Absence of Mercy

by S. M. Goodwin

  Jasper glanced at the two-inch headline on the Herald and almost felt pity for the man. “I’m afraid there is v-very little I can d-do about that.”

  “I know that. I meant the speed at which you progress. No dillydallying. Get this done in a timely fashion.”

  Jasper had the urge to laugh but wisely restrained himself. “Even if I were to arrest a suspect tomorrow—which is highly unlikely—an inquest and t-trial would take time, and those aren’t my p-purview but that of your c-coroner and district attorney.” And a case like this would be fodder for newspaper sales indeed. “I h-have no suspects, nor enough evidence to j-j-justify an arrest.” Jasper hoped they understood his meaning: he would not be arresting somebody just to please them.

  “You let me worry about Edward Connery and Oakey Hall,” Symington said, his eyes narrowing spitefully at the coroner and district attorney’s names. “Just keep this investigation the hell away from me and my affairs. And my daughter,” he added, as if it were an afterthought. “Do you understand me, my lord?”

  Oh yes, Jasper understood. Could he prevent such a circus from occurring? Unlikely. Did he have any desire to prevent such an eventuality? Not particularly.

  He smiled. “Of c-course, Mr. Symington.”

  Symington’s face looked as if it might be trying to smile back. The attempt was ultimately unsuccessful. He settled for a nod and a self-satisfied harrumph. “I knew the son of a duke would understand my desire to avoid sensationalized newspaper stories.”

  Jasper was tempted to point out to the older man that he was currently cooling his heels in a foreign country for exactly the opposite reason, but he suspected Symington would take his true measure quickly enough and come to dislike him sooner rather than later. Why hasten such a disagreeable eventuality?

  “It’s fortunate my daughter and grandson aren’t here, so at least they’re being spared the worst of this mess,” Symington added.

  “Oh? Where is Mrs. F-Finch?” Jasper asked.

  “She’s at my country house outside Albany—she was in the straw in February and didn’t come to the city this year.”

  Well, that was interesting.

  “When was the last t-time Mr. Finch visited his w-wife?”

  Symington’s jaw worked at Jasper’s question, the noisy clacking of his dentures like castanets in the quiet room.

  “About a month ago, to my knowledge.”

  “I would like t-to speak to Mr. F-Finch’s servants.”

  As Symington considered Jasper, Jasper considered him. The railroad magnate—so wealthy his name was famous even in Britain—was a self-made man, if Jasper had ever seen one, not that he had extensive experience with such creatures.

  As the harbinger of a new era, Symington doubtless viewed Jasper as a useless appurtenance of a decaying society. Even so, he would recognize that the peerage still held much of the power—if no longer all the wealth—in Britain. And the one thing a man like Symington would respect aside from money was power. So Jasper wasn’t surprised when Symington capitulated to his impertinent request with relative grace.

  “Very well. I’ll write the address on the back of my card—that will get you in the house.”

  “Thank you, sir,” Jasper murmured.

  “Well then,” Wood said, rubbing his hands as if he’d just completed a dirty task. “I suppose that is that.”

  Jasper couldn’t help smiling at the other man’s evident relief that a problem—this investigation, as well as Jasper himself—had been so quickly and tidily solved. “I told Davies to offer you every assistance,” Wood said. “Please feel free to pull his best detectives off whatever they are working on. After all”—Wood’s smile was so oily it was likely to catch fire if he got too close to an open flame—“you’re here to instruct our fine Municipal Police in the art of detection.”

  Jasper wished Davies had been here to hear this.

  “Thank you for your support, Mayor—also for putting the city’s b-b-best detectives at my disposal.” He would remind the man of that promise if necessary.

  Jasper began to push himself to his feet. “Well, if—”

  Symington’s voice arrested him. “I understand you’re something of a businessman yourself, Lord Jasper.”

  Jasper’s eyebrows arched. “Sir?”

  Symington chuckled, but his attempt at laughter sounded as merry as a barrel of nails being rolled over rocks. “I know you’re an investor in Cyrus Field’s Atlantic Telegraph Company. I’ve put a bit of my own money into the effort.”

