Absence of Mercy

by S. M. Goodwin

  Jasper sighed at the inaccurate honorific but left it alone. “What is it?”

  “Sar Billings sent this for you—it’s the dead man’s address, sir. Mr. Finch was married.”

  Jasper took the piece of paper. “Thank you.” He turned to Law, who was watching O’Malley bicker with their witness. Jasper wouldn’t be surprised if the two young people started pulling each other’s hair soon.

  He beckoned Law. “Let’s leave this to P-Patrolman O’Malley to finish. I want to speak to the woman who owns the p-place. And then I get the p-pleasure of informing yet another woman that her husband has been m-murdered.”

  CHAPTER 19

  Lizzy Horgan’s business was more impressive from the front than from the rubbish alley behind it, but—unlike Solange’s—it was undeniably a brothel for men of more moderate means.

  The double set of battered doors was locked, so Law banged on the wood with the heel of his fist. “You believe what—er, Velma—said, sir?” Law asked as they waited.

  “She seems a b-bit … odd.”

  Law snorted at the understatement.

  “Have you b-been here before?” Jasper asked, unsurprised when the other man blushed at the question—it seemed to be a national characteristic: blushing when a brothel was mentioned. Perhaps some residual reaction from the Puritan era, even though Law appeared as Catholic as the pope.

  “Er, a time or two, sir.”

  The door swung open, and a statuesque black woman stood in the opening. She had the most arresting hazel eyes Jasper had ever seen. They were also red rimmed and bloodshot. “Why, gentlemen,” she said, her remarkable eyes meeting Jasper’s. “I’m afraid we’re closed. Although”—she tapped one long finger against her lower lip, her speculative gaze blazing a trail across Jasper’s body—“for you, I could make an—”

  “We’re here to speak to Lizzy, Mister Haslem,” Law said.

  Jasper blinked, and the woman’s—or man’s—features seemed to shift. Now that the suggestion had been planted, he saw that the brow was a bit too pronounced, the slender hands were broad and ropy across the back, and an Adam’s apple peeked out above the high-necked dressing gown.

  Haslem gave Law a dismissive sniff and tossed long, loose coils of jet-black hair before turning her—or his—attention back to Jasper. “I’m Mary Haslem. And you are?”

  “D-Detective Inspector Lightner.” Jasper took the proffered hand and bowed low over it. “The p-p-pleasure is mine.”

  When he stood, both Haslem and Law were gawking at him, Law in shock and Haslem with open appreciation. “Why don’t you come on in and make yourself at home.” She cut Law a cursory look. “I s’pose you want to come in too, Mr. High-Rony-Mus Law?”

  Jasper had believed his detective’s face was red before. Now it was like a glowing coal.

  “You t-two know each other?” Jasper asked.

  “Not like that,” Law hastened to assure him.

  Haslem snorted. “It surely ain’t. I have standards.”

  “I didn’t know you were out,” Law said, as prickly as a hedgehog.

  “Well, it seems you don’t know everythin’, now, do you? I heard you spent a little time in the Tombs your own self.” She didn’t wait for a reply but waved an arm to the cavernous saloon. “I’ll go get Lizzy. She got home late after dealin’ with her troubles, so she’s tryin’ to get a little rest.”

  “T-Troubles?” Jasper asked.

  “You’ll have to ask her about that, honey,” Mary said with a sultry smile, then turned and sashayed toward the big bar at the opposite end of the room, her ample bottom moving from side to side in seductive invitation.

  Law leaned down and said in a low voice, “Er, sir?”

  “Yes, D-Detective.”

  “That’s a man, sir.”

  “S-So you’ve said. Have y-you ever heard the proverb you can catch more f-flies with honey than vinegar?”

  Law’s bushy ginger eyebrows descended. “Aye?”

  Well, that—as you c-call Haslem—is a witness, a witness who c-calls herself Mary. Right now, she is a cooperative w-witness. If she wishes us to c-call her Queen V-Victoria, we will d-do so.”

  Deep grooves formed around Law’s compressed lips. “Aye.” The word sounded as if it had been physically squeezed from his lungs.

