Absence of Mercy

by S. M. Goodwin

  “Yes, my lord.” The other man sagged with relief.

  Jasper followed him through a magnificent set of double doors into the Astor House’s Rotunda restaurant. An enormous circular mahogany bar dominated the center of the room, and most of the barstools were occupied. Along both sides were curved counters, which seated yet more men in evening garb. The concierge escorted Jasper toward a series of ornate wooden doors. He opened the second door, which held a small, elegant dining room where two men sat eating.

  A tall, bone-thin man with gray hair stood and approached Jasper, his hand extended.

  “I’m Frederick Tallmadge. Thank you so much for joining us, my lord.”

  “My p-pleasure, sir.”

  Tallmadge looked at the concierge. “Set another place for Lord Jasper.”

  “Thank y-you, Superintendent, but I’ve already eaten,” Jasper lied. He was dead on his feet, and his head had begun to throb some time ago.

  “Perhaps a drink?”

  “Whiskey, please.”

  Tallmadge gestured to Dell, a flicker of distaste on his patrician features. “I know you’re already acquainted with this gentleman.”

  Dell’s eyes were red rimmed, his suit even more wrinkled and stained than earlier. “His Lordship and I are old friends,” Dell said with a shaky grin. “So you reckon Janssen was murdered by the same riffraff him and his reformer friends were always trying to help?” Dell asked, either unaware of or unconcerned about the grim look Tallmadge was giving him.

  What an odd couple they were.

  Tallmadge took charge of the conversation. “Please, have a seat, my lord. I understand you’ve already spoken with Captain Davies.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I’ve also received a message from City Hall.” Tallmadge’s expression of wonderment told Jasper this was not a usual occurrence. “It appears Mayor Wood and I have found a subject on which we can agree: you being in charge of this case.”

  Jasper wondered who would tell McElhenny that. “I’m flattered b-by your faith.”

  “I feel I owe you an apology for bringing you into this mess. When the Metropolitan Police Bill passed back in April, we knew there would be trouble, but we had no idea just how much. Several of us—Alard Janssen included—had hoped to begin our new force with a science-based detective department like yours in London. But matters have … well, they’ve dragged on. And now you’ve landed in the middle of it.”

  Tallmadge sat back and swirled his wine in his glass. “The commission is one hundred percent behind you.” He gave a sharp laugh. “That isn’t saying much, seeing how we’re holed up on White Street like fugitives. I think putting you in the Eighth isn’t a bad idea at all.”

  So, Jasper would be Tallmadge’s man in the enemy’s camp.

  “C-Captain Davies has been m-most helpful,” Jasper lied.

  Tallmadge cocked an eyebrow, and the glint of weary amusement in his eyes spoke of intelligence. Jasper thought he had the look of a man committed to his duty rather than crusading. He knew from reading the papers that Tallmadge had been at least the third or fourth choice for the position, only after several others had rejected the contentious job offer.

  “I’m sure the mayor is eager to resolve this case in a way that doesn’t expose the incompetence—not to mention corruption—that is rife throughout his department. If Davies’s support doesn’t prove sufficient, you may always approach the commission.”

  “Was he killed like Sealy and Dunbarton?” Dell persisted.

  Tallmadge opened his mouth as if to chide the other man, then seemed to think better of it. “You can speak the truth here, my lord.”

  Jasper had no intention of saying anything more than what he’d already seen in the special edition of the Herald. “Mr. Janssen was garroted and stabbed—”

  “So it was like the others. You think the Sixth arrested the wrong woman?” Dell’s expression was avid.

  “It’s best not to go throwing such accusations around, Mr. Dell,” Tallmadge said sharply, only to ask Jasper, “Do you believe it could be the same killer?”

  “I d-don’t know very much about the earlier m-murders.”

  “You must talk to Captain McElhenny.” Tallmadge grimaced. “One of the mayor’s staunchest men; he’s probably going to be less than cooperative.”

  “I’ve seen him.”

  “Already?” Tallmadge sounded pleased by Jasper’s industry.