  Symington’s words surprised a laugh out of him. “P-P-Perhaps it is you who should be instructing on the subject of d-detection.”

  Wood laughed, and Symington once again attempted a smile, but his heart was clearly not in it. He was a man with a mission. “I’m in the process of gathering men of like minds for a new venture.”

  Beside him, Dell’s eyelids rolled up like Roman shades.

  Jasper smiled. “I’m afraid I’m n-not—”

  Symington held up a hand. “Now, now, don’t be hasty.” He glanced at Wood and nodded.

  The mayor leaned toward him, an eager glint in his eyes. “I’ve got one word for you, my lord: rubber.”

  Jasper nodded cautiously. “Rubber,” he repeated.

  “The man who can successfully link the rubber-producing areas of inland South America to an Atlantic port will be able to print his own money.”

  “Ah. Then I should have to arrest that m-man,” Jasper said with a smile.

  All three men stared in perplexity, and it was Dell who understood the jest first and gave an overly hearty laugh. “You’ve a sharp wit, my lord.” He grinned proudly at Wood, like a battered old tomcat that had just brought in a choice rat. “Didn’t I tell you he was clever?”

  Wood ignored the question.

  Symington, only a step behind Dell, was not amused. “This is not a time for caviling, my lord. What do you know about railroads?”

  “I know how to p-purchase a ticket to r-ride on one.”

  Symington’s nostrils flared. He continued speaking, but it was through tight jaws. “We are even now engaged in conversations with an engineer—a man endorsed by the U.S. government—who’s surveyed the Madeira and Mamoré Rivers: the area is perfect for a railroad. This venture will bring undreamed of returns to shrewd investors.” Symington spoke with the fervor of a medieval martyr, his eyes burning as he warmed to the subject of money. He’d not looked a fraction so feverish about his dead son-in-law or bereaved daughter.

  “Was Mr. Finch an investor in this v-venture?”

  Symington blinked at the change in subject, and Wood stepped into the conversational breech. “Mr. Finch was—”

  “What difference does it make what my son-in-law invested in?” For the first time since Jasper had met him, the older man wore an expression other than scorn or irritation—he looked affronted.

  “You m-mentioned shrewd investors, and I wondered if he was one of them.”

  “Are you asking me questions in your capacity as a policeman, my lord?” Symington glared at Jasper like a man who’d suddenly realized that what he’d believed to be a harmless insect was really a creature with a propensity for stinging.

  “If I’m to find his k-killer, it would be helpful to know who Mr. F-Finch was, who his associates were, his interests, so forth. And as you were s-s-somebody who knew him well, your insight would be helpful.”

  Symington glared as he absorbed that, and Jasper waited for the cantankerous millionaire to explode.

  But the old man surprised him. “I’ll speak to you about my son-in-law now, and never again—do you understand me?”

  “Yes, I understand.” Which didn’t mean he wouldn’t ask more questions whenever he chose.

  “Stephen wasn’t the man I wanted my daughter to marry. He was—and there’s no other word for it—a namby-pamby reformer sort.”

  That was four words, or at least three, but Jasper wouldn’t quibble.

  “His family once ow
ned a good chunk of Manhattan but had long since lost it. He couldn’t see the larger picture. I’ll give you an example. Shortly after he married my daughter, I told him about an opportunity to purchase land where the new park will be. A lot of land. But he was too nice to engage in business based on information from a friend in the city government. Nor did he have the stomach for throwing a few freedmen squatters out of their shacks in order to take possession of the land.” His face twisted into a truly ugly smile. “His tune changed after he’d squandered most of the money my daughter brought to the marriage—either giving it away to any charity with their hand out or investing in pie-in-the-sky enterprises only a nitwit would believe profitable—he came back to me, hat in hand, beggin’ for my help.” Symington snorted with disgust. “But the sun shines on fools as well as the virtuous, so I wasn’t surprised when a wealthy bachelor uncle conveniently died and left him a great deal of property in Upstate New York. So, there he was again, steeped in money and on a mission to piss it all away. And no, in answer to your question, Stephen hadn’t committed money to the railroad venture I mentioned—even though anyone with a particle of sense would grab the opportunity with both hands.” The heated look he shot Jasper told him in which camp he placed him. “Stephen had moral issues about the harvesting of rubber.”

