Absence of Mercy

by S. M. Goodwin

  Lightner was staring at the packet on his lap, his expression pensive. “F-Finch was seen leaving his house last night around eleven with a brown-paper-wrapped packet.”

  Hy frowned. “Finch went back to his house after Lorie saw him with Baker?”

  “So his butler said.” Lightner paused and then said, “I c-can’t help feeling whatever papers he c-came back for are important.”

  “Do we know they’re papers? You said a package.”

  “Finch’s butler said it looked like this.” He held up the packet.

  “Why come home to fetch them at ten o’clock at night? Why not bring them out to begin with?”

  “What if it was something B-Baker asked him for at O’Reilly’s?”

  “He’s rich—why not just send a servant or messenger to fetch it?”

  “P-Perhaps whatever was in the p-packet was too important? Perhaps he knew it was worth k-killing over?”

  “That’s a lot of guessing.”

  “It is,” Lightner admitted. “But it’s all we have right now. The last p-person to see Finch alive was his b-butler. Before that he had a drink in Five Points with Amos B-Baker—who also knew Janssen.”

  “Seems like knowin’ Baker can be bad for your health.”

  “So, that’s what we have: Finch, B-Baker, the packet, and then a d-dead Finch.” The Englishman clucked his tongue. “I w-wish I’d known about the Finch-Baker c-connection when I talked to Symington.”

  “You think Symington had something to do with this?” Hy couldn’t keep the disbelief from his voice.

  “No, b-but it n-never hurts to ask.”

  Hy thought it might actually hurt a bit—at least when it came to their positions in the police department. “The packet might have been for somebody else. It could have been old newspapers or dirty pictures.”

  “I w-won’t argue—we have no idea of the contents. But that doesn’t mean they c-can’t be useful.”

  “I don’t follow you, sir.”

  Lightner lifted the packet.

  “Wait—you said that was nothing.”

  “We know that.”

  Hy could see where he was headed, but it seemed like a bloody stretch.

  “Don’t think of them as p-papers, Detective.”

  “But you just said you thought it was papers.”

  “It’s m-more than that.”

  Hy heaved a sigh. “What should I think of it as?”

  “Think of it as fishing pole.”

  “A fishing pole,” Hy repeated.

  “W-We’re going to see if anything is b-biting.”

  * * *

  Jasper could feel the detective fidgeting beside him; he suspected Law’s recent memories of the prison were weighing heavily on him.

  “You d-don’t need to be here, Detective.”

  The huge man’s eyes were in constant motion around the interrogation room, where the guard had put them to wait. “Naw, I’ll stay, sir.”

  The door opened, and the guard ushered a short, stocky, swaggering man into the room.

  Unlike Law—who’d been naked, delirious, and starved—Baker looked as if he’d just been freshly shaved and dressed by his manservant; Jasper could smell his cologne from across the room.

  “Thank you,” Jasper said to the guard, who’d already been given a monetary incentive to leave them in private.

  When the door shut behind the smirking Baker, he cocked his head at Jasper. “I read about you in the paper—the duke’s son who’s come to teach our coppers how to catch criminals.”

  “We’re here to ask a few qu-questions, if you wouldn’t m-mind.”

  Baker laughed. “Go on and ask ’em—if you’re able to get the words out of yer mouth. But if it’s about my cargo, I already gave my statement and I won’t be changing it: I wasn’t doing anything but returning property to its rightful owners. I’m only in here until my lawyer gets me out.” He gave them an ugly smile. “After he springs me, I’m gonna file suit against New York City and the state of New York.”

  “We’re not here to talk about your slave-tradin’ activities,” Law said.

  “Good. Just remember I’m only talking to you because I’m bored. You have no authority over me. So, what the hell do you want?”

  Jasper put the packet on the table, and Baker’s eyes slid down to it, then back up, his expression uncertain.

  “We’re here to talk about Stephen Finch.”

  People could control their expressions and their body language, but Jasper hadn’t met many who could control their pupils. And Baker’s shrank to pinpricks. He shifted the little black dots from Law to Jasper to the packet and back again. “Finch who?”

  Law and Jasper laughed.

  Jasper pulled a coin out of his pocket and handed it to Law. “You were r-right.”

  “Right about what?” Baker demanded.

  “We have Finch’s p-papers,” Jasper said.

  “Papers?” His attempt at sounding dismissive came off shrill. “What papers?”