  “He told me the case f-files have disappeared.”

  Both men gaped.

  “Do you believe him?” Tallmadge asked.

  “Shouldn’t I?”

  Tallmadge opened his mouth, appeared to think better of what he was going to say, and closed it again.

  “It sounds the same as the other killings to me,” Dell said. “Maybe the woman the Sixth arrested was part of a group of robbers?”

  Tallmadge cut Dell a look of intense dislike and stood. “It’s been a long day and you must be exhausted, my lord. I’m sure you must know this case is a priority. While it would be a great tragedy if the Sixth’s arrest was responsible for the death of an innocent woman, don’t let fear of a police scandal keep you from finding the truth.”

  In other words, Tallmadge would be thrilled to see such a cock-up attributed to Mayor Wood’s Munis.

  Jasper took his leave of both men, his feet dragging with weariness. When he reached his room, he inserted the key, but before he could turn it, the door swung inward.

  “Good evening, my lord.”

  Jasper sensed, by Paisley’s frosty greeting, that the hotel was not to his liking.

  “Good evening, Paisley.” He handed over his hat, gloves, and cane before unbuttoning his overcoat.

  Paisley sniffed. And then sniffed again.

  “Yes, I know; I stink. You’d better run me a bath.”

  Paisley lifted the coat from his shoulders and then stared at the hem; Jasper saw that he’d gotten blood on it during his examination.

  “Er, blood,” Jasper admitted sheepishly.

  Paisley’s frown went all the way to his core. “It may never come out.”

  Jasper didn’t argue; he knew he’d lose. Instead he strode to the bedroom, loosening his stock. “How was your first d-d-day in New York City, P-Paisley?”

  Paisley made a noise that conveyed volumes. “I procured several newspapers for you, my lord. Unfortunately, the most respected, the New-York Daily Times, does not have a Sunday issue.”

  Jasper didn’t tell his servant that he’d had enough of New York’s news for the day. Instead he said, “Did you g-go out and about, or merely entertain yourself by t-terrorizing the hotel staff?”

  Paisley ignored both questions. “I found a house that might be acceptable, my lord.” He helped Jasper out of his closely tailored morning coat.

  “You found a p-place after only one day? Your industry is c-commendable.” A frigid silence met his teasing. “I take it your urgency is your way of saying you do not c-care for this hotel?”

  His valet acknowledged Jasper’s words with the slightest of sniffs. So, a yes, in other words.

  “If you l-like the house, then I like it,” Jasper soothed. He unbuttoned his waistcoat, gave it a subtle sniff, and recoiled. Paisley took it between two fingers and laid it over a nearby clotheshorse, glaring at it as if it were a dead corpse, which is what it smelled like. Jasper hadn’t realized the stench of the Tombs would cling to him quite so persistently.

  Paisley knelt to remove Jasper’s ankle boots while Jasper worked on his collar and cuffs.

  “Do you wish to know where the house is, my lord?”

  “No, b-but you want to tell me. So, where is it?”

  “It is called a brownstone and is located on Union Square—East Sixteenth and Fourth Avenue, to be more precise.” He paused and then added, “There is a little green that boasts a new statute of the American rebel George Washington.”

  Jasper laughed. “General Washington isn’t considered a rebel here.” He shrugged out of
his shirt while Paisley pulled off his stockings.

  “It was built only a decade ago,” Paisley added. Judging by his ambivalent tone, he hadn’t yet decided whether new was a good or bad thing.

  “Excellent, a n-n-new house—we’ve not lived in one of those b-before, have we? It shall be an adventure.”

  An ominous silence followed his attempt at raillery. Although the man did not want to live in this foreign city, by God he would do his best to find Jasper the perfect situation.

  “Shall I schedule an appointment for you to view it, my lord?”

  “That won’t be n-necessary, Paisley—lease it, or r-rent it, or whatever one does. I trust you implicitly.”

  If Paisley had been the sort of man who was given to smiling, he would have smiled at that.

  “How was your day, my lord?”

  Jasper opened his mouth to tell him about the current chaos surrounding his new position, then paused. How could he say anything when he didn’t know himself?

