there is a lack of grieving,” Mrs. Dunbarton tossed over her shoulder.

  Jasper found her ability to know what he was thinking—if not interpret it correctly—rather unnerving.

  She stopped in front of a door and glared up at him. She was tiny, her head not reaching his shoulder, yet she gave the impression of being far larger—huge, even.

  Jasper prepared for more insults.

  “Alard told everyone all about you. He was quite proud of his part in bringing you here. Zuza was going to give a dinner for you next week.”

  “That is v-very kind of her.”

  “Kindness has nothing to do with it. Zuza prides herself on having the newest frippery before anyone else.”

  Being referred to as frippery was hardly complimentary, but he found himself smiling. She’d already brought up his stammer—which nobody ever mentioned in polite society—and impugned his utility as anything other than an attractive ornament in less than ten minutes. What would she say next?

  Her eyes narrowed at his lack of reaction, and Jasper saw a hint of an emotion other than hostility in her startlingly blue eyes.

  Even without a scowl, she was not a pretty woman. Her narrow, high-bridged nose was too big for her small, round face, and she had thin, tightly compressed lips with perpetually turned-down corners. Yet looking at her was no hardship. Jasper decided it was her vitality, for lack of a better word, that drew a person’s eye.

  Of course, he’d once seen a cobra in North Africa, and that had drawn his eye too.

  She turned the chatelaine that hung from a thick gold chain while she stared at him; it was her only jewelry, and fiddling with it was the first sign of nervousness she’d exhibited.

  “I hope you’ll be the only one coming to question her, Detective Inspector.”

  Ah, so she did know his proper title.

  “I d-don’t anticipate anyone else will need to speak with her,” he temporized, having no earthly idea what the higher-ups might do. “I c-can request my captain put p-p-patrolmen by the front door to dissuade newspapermen.” He could imagine Davies’s reaction to that request.

  “Uniforms would only add to the circus atmosphere. I employ several large footmen who have experience with newspapermen. If Zuza needs them, I’ll send them over.” She pursed her lips, opened her mouth, and then closed it in an unprecedented gesture of uncertainty. Jasper had known this woman only a few minutes, but he did not imagine she exhibited indecision often.

  When she didn’t speak, he asked, “Have you heard the c-circumstances of Mr. J-Janssen’s death?”

  “Yes, the journalist took some relish in relating that news. Obviously, you think this killing is related to Felix’s and Wilbur Sealy’s deaths.” Before Jasper could either confirm or deny her supposition, she snorted and glanced at the watch pinned to the bodice of her gown. “I don’t have time for this. If you want to speak to me about Felix, you may call on me.”

  The invitation surprised him. “Is there a c-convenient time?”

  “I don’t sit about my house waiting for afternoon callers. If you want to speak to me, you can come to the New Beginnings School for Young Ladies. I am there most days between two and six o’clock.”

  His mouth twitched at both the whimsical name and her abrupt command.

  “You find it amusing that a woman of my class would engage in worthwhile employment, my lord?”

  “Not at all. It is just that the n-name s-sounds rather utopian.”

  “Trust a man—an aristocratic man—to think a new beginning for young women utopian rather than a basic human right.” She turned her scornful gaze away and yanked open the door. “The police have sent their emissary, Zuza. It seems you will be the first to host the matrimonial prize of the year, after all.”

  The only occupant of the small sitting room was perched on a gold-silk Empire settee.

  “Hetty,” she chided softly.

  Mrs. Janssen was painfully thin and possessed the sort of fragility that elicited the usual masculine urge to protect a delicate female. It crossed his mind that Mrs. Dunbarton had not elicited this chivalric response even though she was far smaller and slighter than her friend.

  “Good morning, Lord Jasper.” Her hazel eyes were red and swollen, but her smile was brave. “What a welcome to New York you are getting.”

  “M-My deepest condolences, ma’am. Thank you f-f-for seeing me today.”

  “Of course. Please.” She motioned to the chair across from her.

  “I suspect you don’t wish for my presence,” Mrs. Dunbarton said, again reading Jasper’s mind and this time interpreting it correctly. “Ring for me when you’ve had enough of Lord Jasper, Zuza, and I will show him the door. I will send up tea.” She shot Jasper another glare. “See that she eats something.”

  The door shut with a decisive snap, and Mrs. Janssen smiled wryly. “You mustn’t mind Hetty, my lord; she tends to be—”

  “Direct?” Grating, rude, insulting, judgmental, and abrasive?

  Mrs. Janssen’s pale cheeks tinted a delicate pink. “Was she terrible to you?”

  “N-Not at all,” Jasper lied.