  Jasper sighed and took out another coin. “At this r-rate, I shall be skint before supper.”

  “I’ll front you your first pint, sir,” the American said with a grin.

  “My c-colleague said you’d deny all of it,” Jasper explained.

  Baker crossed his arms, his expression no longer smug. “I don’t know what the hell you’re talking about.”

  “Are you saying you didn’t have drinks with Stephen Finch last n-night?”

  Baker scowled. “I don’t know anyone named Finch.”

  “Are you denying you had drinks at O’Reilly’s?” Law asked.

  Baker opened his mouth and then closed it.

  “What would you say if I t-told you we have witnesses?” Jasper asked.

  “I’d tell you to get fucked.”

  “What about Alard Janssen?”

  “Don’t know that name either.” His tone was dismissive, but his jaw had tightened.

  “What t-time were you arrested?”

  Baker blinked at the change in topic. “Why should I tell you?”

  “Because a m-murder charge may be more difficult to evade than the offense you’re c-currently incarcerated f-f-for.”

  “Murder?” Baker repeated. “If you think I killed Finch, you’re both crazy!”

  “I thought you didn’t know anyone called Finch,” Law said.

  “I just had a drink at O’Reilly’s—that’s all.” Baker’s gaze stayed pinned to Jasper. “I left and went to Solange’s. I was with Jenny.”

  “When?”

  “I left O’Reilly’s about ten.”

  “After your c-conversation with Finch,” Jasper said.

  “O’Reilly’s was crowded—but I didn’t know anyone. It’s true,” he insisted at their skeptical looks. “I was in bed with Jenny when those bastards arrested me around midnight. You can check on that if you don’t believe me.”

  “Oh, we will,” Law assured him.

  “What d-did you and Mr. Finch t-t-talk about?” Jasper asked.

  “Are you deaf as well as stupid? I told you, I didn’t talk to him about nothin’.”

  Jasper hoped his own pupils didn’t betray him the way Baker’s had. “Are you qu-quite sure?”

  “Hell yes I’m sure!”

  “Did you know a m-man named Felix D-Dunbarton?”

  Baker’s eyes became comically round. “What?”

  “What was your connection to him?” Law asked.

  “Nothing! I mean I don’t know him.” His eyes darted between Jasper and the big detective. “What the hell are you getting at?”

  “What’s your c-connection to Benjamin H-Hoyle?”

  “I don’t have any connection to Hoyle!”

  Jasper and Law looked at each other and then turned to Baker.

  “What? Why are you looking at me like that?”

  “Are you acquainted with R-Randolph Symington?”

  Baker muttered something under his breath, his eyes flickering about like those of a h
unted animal. “I’m done here,” he said.

  “We thought we’d offer you a ch-chance to cooperate.”

  “Cooperate?” Baker repeated, his gaze back on the brown paper package. “Do you have any idea who—” The last word was choked, as if somebody had wrapped their hands around his throat. He stood so fast the rickety wooden chair tipped over onto the stone floor. “Guard! I want outa here right—”

  “Before you go,” Law asked, “Who owns that gold-trimmed carriage that visits your friend Hoyle’s house when you’re there?”

  Baker’s entire body jolted as if he’d been struck by lightning. “Guard!”

  The door swung open, and the guard frowned at them. “What’s the racket?”

  “I have nothing to say to these two. I’ve said nothing,” Baker amended, a fine sheen of sweat on his brow.

  “Tell us more about Hoyle and Symington and—”

  “Shut up!” Baker yelled at Law before turning his wild eyes on the guard. “I never said anything! Did you hear me?” he demanded, staring at the guard. “I didn’t say a goddamned thing to these two. Take me back to my cell.”

  The guard looked at Jasper.

  Jasper picked up the packet and smiled. “We already g-got what we needed f-f-from Mr. Baker.”

  “You fucking liar!” Baker yelled, spittle flying from his mouth as he lunged at Jasper.

  “Oi!” The guard grabbed Baker’s upper arm and yanked him toward the hall.

  “I didn’t say anything to those bast—”

  The door slammed shut with a clang, muffling the sound of Baker’s yelling.

  Law held out the coins Jasper had given him, grinning from ear to ear. “That was better than theater, sir.”

  “It’s too bad he’s got the b-best alibi of anyone yet.”

  Law grimaced. “Aye, there is that.”

  “He m-might not be our k-killer, but I can’t help believing he knows something.”