  Paisley’s expression didn’t change, but his bearing became more alert, like that of a hunting dog scenting game.

  “It was … interesting.”

  His valet did not ask him what he meant but bent to pick up his discarded trousers and drawers, which he took to the dressing room before returning with a dark-blue yukata.

  Jasper slipped his arms into the sleeves and tied the sash. “I take it you’ve read the p-paper and seen the stories about the c-current police muddle?” Paisley nodded. “Let’s just say things are rather unsettled at the m-moment.”

  “I see, my lord. If we do not stay here, shall we be returning home?”

  Home. How was it possible for a person to imbue one word with so much yearning? And why didn’t Jasper feel that yearning? After all, it was his home that he’d left packed in mothballs and draped beneath Holland covers. Why didn’t he feel any desire to return to London?

  With your tail between your legs?

  “I haven’t g-given that eventuality any thought,” he lied.

  Paisley inclined his head and left—probably to go out and procure fireworks to celebrate their possible departure. Jasper knew the man was thrilled, although he would never demonstrate his feelings by so much as a twitch.

  He took one of his cigars from a box Paisley had set on his dressing table. They were special, not like the ones in all the other boxes his valet would have distributed throughout the hotel suite for Jasper’s convenience. These cigars were composed of powdered opium and tobacco, a substance the Chinese called madak.

  Madak had been fashionable in China until it was banned for recreational use some hundred years earlier. Now it was allowed only for medicinal purposes. Jasper had discovered madak in London at a Chinese herbalist shop. It was the same place where he’d undergone acupuncture for his migraine headaches. If he remained in New York, he would need to find an acupuncturist, as it was the only treatment that worked once a headache set in.

  Madak was a suitable palliative for minor head pain—like the sort of pain he was experiencing this evening, a dull throbbing likely born of tension and a lack of food rather than a full-blown migraine. As usual, the ache originated from the site of his cranioplasty. When he’d returned to London, a doctor had advised reopening his skull and using a new bone-graft procedure to replace the metal plate. Jasper supposed he might do so if the pain ever became intolerable. But for now, he had madak. He tried to use the cigars judiciously, because relying on opiates, even diluted ones, was a double-edged sword.

  He lit the cigar, inhaled deeply, and held the smoke in his lungs for a long moment before releasing it. The jolt of euphoria rendered him slightly boneless, so he propped himself against the frame of the big sash window, staring out over the flickering lights of the city. The ache in his temples lessened a bit more each time he filled his lungs. Even better, the drug also stopped his racing thoughts.

  When he was pleasantly dulled, he went to his bath chamber.

  “Shall I lay out your evening wear, my lord?” Paisley asked.

  Jasper took one last draw on his cigar before handing it to his valet, who carefully tamped out the burning end without destroying the other half of the cigar, which Jasper would smoke before bed if his headache persisted.

  “I d-don’t think so.” He yawned and shrugged out of his robe, tossing it to Paisley before sliding into the steaming water with a groan of pleasure. Jasper closed his eyes; he’d be fortunate if he could stay awake long enough to get out of the tub.

  “You have some mail, my lord.”

  “Anything important?” he asked without opening his eyes. Paisley opened all Jasper’s correspondence unless it was marked confidential.

  “Several invitations, sir.”

  “Why the d-devil is anyone still in t-town at this time of year?” In the summer months, London was deserted as ton families fled the heat for their country estates.

  “I’m given to understand the recent financial and political instabilities have kept some men of business—and their families—in the city, my lord.”

  That made—unfortunately—too much sense. After the Dred Scot decision in March, Jasper’s man of business had urged him to pull out of several railroad investments in the American West. Many people were predicting that civil disaster loomed on the horizon for the young nation.

  Jasper flexed his damaged knee, which felt quite good after such a long, active day. He stretched out in the long tub, lulled by the sounds of Paisley moving about the apartment. He’d almost drifted off to sleep when his valet’s voice startled him.

  “There are two dinner invitations you might wish to look at, my lord.”