  Symington made possessing morals sound like having an infectious disease.

  “When w-was the last time you saw M-Mr. Finch?”

  “Months ago—back when my daughter was still in town.” Symington’s bushy white eyebrows descended. “Why?”

  “Did Mr. F-Finch keep a b-business office?”

  “He didn’t need an office to give away all my daughter’s money.”

  “You described him as a r-refor—”

  “Reformers!” Symington spat out the word as if it were a fly he’d found in his tea. “More like destroyers! By definition, anything Stephen was involved in was a cracked idea. He was too bloody lazy to run for office or hold down a job, although he behaved as if he held a public office, the way he meddled. My son-in-law spent a good deal of his time—and my daughter’s money—chasing after various causes. One week it was children in factories, the next it was corruption in the police department.”

  “Was he a p-proponent of the new Metropolitan P-Police Act?”

  Symington gave him a look that Jasper suspected Stephen Finch had received often. “He ran his mouth about the corruption in the police department. There is corruption in the police department; nobody would deny that. But why those fools thought it would be better to scrap the entire system and set up a new one is beyond any sensible man. And to put control of it in state, rather than city, is preposterous.”

  “Do you think his r-r-reformist actions earned him enemies?”

  Symington made an agonized noise, as if he were beset by morons. “Of course it did! Thousands of them, I’d imagine.”

  “Would any of them have been angry enough to k-kill him?”

  Symington’s laughter sounded almost genuine as he pointed at the mayor. “Why, you’re looking at one.”

  Wood shot to his feet, his mouth agape and face scarlet. “Mr. Symington! I would nev—”

  Symington waved the other man’s horror aside like a bothersome odor. “There were lots of men who hated Stephen—for a variety of reasons—but killing him would do nothing to erase the damage already done. Besides, he had very little to do with this law enforcement debacle.”

  “Oh? Would his d-death have eased some other p-problems?”

  “No, goddammit, that was just a figure of speech,” Symington said irritably, giving Jasper a look of intense dislike.

  “Did your s-s-son-in-law know Sealy, Dunbarton, or Janssen?”

  “Why the hell would that matter? Just because Stephen was a rich man who was murdered doesn’t mean he knew every other murdered man in New York. I knew Sealy, Dunbarton, and Janssen. Surely you don’t think I killed them?”

  “D-Did you have any d-dealings with those men? Perhaps as investors in your r-r-rubber r-railroad?” Lord. He didn’t want to have to say that again.

  Symington’s eyes narrowed. “I’m beginning to think you’re rather single-minded, Lord Jasper.”

  “My f-father would agree with that, sir.”

  Symington didn’t return Jasper’s smile. “None of those men were involved in my current railroad venture. It’s possible they purchased shares in the companies I own that are publicly traded.” Symington finally managed a smile: a twisted, starved sort of thing. “I’m sure you understand that sort of investment takes place without my invitation or knowledge.”

  Jasper suspected that very little in this city took place without Mr. Symington’s knowledge.

  “If you’re searching for some nefarious business deal gone wrong, you are barking up the wrong tree. The few business opportunities Stephen invested in over the years came through me, and I assure you I do not engage in nefarious conduct of any sort.”

  Jasper doubted that the man across from him had made all his money without at least dipping a toe into some fairly nefarious waters, but he let the matter alone. Instead, he glanced at the mayor, whose eyes had glazed and whose mind was clearly elsewhere, and asked, “Did you have any business d-dealings with any of the f-four men, Mayor Wood?”

  “Huh? What?”

  “He wants to know if you did business with any of the dead men,” Symington barked. “Apparently, anyone who did is now a murder suspect.” He turned to Dell. “What about you?”

  Dell’s eyes threatened to roll out of his head. “God, no! Didn’t know any of ’em, other than from a distance.”

  Jasper thought that was a first for a man who claimed not just to know everyone but to be chums with them.

  “Neither did I,” Wood hastily chimed in. “Although—like the alderman—I may have seen them in public.”

  Jasper turned back to Symington. “So you didn’t know any of them s-socially?”

