Absence of Mercy

by S. M. Goodwin

  The journey to the master’s chambers was dark; all the windows had been shrouded in crepe and the gaslights dimmed to their lowest setting, as if darkness was somehow more respectful to the dead.

  They found the valet staring at a selection of coats he’d laid out across a massive bed.

  “Mr. Grew?”

  Grew turned as if in a trance, which is when Jasper saw that his eyes were red and puffy, the grief in them plain for even a stranger to see.

  “This is Lord Jasper Lightner—the new policeman from London we read about,” Loring added, when Grew continued to look mired in misery. When Grew didn’t answer, the butler said, “Lord Jasper would like to ask you about Mr. Finch.”

  The name shook the valet out of his fugue, and he seemed to recall who he was and where he was, his shoulders straightening. “Of course, my lord.”

  The butler left them alone.

  “What d-did Mr. Finch usually carry on his p-person?”

  It seemed to take a moment for his question to penetrate. “Er, yes, sir, he wore a signet on his right hand. It was an acorn graven on a thick gold band, no stone; the inscription inside was dated 1747. The ring was his great-great-grandfather’s.” He walked to the tallboy dresser and unlocked the top drawer, taking out a velvet tray of watches; one spot was empty. “He would have been carrying a gold watch with a steam engine engraved on the cover. It was a gift from Mrs. Finch.” Grew slid the tray back into the cabinet and relocked it.

  “How much m-money did he g-generally carry?”

  “Usually no more than fifty dollars in bills and coins. Every few days I would exchange any dirty or damaged money he’d accumulated with new, clean money.”

  Paisley did the same for Jasper.

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

  “Last night when I prepared him for dinner, sir.”

  “You didn’t see him when he r-returned later?”

  “Mr. Finch said he wasn’t returning until morning, so he gave me the evening off.”

  “Did he ever t-talk to you about what he was w-working on?”

  “Working on, my lord?”

  “Business, or perhaps r-reform issues?”

  Grew opened his mouth, hesitated, and then said, “No, sir.”

  “Anything y-you can tell me m-might help to catch his killer, Mr. G-Grew.”

  The valet spent a long moment in silent struggle before he finally said, “I delivered some papers for him a few times over the past two months.” Again Grew agonized, and Jasper waited. “To number eighty-one Greene Street, sir.” The valet radiated disapproval.

  “T-To anyone in particular?”

  “A man named Leonard Gamble.”

  “What s-sort of business?”

  “I don’t know, sir. There was no sign on the door, and inside there was just one room with a desk. Gamble was the only person there when I went.” He frowned. “It was rather squalid.”

  “When was the l-last time?”

  Grew’s chin wobbled. “The Sunday before he died, sir.”

  “Was that unusual?”

  “No, sir. I always delivered them on a Sunday.”

  “Had this b-been going on a while?”

  Grew frowned in thought. “I believe since April—or perhaps late March.”

  “How did Mr. Finch appear r-recently—his demeanor?”

  “The same as usual.”

  “And how w-was that?”

  “Mr. Finch is—was—a very sunny-natured and thoughtful employer.”

  “How did the Finches m-manage with each other?”

  Grew’s face broke into a genuine smile. “Oh, they were lovely, sir. Mr. and Mrs. Finch never had a disagreement that I heard of, sir.”

  “N-Never?”

  “No, he quite doted on her, and she held Mr. Finch in very high esteem.” His mouth twisted into a tearful moue. “They were a delightful couple.”

  Jasper’s impression was that the man was entirely sincere.

  He handed the valet his notebook and pencil. “Please write d-down the address on Greene Street.”

  Grew quickly jotted down the address.

  “Did you ever n-notice any pine sap on his shoes?”

  Grew looked confused. “Pine sap?”

  “Yes.”

  He shook his head, his gaze wary as he handed back the notebook.

  “Here’s my c-card. I’m staying at the Astor House for the next few d-days, if you happen to think of anything else. Anything.”

  Grew chewed his lip as he looked down at the card. “Is it true he was killed like those last two gentlemen—the ones they arrested the prostitute for killing?”