  Jasper yawned but didn’t open his eyes. He could feel Paisley’s gaze burning into him; the man wouldn’t leave him in peace until Jasper did what he wanted. He sighed and glared up at him. “Go on then, f-fetch whatever you believe I need to look at. You can read them to me while I bathe. And while you’re at it, order me s-something to—”

  “I took the liberty of ordering your supper. It will be up shortly, my lord.” Paisley’s smug words were punctuated by the sound of knocking. He frowned and marched out of the bathroom.

  Jasper grinned as he soaped one of his feet, feeling a twinge of pity for the staff at the Astor House, who were about to learn the meaning of true tyranny. If Paisley specified a time for the meal to be delivered, he meant that time exactly. Not early; not late.

  Jasper forced himself to give the matter of New York society some thought. In London he’d avoided society affairs for years, even before the war. Since taking the job at the Met, he’d developed a “society” of his own. True, it was a rather limited society that consisted of working long hours alongside men who would never accept him, engaging in strenuous physical exercise for mental peace and general fitness, reading copiously for work and pleasure, and spending the occasional evening with one of his two vices.

  That’s not society, Jasper; that’s pitiful. And it’s certainly not living.

  Jasper grimaced at the annoying thought. Perhaps it was pitiful. As for not living? He lived just fine, thank you very much.

  However, a solitary existence had been possible because he’d not needed to exert himself to learn how London worked. New York, on the other hand, was a puzzle that would require a good deal of effort to comprehend.

  “This just came for you, my lord.” Paisley held up an envelope.

  “Open it for m-me.” Jasper stood, taking the towel Paisley brought from the warmer.

  “It is from a Mr. H. Law, my lord.”

  “Well, that was certainly qu-quick.” Jasper wrapped the towel around his waist, tucked in the ends, and wiped his hands before reaching for the letter.

  Detective Inspector Lightner:

  I’m sorry, sir, but there are no notebooks.

  “Bloody hell,” he muttered.

  I lied to get out of The Tombs, but you said something that stuck with me, sir—about finding absolution. I don’t have notes, but I know the details of
those cases like the back of my hand.

  If you want to report me for failing to fulfill my part in the bargain, I’ll be at Number 6, Spivey Lane.

  I apologize for my lie and would like to help.

  H. Law

  Jasper barked out a laugh. “That sly b-bastard.”

  “Is something wrong, my lord?”

  “This isn’t what I w-was expecting,” Jasper said, tossing the note into the small bin beside the sink.

  “Perhaps the person who sent it made a mistake?”

  “He m-made a mistake, all right,” Jasper said grimly. He’d been a gullible fool, and Law had used him as handily as a skeleton key to get out of his cell. If the man had possessed an ounce of sense, he’d have been on a fast boat crossing the river right now. Captain McElhenny wouldn’t be the only angry man Law would have to dodge if he stayed in the city.

  CHAPTER 10

  A headless man thundered past on a wide-eyed bay.

  Jasper thought it was Somerset Sackville, although it was difficult to say without a head. Still, he recognized Sacky’s fine gelding, Dancer, whom the man had loved more than his wife.

  Sacky’s boots were in the stirrups, and his gauntlet-clad hand still held firm to the lance tucked under his right arm. His body was listing a bit as Dancer tore past and was quickly swallowed up by the thick, low-hanging smoke that obscured the way ahead.

  The crack of a gun and pain in his shoulder were simultaneous, the impact causing his body to jerk. Beneath him Horus swerved and then corrected his footing without Jasper’s help, barely avoiding slamming into a horse passing on the right.

  You’re getting left behind, the cool voice in his head advised.

  Turn around! Run! Run! another voice shrieked, drowning out the first.

  Jasper urged Horus on with slight pressure from his calves, and the horse shot forward.

  Blood from his shoulder wound flowed down his arm, warming at least part of his freezing body. It also soaked his glove, causing the slick leather reins to slide like eels between his quickly numbing fingers. Artillery fire from the Fedioukine Heights struck the man on his left, turning horse and rider into a haze of pink mist.