  “She is a very good friend to me.” She caught her lower lip and worried it. “I know this will bring up Felix’s death all over again—the newspapers, the prying, the whispers. Yet she came; she knows how this feels better than anyone. Well, anyone other than Emma, of course. That’s Emmaline Sealy,” she added at his look of confusion.

  “Y-You are acquainted with Mrs. Sealy?” Jasper wasn’t entirely successful in keeping the surprise out of his voice: three dead men whose wives not only knew one another but were friends?

  “Oh, not close associates, but we all move in the same circles. I would call Emma more of an acquaintance; she’s not like Hetty.”

  Jasper didn’t imagine many people were.

  “They are close f-friends?” />
  “No.” Her brow wrinkled, and a flush spread across her pale cheeks. “Actually, I don’t know. You’d have to ask Hetty. All I know is that Emma used to volunteer at several of Hetty’s charities. But then, so do many others.”

  “Used to?”

  “I haven’t seen Emma in some time—not since before her husband’s—” She gave a jerky shrug and smoothed her already smooth skirt. Her hands were trembling; she laced them together.

  Jasper took out his notebook. “Do you feel you c-could answer a few q-questions about your husband?”

  “Of course.”

  “When did you see him l-last?”

  “Not since Friday morning.”

  “He d-didn’t come home last night?”

  “I didn’t see him.” She paused, looked away, and swallowed. “He often spent his Saturday nights … elsewhere.”

  “Do you h-have any idea where?”

  She met his gaze squarely. “No.”

  “H-Had you heard from him at all s-since Friday?”

  “Yes, he was to go to a dinner, but he sent a message.”

  “What d-did the message say?”

  “Just that he’d be unable to attend.”

  “When did you receive this?”

  “Yesterday after six.”

  “D-Do you know why he changed his m-mind?”

  “His message didn’t say.”

  “Was that unusual?”

  “Not really. He did try to be courteous, but he’d lose track of time when something captured his interest.”

  “On S-Saturdays?”

  She frowned. “It might happen on any day.”

  “D-Did he keep an office?”

  “No, he used his study for that sort of thing.”

  “What sort of thing?”

  “Oh. I assumed you meant business.”

  “What sort of b-business?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Can you think of anybody who might have known wh-where he was yesterday evening? F-Friends? His valet?”

  “He was between valets, since his last man—who’d been with him for years—finally retired. He’d been using footmen or Butters until he engaged another. As for friends, I don’t know many of his acquaintances. Alard and I kept quite different schedules. If we saw each other, it was usually at dinner or some function.”

  “I d-dislike prying, ma’am, but I have to ask if you were h-having d-difficulties.”

  She gave a soft, bitter laugh. “We didn’t spend enough time together to have difficulties.” Her cheeks flushed, and she amended, “We were not close. We just—well, we had our own interests.”

  Her story was nothing unusual. The upper classes could afford to ignore each other once their marriages began to pall. People like the Bickles had to face each other day in and day out.

  “How long were you m-married?”

  “Not yet five years.”

  “D-Do you have children?”

  A bolt of pain spasmed across her face. “No.”

  “Where were you last n-night?”

  “I was at a dinner at the Hamilton Fish residence.”

  “What t-time did you g-get home?”

  “There was dancing after dinner, and I believe I finally left around one thirty.”

  “D-Did you go out again?”

  The door opened, and Mrs. Dunbarton stood in the doorway, a girl with a tray beside her. “Put it on the table, Mary.”

  The room was silent while the maid deposited the tea tray. Mrs. Janssen stared at her hands, and Mrs. Dunbarton stared at Jasper.

  She yanked her accusing eyes off him long enough to ask her friend, “Is aught amiss, Zuza? Do you want me to—”

  “I’m fine, Hetty,” Mrs. Janssen said sharply, and then she tried to smile, but the result was ghastly. “I’m fine,” she said more calmly.

  The two women locked eyes for a long moment, until Mrs. Dunbarton nodded and closed the door.

  “You asked if I went out again,” she said, not looking up from the tea she was preparing. “The answer is no. I had a dreadful headache. My maid undressed me and brought up warm milk. I went to bed sometime around two thirty.” She cut him a quick look. “How do you take your tea?”

  “Strong and b-black, please. By the by, I am under st-st-strict orders to m-make sure you eat,” he reminded her.

  She sighed and placed a single biscuit on her plate.

  “May I take a l-look at your h-husband’s-study?” he asked as she prepared the cups.

  “I’ll tell Butters to escort you.” She hesitated, then asked, “Do you believe this was a personal killing or a robbery gone bad?”

  “D-Did you know of anyone who would w-wish to kill him?”

  Instead of replying no, of course not, as many people would, she paused. “I want Alard’s killer to be apprehended. At the same time, I don’t wish to cast aspersions.”