  “It is t-too early to say. Thank you, Grew. I shall see myself out.”

  The butler was waiting for him at the bottom of the stairs. There was a slim, brown-paper-wrapped package on the console table in the foyer.

  Loring helped him into his coat, and Jasper was pulling on his gloves when somebody called his name. He turned to find Grew hurrying down the stairs.

  “Yes?” Jasper asked the red-faced man, whose eyes slid to Loring and then back. “Thank you, L-Loring; Grew will see me out.”

  A lifetime in service kept the butler from arguing, but Jasper knew he wasn’t happy at being dismissed.

  “I remembered something else Mr. Finch might have had in his pocket.” Jasper waited, Grew’s expression growing more miserable. “Er, I know he left with some jewelry, because it wasn’t on the dressing table, where I’d left it for him.”

  “Jewelry?”

  “Yes, my lord, a pair of filigreed silver-and-sapphire earbobs.”

  “D-Did you know who they were for?”

  “No, sir.”

  Jasper suspected he was lying. “Remember where I am, if you r-recall something else.”

  * * *

  Judging by the handbills littering the floor at the Greene Street address the valet had given him, it was an abandoned abolitionist headquarters. Jasper spoke to the building manager, who said the office had been empty when he’d come in that morning. He also admitted that Leonard Gamble was the name on the lease, and he gave Jasper Gamble’s address after a bit of monetary persuasion. When it came to who owned the property, the man claimed he didn’t know; he said somebody came by to collect the rent every month.

  Jasper was curious to learn who owned the building; perhaps they would know why their tenant had scarpered so quickly.

  But first he had to quit delaying the inevitable: talking to Captain Davies.

  Jasper could see something was going on in the squat gray station house before he stepped out of the hackney. The double doors were open, and people were spilling out of the building. Patrolmen were holding the crowd at bay, and it was fortunate for Jasper that one of the policemen was Sergeant Billings, who recognized Jasper and waved him in.

  Billings’s grim expression gave Jasper a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach.

  “What is it?” he asked.

  Billings held up the front page of the Herald.

  “Ah, yes. I’ve s-seen it. I t-take it these are concerned citizens?”

  Billings gave an unamused bark of laughter. “You’d think the fools would realize only wealthy men have been targeted. Davies sent a patrolman to find you. Quite a while ago.”

  Jasper grimaced and headed up the stairs.

  Davies was seated behind his giant desk when Jasper knocked. He’d drawn the blinds to block out either the sun or swarming crowds.

  “Have you seen this?” Davies held up the same headline Billings had.

  “Yes—m-most pithy.”

  Davies’s eyes bulged. “Do you find this humorous? Only three days since you swanned in here, my lord, and we have two murders on our hands.”

  “Surely you d-don’t think I’m c-committing the murders, sir.”

  Davies flinched. “Don’t use that tone on me.”

  “I’ve been here less than three days with no help other than a m-m-man who’s been incarcerated these
p-past eight weeks and an infant patrolman. The r-records—including postmortems—of the f-first two murders are gone; Captain McElhenny frothed at the m-mouth when I asked for his help; J-Janssen’s body putrefied before a proper postmortem could be made; and m-my detective is dodging vigilante p-police officers from the Sixth W-Ward. Oh, and there is apparently a p-pool among your d-detectives about how long I shall p-put up with all this n-nonsense before something—or somebody—m-makes me leave. Right now I believe the b-b-best odds are on you precipitating my d-departure.”

  Davies’s nostrils flared. “Let me remind you, my good sir, that none of this would be your concern if you’d not thrust yourself into my station house. But now that you have, you’d bloody well better earn your keep.” He gestured to a pile of paper on his desk. “These are just some of the overwrought messages I’ve received from city luminaries wanting to know what the hell is going on. Why is this the first I’m hearing about the missing pound of flesh?”

  “I’d say it was l-less than a pound. As to why you haven’t heard of it, McElhenny k-kept it from the p-public in the first two cases because he feared—and I quote—‘heads would r-r-roll.’ ”

  “Jesus Christ. Tell me you have some idea—maybe a suspect?”