  “No, I did not.” Symington shoved the words through gritted teeth. “I couldn’t have met them above two or three times—if that—at various social functions.” When Jasper didn’t respond, Symington heaved an exaggerated sigh. “To answer the question I suspect you are about to ask, I do not know if Stephen had any business dealings with those men, although I seriously doubt it. Those three—at least from what I’ve heard about them—were too shrewd to involve themselves with such a nitwit.”

  “What about s-s-socially—would Mr. F-Finch have associated with them?”

  “I’m guessing they had very little contact.”

  “And why is that?”

  Symington’s lined face creased with an unpleasant smile. “I’m going to let you detect that particular piece of information for yourself, my lord.”

  Jasper had to laugh. “I appreciate you l-leaving me something, sir.”

  Symington’s reptilian eyes flickered over Jasper’s person with a look that was both dismissive and envious. It was an expression Jasper had encountered often from men who decried the aristocracy as a useless anachronism but wanted desperately to become one of their number all the same.

  “I have just one more q-q-question.”

  “Why do I have trouble believing this will be the last? Go on,” he said, before Jasper could respond. “But this is the last question I’ll answer.”

  “Who do you think k-killed your son-in-law?”

  “I don’t know, but whoever it was deserves a medal.”

  The mayor gasped.

  Symington glared at Wood and then Jasper. “Who do I think killed him? Are you toying with me, my lord?”

  “No.”

  “Whores, man! Whores, for God’s sake. His body was found outside a whorehouse, wasn’t it? The others as well, if I recall correctly.”

  “But the p-prostitute arrested for the D-Dunbarton and Sealy murders committed suicide. Are you s-saying the Sixth arrested the wrong woman?”

  Dell’s eyes glinted avidly, and the mayor let out a horrified squawk. “No
! Absolutely not. What he’s—”

  “I’m saying that obviously she had a partner in crime. Whoever her accomplice was, that person hasn’t stopped robbing and killing.” Symington gave Jasper a scathing look. “It’s a flimflam as old as time, robbing a fornicator while his trousers are around his ankles. Surely you’ve seen such things in England? Whoever robbed these men got carried away.”

  “D-Did Mr. Finch carry a great d-deal of money on him—or something that might m-make him a t-target for thieves?”

  “How the hell would I know what he kept in his pockets?” Spittle flew from Symington’s mouth. “But the man was a whoremonger, so it’s likely the whores he paid would know what he kept in his pockets.”

  “D-Do you know if he had d-dealings at a brothel called Horgan’s?”

  “Dealings?” Symington snorted. “That’s prettifying it, isn’t it? The man was a bloody pervert.”

  “Oh?”

  The single syllable was enough to goad Symington into forgetting his resolution to answer no more questions. “Stephen Finch spent a good part of every night—and many days—in one whorehouse or another. If he’d approached his business interests with the same zeal he gave whoring, he’d have owned the whole damned city.”

  “Did you know of any other b-brothels he frequented other than Horgan’s?”

  “How the hell should I know?” he shouted, the veins in his temples bulging dangerously. “And what does it matter? Bastions of vice and disease, every damned one of them. Although Horgan’s is a particular abomination.” The old man’s pale cheeks darkened.

  “Oh—why is that?” Jasper asked, able to guess what Symington meant.

  But Symington appeared to have lost the ability to speak.

  Wood cleared his throat. The mayor was perched on the edge of his desk like a nervous pigeon, his small dark eyes flickering between Jasper and Symington.

  “I’m pleased to tell you that Horgan’s is closed, Mr. Symington,” Dell told the older man in a placating tone.

  There could be only one way Dell knew that.

  Symington’s nose wrinkled at the alderman’s words, as if he’d just noticed something rank in the room. “Closing it won’t do a damned bit of good; the vermin will just flee to the next business, like rats from a burning building.” Symington shot Dell a look that said he lumped the alderman in the same category. He leaned toward Jasper, his eyes narrowed. “My son-in-law dishonored my daughter daily, almost from the beginning. The only sense the man ever showed was to hide his proclivities before he married my daughter. If I’d known what he was, he wouldn’t have been allowed within a mile of her. It’s a goddamned relief the man is dead. I thought of killing him myself on more than one occasion.”