  “Understood.”

  “An angry man showed up here not long ago and shoved past poor Butters to gain entrance. He managed to get up here before two footmen were summoned to haul him away.”

  “When w-was this?”

  “Perhaps two or three weeks ago. Butters will know.”

  “Was your h-husband here?”

  “No, it was just me.”

  “Did you s-speak to the man?”

  “He had a message for Alard. He said to tell him that the shipment had been promised and paid for and that he would not be held responsible if they did not deliver the goods—I distinctly recall he said ‘deliver the goods.’ ”

  “Any idea what h-he meant?”

  “No.”

  “D-Did you tell Mr. Janssen?”

  “He said he’d never heard of the man and chided Butters for failing to keep him out.”

  “I d-don’t suppose this man gave his name?”

  “Oh, I’m sorry—what a ninny I am. Yes, he certainly did. In fact, he was most emphatic about it—Amos Baker.”

  Jasper wrote down the name. “Was that all h-he said—‘deliver the g-goods’?”

  “He was furious—shouting. I was too scared at the time to listen closely, but I do recall one thing he said: ‘Tell your husband that his life won’t be worth a brass farthing if he tries to worm out of the arrangement.’ ”

  CHAPTER 8

  The Tombs

  Hieronymus Law’s bare feet touched the opposite wall of his cell—although calling it a cell was exaggerating a bit. It was more like a broom closet in a very tiny house. It was barely big enough to hold him, a pile of damp, lice-infested straw, and an overflowing bucket of waste.

  Oh, and it also accommodated the three hallucinations who’d recently joined him. At least Hy thought they were hallucinations, not that he was a good judge of such things after living in a pitch-black hole for …

  Well, he had no idea how long he’d been there. Even if he’d been able to make marks on the rough stone to keep track, he wouldn’t be able to see them.

  The Tombs was the darkest place he’d ever been. Hell could not be any darker than his cell.

  The only light that penetrated the dank five-by-five room came once a day along with the guard who took away his empty water can and pushed in a full one. At least that happened most days, but Hy hadn’t received a new can of water in a while. Or he didn’t think he had.

  The Tombs wasn’t just dark, it was also damp and bloody cold. It had been built over the old prison, which had been built over the Collect Pond. Because it was a jail, nobody had taken much care draining the pond before building on it. As a result, the stone blocks beneath his ass and back had shifted, twisted, and buckled.

  The crippling chill from the old pond seeped up between the gaps and turned the stones to ice. The manacles that held him chained to the wall were like cold fire around his raw, bleeding wrists. His skin was cold, his muscles were cold, and even his bones were cold. He ached with cold—or at least he had until a day ago, maybe two, when he’d begun to feel warm. And then warmer still, until finally
he was feverishly hot, but with a cold sweat.

  His change in body temperature had coincided with the arrival of his three companions.

  The stench, the darkness, the chill, and being cramped and restrained were bad—miserable, in fact—but they were nothing to the thirst. He was so thirsty he was beginning to suspect a lack of water was making him hallucinate. Unless the people crowding his cell were real?

  Dora McCurdy had been the first to arrive. Hy hadn’t thought about her for years—fifteen, at least. He must have been nine or ten when he first saw her. She’d been the first girl he noticed that way: gold-red curls, skin like cream, lips pink like the inside of a seashell. She was wearing a pretty yellow dress and seemed unconcerned by the pungent, overflowing bucket of shit and piss that was less than a foot away from where she was standing.

  She looked at him with eyes as blue as the sky. “What happened to your clothes, Hy?”

  Her question made him remember he was wearing only his flannel drawers—the same pair he’d been wearing for weeks. Heat flooded his neck and face, and he tried to cross his arms over his chest, but they were chained to the wall.

  “A modest, godly girl would lower her eyes,” Father Thomas chided, taking up at least a quarter of the room with his surplice-shrouded bulk.

  Even in the darkness, Hy could feel the weight of the priest’s disapproval.

  “I always knew you’d end up here, Hieronymus,” Father Thomas said, shaking his great shaggy white head sadly.

  “Oh, hush up, you!” Only Großmutti Law—who’d died when Hy was seven—would dare speak to a man of God like that. She was a strict Calvinist and had no time for the Catholic Church or its henchmen. It wouldn’t have been her choice to send Hy to the orphanage.

  “Send you to those papist handmaidens to indoctrinate?” his grandmother demanded, as if Hy had spoken out loud. “I’d sooner you’d been raised by wolves.”

  The priest bristled at his grandmother’s slur and they commenced to brangle, which they did often. As the two of them bickered, Hy couldn’t help marveling that even his hallucinations were beyond his control.