  * * *

  After Mary returned from alerting her employer, she settled them before the dormant fireplace and brought over a bottle and three glasses. When Jasper hesitated, she propped a hand on one of her hips. “I don’t trust a man who won’t drink with me.”

  Jasper took the glass, entertaining visions of showing up on Mrs. Finch’s doorstep slobbering drunk. “Thank you,” he murmured, doing no more than wetting his lips on the rim. Haslem was too busy arranging her person on the chaise longue in the most seductive pose to notice.

  “I know what y’all wanna know: and no, Mr. Finch wasn’t here last night.” Her eyes had begun to water, and she rubbed them. “And if anyone would know the answer to that, it’d be me. I was his favorite here.” Law snorted, and Haslem narrowed her eyes at him. Her gaze shifted to Jasper. “Stephen was real kind to me.”

  “When w-was the last time you saw him?”

  “Sunday.”

  “Was he here since?”

  “You mean did he see another women here?”

  Jasper nodded.

  Haslem’s eyelids dropped to half-mast. The expression was meant to be seductive, but it wasn’t convincing with her red-rimmed eyes. “I kept him satisfied, if you know what I mean.”

  Law muttered something Jasper couldn’t hear, and Mary scowled. “Does he have to be here?”

  Jasper cut the detective a resigned look. “M-might Detective Law speak to some of the other g-girls while you and I chat?”

  Law gave Jasper a look of disbelief.

  Haslem grinned. “You go on up and knock on Velma’s door, High-Rony-Mus. She’s about right for you.”

  Law stood, his clenched fists hanging like giant hams at his sides.

  “Why don’t you take the statements of the w-women we didn’t m-meet outside, Detective.”

  “Yes, sir,” Law said, six and a half feet of truculence.

  “You’ll have to kick some boys outa those beds,” Mary called after him with a laugh.

  Once he’d stomped off, Mary took Jasper’s hand, her skin smooth and cool. “There now, I just knew you wanted to have me all to yourself.”

  Jasper laid a hand over hers, gave it a gentle squeeze, and then lifted it.

  She made a moue of disappointment, took a sip of whiskey, fiddled with the neckline of her dressing gown, and finally heaved a put-upon sigh. “Fine. Let’s talk.” Mary gave a careless shrug, but Jasper was not fooled—the expression in her eyes was one of pain.

  “You liked Mr. F-Finch a great d-deal.”

  Her eyes flashed. “I’m just an ex-slave whore, Detective. It ain’t for me to like anyone a great deal. Especially not no rich white man.” She made a defeated noise and slumped back onto her chaise, her arms crossed protectively around her body, a tear rolling down her cheek. She gave Jasper a challenging look. “You know what they called me in the papers when I was arrested—wrongfully?”

  “No.”

  She gave a watery, slightly hysterical laugh. “They called me a monster—an abomination, but the things I’ve seen men do—” She bit her lower lip, the tears falling faster. “I’ll tell you this much—of all those men who come to me? Only Stephen didn’t sneak and hide who he was seein’ here.” Her smile was grim. “Believe me when I tell you I get plenty of business.”

  Jasper did believe her. There were numerous molly-houses in London to attest to the fact that a great many men preferred their own gender. But in England, the punishment for homosexual acts was death, and you’d never find somebody like Mary Haslem behaving so openly.

  “It’s true I liked him,” Haslem said, tears now streaming. “And now—” She dropped her head into her hands, giving herself up to grief.<
br />
  Jasper offered his handkerchief, and she took it without speaking.

  Her carefully curated feminine facade dropped away, and Mary Haslem’s body shook with the low, moaning sobs of a man in anguish.

  Jasper did not consider homosexual acts—or the men who engaged in them—beyond the pale. Indeed, both at public school and in the army, two places where feminine company was in short supply, it was not unheard of to give one’s mate a hand and offer one in return. Of course, one did not speak of such things.

  But he was a stranger to homosexual love, just as he was to any kind of romantic love—at least any that he could remember.

  That is a sad, sad admission, Jasper.

  He couldn’t argue with that.

  His sister-in-law’s face flickered through his mind, but Jasper didn’t chase Leticia’s image. If there was one memory he didn’t regret losing, it was his past with the woman who was now married to his brother.