  Jasper experienced a childish pang of pleasure at the note of hysteria in the other man’s voice. “I do have one idea, but I d-d-don’t think you will like it.”

  “What is it?” Davies forced the words between clenched jaws.

  “It’s possible these two m-murders are the w-work of different killers.”

  Davies closed his eyes and his lips moved; Jasper hazarded a guess that he was praying. When he opened his eyes, Jasper saw an emotion other than derision or dislike: he saw fear. “God in Heaven.”

  Jasper didn’t think God had any part in it.

  “What the hell makes you think there is more than one killer?”

  “J-Janssen’s and Finch’s murders are v-very similar, but with a few significant dif—”

  “Wait—did I hear you say the postmortems for the first two cases are missing?”

  “Everything about those c-cases is missing.”

  Davies’s face screwed into a horrified scowl. “My God—missing case files?”

  Jasper was beginning to feel sorry for the other man.

  “What did McElhenny say?”

  “He believes Law destroyed them.”

  “Why would he do that?”

  “I don’t believe he d-did, sir.”

  Davies opened his mouth but then stared at him without speaking. Jasper could see they were both thinking the same thing: namely, that McElhenny had destroyed them to cover up a botched or corrupt investigation.

  Something else occurred to the other man. “How the hell would these imitators know to cut out the flesh if even I didn’t know about it?”

  Jasper had wondered how long it would take Davies to put that together.

  “Wait—” Davies held up his hand, as if Jasper had spoken. “You’re not thinking a copper did this? I don’t even like saying that out loud—I hope to God you haven’t said anything?”

  “No.”

  Davies sagged in his chair. “Do you have any suspects?”

  Jasper laughed, and Davies’s face darkened dangerously.

  “This is not a laughing matter.”

  “I agree—the m-murders are not a subject for amusement. However, you expecting m-me to have a suspect—or perhaps t-t-two different suspects—in hand so quickly is amusing.”

  “Perhaps I should give this case to somebody who would have suspects by now?”

  “I r-rather think you should, sir, b-because that worked out so smashingly the l-last time.”

  Jasper wished he could call the taunt back before he’d even finished saying it. It was not like him to lose his temper, but Davies’s persistent hostility—coupled with his unreasonable expectations—was beyond exasperating.

  Davies jumped to his feet. “I’ll not tolerate insubordination from you—don’t think for a second I won’t send you packing!”

  There it is, Jasper—an invitation to leave. Grab it and run like a thief!

  “I apologize, sir. I sh-shouldn’t have said that; it was d-disrespectful.” Respect the rank, not the man, as they said in the army.

  Davies frowned, looking like a man who’d taken a swing with a cricket bat only to find there was no ball. “You’re goddamned right it was disrespectful.” He flung himself into his chair. “What about the whorehouse? Brothels seem to be a common thread in both murders—hell, all four murders. Maybe this is a group of whores?”

  Jasper was astounded at how the Murderous Nest of Whores theory kept cropping up.

  “Er, there is one m-m-more thing.”

  “Oh God, what?”

  “I have evidence that D-Dunbarton’s body was moved to the S-Sixth.”

  “From?”

  “About twenty f-feet from where Janssen was found—nearer Solange’s.”

  Jasper thought the captain didn’t look as surprised as he should have been. Indeed, Davies appeared to be chewing on something he didn’t care for.

  The captain finally shook himself, glared at Jasper, and changed tack. “Featherstone told me Peter Haslem works at Horgan’s?”

  Jasper frowned. “Yes, sir.”

  Davies brightened. “The man has a criminal record for prostitution-related offenses. We should bring him in.”

  “He has an alibi for the n-night Janssen was murdered.” Jasper hesitated and then added, “He has an alibi for last n-night as well. We’re checking it.”

  “Make that your first priority.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “I need to go to City Hall and White Street after I’m done with you,” he said, his tone accusatory, as if Jasper were responsible for the disarray in the police department. “They’ll both want to hear we have some ideas—anything. I’m not telling them about your two- or three-murderer theory—not until you have proof. Until then, I’ll give them Haslem and—”

  “Amos B-Baker,” Jasper said.