  However, while Jasper might not be familiar with love, he did recognize passion when he saw it. And passion, next to money, was one of the most common motivations for murder.

  As the sobs died to sniffles, Mary returned. The transformation was subtle, her movements as she daubed at her eyes increasingly feminine. She offered the handkerchief back.

  “P-Please, keep it, Miss Haslem.” Jasper hoped she wouldn’t need it again but wasn’t optimistic. “How d-did Mr. Finch seem the last t-time you saw him?” He paused. “Now when was that again?”

  “Like I already said, it was Sunday. And he was the same as ever.”

  Mary, Jasper decided, was not the best liar in the world.

  “I understand the t-two of you had an argument?”

  She scowled. “I know that’ll be Velma who told you that. I saw how she was hangin’ around like a vulture when y’all were lookin’ over poor Stephen’s body. That little bitch is always listenin’ in on other people’s business. It wasn’t no argument.” She paused and then added, “We had a disagreement about all the whorin’ he did. Sometimes I get jealous—that’s natural, ain’t it?”

  “He’d b-been seeing somebody else?”

  “He said he hadn’t, but I’d barely seen him lately. Stephen Finch was not the sort of man to go without.”

  “D-Did that make you angry?”

  “Of course it did! I—” Her eyes widened. “I mean no, I wasn’t mad, I was just—just—dammit, I don’t know! You’re makin’ me all nervous and stupid. It’s true I was yellin’—just a little.”

  “Could you t-tell me where you w-were last night?”

  “I was here all night long.”

  “Working?”

  “Er, no. I had a headache and went to bed real early.”

  “Is there somebody who can c-confirm that?”

  “You’re not thinkin’ I’d hurt Stephen? Why, I loved—”

  “Mary?”

  They both turned at the sharp voice, Jasper getting to his feet.

  “Oh, Lizzy.” Mary’s voice pulsed with relief. “This is the policeman that’s come to solve Stephen’s murder—Detective Lightner.”

  Once again the woman before him did not adhere to his idea of a madam. She was tall and slender—perhaps five foot eight or nine—and her bearing was ramrod straight. Her dark hair was restrained in a tidy chignon, and her pale, even-featured face looked free of cosmetics. She was the opposite of Miss Paxton, her expression serious and unsmiling, her blue gown simple and modestly cut. And, unlike the other woman, she didn’t appear pleased to have a duke’s son sitting in her saloon.

  “I’m Elizabeth Horgan, Detective.” There was nothing of the coquette about her; had Jasper met her on the street, he would have taken her for a schoolmistress. A very attractive schoolmistress.

  Horgan and her employee exchanged a look Jasper couldn’t decipher.

  “He was just wantin’ to know where I was last night,” Mary said breathlessly.

  “Mary was with me.” Miss Horgan was a better liar than Haslem, but not by much. Jasper wondered if she was aware of the danger she was courting with her untruths. “We were entertaining a gentleman. Together.”

  Jasper had to admit the vision that flitted through his brain at her words was titillating. He could see by her miniscule smile that this was what she’d intended. So, not a schoolmistress after all.

  “Um—” Mary’s eyes darted between Jasper and her employer, and he knew she was wondering—hoping madly—that he didn’t recall her earlier statement.

  “What t-time was that?” he asked the madam before Mary could speak.

  “Hmm.” She brushed past him, her body barely touching his. He caught a whiff of perfume—something earthy and spicy, with just the faintest hint of sweetness beneath it …

  Blood roared in his ears, and he locked eyes with Miss Horgan as she lowered herself into the chair beside him. Her pupils were small—mere pinpricks—the iris a crystalline blue.

  Jasper looked away, his gaze dropping to the white knuckles of his hands. He unclenched his fingers and resumed his seat.

  Mary cleared her throat, her eyes bouncing nervously back and forth between them. “Um, Lizzy—”

  “What time were you t-together?” Jasper repeated.

  “All night.”

  “Uh, Lizzy?”

  “What is it, Mary?” Mrs. Horgan snapped, not looking away from Jasper.

  “I told the detective you were out last night, er, late. And that I was alone.”