  “What?”

  “According to Mrs. Janssen, a man named Amos Baker told her that Janssen’s l-life wouldn’t b-be worth a brass f-farthing if he failed to comply with the terms of some business deal.”

  Davies looked just like a young boy on Christmas morning. He grabbed the paper and flipped it to the bottom of the first page. “Did you read this?”

  Jasper took the newspaper and looked at the smaller headline: Slave Ship Detained in Harbor, Captain Amos Baker in Custody.

  Good Lord. “Well, that seems rather coincidental.” Jasper read through the brief article. “It d-doesn’t say when he was arrested.”

  “It was one of the coppers from the Harbor Commission who made the arrest, so he’ll probably be in the Tombs. Get your ass over there right now and find out where Baker was last night and Saturday.”

  For once, he and the Welshman were in complete agreement.

  CHAPTER 23

  Hy was about to hop an omnibus when somebody called his name. He turned to find Inspector Lightner sitting in an open cab.

  “I’m glad I c-caught you. I’d hoped to be by earlier, b-but I miscalculated.”

  Hy held up a copy of the New-York Daily Times. “Seen this?”

  Lightner snorted. “Several times.”

  Hy flipped the paper. “Did you see this?”

  “C-Captain Davies showed me—he said to get our arses over to the T-Tombs. Hop in and we’ll go now.”

  Hy’s stomach pitched just hearing the word Tombs, but he climbed in beside the Englishman and pointed to the brown-paper-wrapped package Lightner held on his lap. “What’s that?”

  “Just some things I t-took from F-Finch’s desk. Did you speak to Mrs. Haslem?”

  “No. The woman who lodges at her place—a Mrs. Gillis—said Mrs. Haslem was gone until tomorrow. She’s a seamstress who works in people’s houses. Gillis is a nurse and only comes home for a few days every week or so.
She said Haslem only visits his mother when Gillis ain’t there.”

  Hy couldn’t tell what the Englishman thought about that. “Oh, by the way, Lorie sent word after readin’ the paper—Finch and Baker were at her place last night.”

  “Bloody hell.”

  Hy grinned at the man’s uncharacteristic language. “They had a drink together around nine. Lorie’s message said she was too busy to notice when they left.”

  “A known slaver having a d-drink with an abolitionist.”

  “Finch was an abolitionist?”

  Lightner handed him a leaflet for an abolitionist meeting. “I found that at an address on G-Greene Street. F-Finch’s valet said he’d delivered s-several packets of d-documents to a man named Gamble—only on Sundays. The office was rented by an abolitionist charity that suddenly c-closed up shop sometime between y-yesterday afternoon and this m-morning.”

  “That reminds me.” Hy handed him the letter he’d tucked in his pocket. “I found it in Haslem’s room. Think it’s from Finch?”

  Lightner read it quickly and then looked up as he refolded it. “You d-didn’t ask Mary?”

  “She—” Hy rolled his eyes. “He wasn’t there when we searched. How was the visit with the mayor?”

  “Not very illuminating. Although it was interesting that he had both Alderman Dell and Randolph Symington with him.”

  “The railroad millionaire?”

  “The v-very same—he’s Finch’s father-in-law. He was there to tell me he d-didn’t want to see the murder mentioned in the p-papers.”

  Hy laughed. “Too late for that.”

  “He also t-told me he hated his son-in-law. And then cl-claimed no acquaintance with the other three.”

  “I sense a but, sir.”

  Lightner’s lips curved into a slight smile. “I have no evidence to b-believe he was lying—other than I t-took an immediate dislike to him.”

  Hy was startled to hear the man admit to such an emotion. Still, he’d bet a dollar that Lightner had been courteous to Symington all the same.

  “Er, about Dell, sir—”

  “He is a T-Tammany man?”

  Hy nodded. “Aye, he’ll be reportin’ everything back to somebody. He’s a wily one, sir. I wouldn’t expect a word of truth from him.”