  The madam’s eyes widened as she turned toward her cringing employee.

  “I’m sorry, Lizzy—I just—” Mary shrugged.

  “Shall w-we start again?” Jasper suggested gently.

  “You’d better tell him the truth,” Horgan said.

  Mary heaved a sigh. “I wasn’t here—I was at my mama’s. It was my weekly night off.”

  “Why did you lie?”

  “You know why.”

  He did; a mother’s alibi was not the most convincing.

  “Where d-does your mother live?”

  “Way up north—in Seneca Village. Or what’s left of it.”

  “And w-will your mother be able to confirm this?”

  “Yeah, I was there all night.”

  “Where were you S-Saturday night?”

  Both women frowned.

  It was the madam who answered. “We were both here that night, Detective. I have a half dozen employees to vouch for us.”

  Mary’s eyes, he noticed, had watered. “That was my last night with Stephen.”

  So, her mother for an alibi one night, a dead man for the other.

  “And y-you, Mrs. Horgan?”

  “It’s Miss Horgan. And me what?”

  “Where w-were you last night?”

  “I was with someone, but not here.”

  “I don’t suppose you’d be w-willing to tell me this somebody’s name?”

  “A talkative whore would soon be out of business, Detective.”

  “I’m afraid a p-police investigation takes precedence over c-commerce.”

  The look she gave him was one he suspected she reserved for customers who tried to evade payment. “All right, Detective—you want to know who I was with? I had a visitor early yesterday evening: a government official. He was here to let me know my business would be closed as of this morning. He only shared that information with me after drinking the better half of a bottle of my most expensive whiskey and helping himself to one of my girls—and then not paying. That’s why I was out last night; I was running around the city, calling in favors.” She gave a bitter laugh. “Let’s just say there wasn’t much talking. I could give you names of some fine gentlemen—four of them—but I don’t want to draw any further attention to myself than I already have. So, if you want to arrest me, you’d better get on with it.”

  “Why c-can they close you?”

  “The real reason? Because I’m the only business on this stretch of Broome Street who refuses to sell my building. The reason listed on the order? That I’m in vi
olation of several laws involving licenses and bonds.” She snorted. “Basically, if the city actually enforced the regulations they’re claiming I’m violating, they’d put ninety-five percent of liquor-serving establishments out of business.”

  “You have no recourse?”

  She gave him a self-mocking smile. “Let’s just say my efforts last night were less than persuasive. I’ll probably sell. And now that I’m closed, I’ll sell cheaply, more cheaply with each day that passes. What else did you want to ask, my lord?”

  “Have you ever heard of W-Wilbur Sealy, Felix Dunbarton, or Alard Janssen?”

  “Who hasn’t?”

  “Were they c-customers here?”

  “No.” She had a beautiful mouth; her long upper lip was thinner than the lower one, which gave her a kittenish look in contrast to an overall serious mien. When she smiled—even bitterly, as she was doing now—the expression was far more enticing than Lorena Paxton’s sensual grin or Solange Dupuy’s stunning beauty. “I don’t cater to men looking for virgins, Detective. It’s why I’m down here in the Bowery and not uptown—like Solange Dupuy. That woman would sell her own daughter if the price was right.”

  Jasper had to agree with her assessment. “So those men purchased v-virgins?”

  “Not here they didn’t. All I know is all three, at separate times over the past few years, approached me to ask for virgins—very young virgins.”

  “Excuse m-my ignorance, ma’am, but can such girls be easy to p-procure?”

  “They’re a commodity, like anything else men buy and sell. Two years ago they used to be more expensive, but they’re getting cheaper as more and more step off ships every day.”

  Still wish to find the person who killed those men, Jasper?

  The thought was no less shocking than the first time it entered his mind, but it had become more difficult to dismiss.

  “What of M-Mr. Finch? Was he another such m-man? Would I f-find him at Solange’s?”

  Mary made an affronted noise. “He would nev—”

  Elizabeth Horgan glared at her employee, and Mary’s mouth closed with a snap.

  The madam gave Jasper a cool look and lifted a shoulder in an elegant shrug; everything about this woman, aside from her profession, was elegant.