  “I don’t think he’ll see us again after this, sir.”

  “No, he m-might not, but whoever he’s afraid of m-might seek us out.” Jasper smiled at the younger man. “We’ve baited the hook, and now we just sit b-back and see what f-fishes come up for a n-nibble.”

  Law laughed. “So, we’re the bait now.”

  CHAPTER 24

  Happy Lane—Leonard Gamble’s residence and their next stop—wasn’t far from the Tombs.

  Hy was glad Lightner had brought him along to talk to Gamble; he hated to think of the Englishman wandering down one of the worst streets in the city alone, no matter how handy he was with his fists and cane.

  “It’s n-number twenty-one C,” Lightner said, after the hackney dropped them off and he paid their driver. “What does C mean?”

  “It’s a cellar, sir.”

  Jesus, Hy hated cellars.

  Two bedraggled children crouched on the bottom step of Gamble’s building. “Hot corn?” one of the urchins asked without much hope.

  Lightner’s brow furrowed. “What are you s-selling?”

  Both youngsters gawked up at the elegant stranger.

  “Roasted corn, sir,” Hy said. “There’s children all over the streets sellin’ it.”

  Lightner reached into his pocket, and the soft jingle of coins woke the children from their stupor. “Do you know a g-gentleman named Leonard Gamble?”

  “He lives with his pa in small C,” the little girl said.

  “S-Small C?”

  Hy explained, “It’s when they divide up a room, sir. It’s the cheapest.”

  “He left with a box,” the boy volunteered, not to be outdone by his sister.

  “L-Leonard?”

  Both children nodded.

  “When was that?”

  “Last night,” the two said in unison. “He was yellin’ at his pa, and then he left,” the girl added.

  “With a box,” the boy said again.

  Lighter handed each child a coin. Based on the way their jaws dropped, it was a substantial amount. He turned to Hy. “Well, we’re here; w-we might as w-well talk to his, er, pa.”

  * * *

  Jasper wondered if his nose would ever become accustomed to the smell of poverty. It took a great deal of effort not to hold his handkerchief over his face, but that would hardly be civil to the old man lying on the filthy cot.

  “Left me!” Mr. Gamble shouted, not because he was angry, but because he was as deaf as the proverbial post. “Said he needed to run! Said he was in trouble!” It took Jasper a moment to translate the heavy Irish accent. Instead of learning French and Latin at school, he should have studied Irish.

  Gamble grimaced and shifted on the bed, his legs beneath the thin blanket shriveled sticks. The overflowing chamber pot under the bed lacked a cover and buzzed with flies. The room was smaller than Jasper’s dressing room—half the size—and was dizzyingly hot, for all that it was a cellar. A dented pitcher of brackish water and a heel of dark bread sat on the crate that served as a nightstand.

  “Did he say what he’d done?” Law yelled.

  “Got a packet of money from a bloke!” He looked around the room, his rheumy eyes creased at the corners. “Paid another week here and left me,” he said in a hoarse whisper.

  “Good God,” Law murmured, removing his hat and shoving a huge hand through his thick pelt of rust-colored hair.

  Jasper crouched down beside the old man’s bed. “D-Did he say the bloke’s name?” he asked, using the same piercing tone he’d employed with his men in the army.

  Mr. Gamble shook his head, and his chin wobbled. “Din’t leave me even a penny. Used to be a good boy, but not after leavin’ the army.”

  “Trouble?” Jasper asked.

  “Aye. Caught thievin’.”

  “When?”

  “Half a year back.”

  “Did he have a local?” Law asked the old man.

  “A what?”

  Law mimed drinking.

  “The Black Cat!”

  Law made an unhappy noise and said to Jasper, “It’s not far from the Peck Slip Ferry dock. Not as bad as here, but close.”

  “Left me!” Mr. Gamble shouted, clearly not liking being left out of the conversation.

  “Where did he g-g-go?” Jasper asked.

  “California!”

  Jasper recoiled at the blast of foul, moist air that came from the old man’s nearly toothless mouth. He glanced up at Law. “Which f-ferries?”

  “There’s a bunch, sir: the Christopher, Barclay, Jersey City, and Hoboken, to name a few. He could be miles away by now.”

  “Do you have other family?” Jasper asked the old man.

  “No, just Lenny.”

  Jasper stood. “We c-can’t leave him here.”

  Law turned to the old man. “You need to go to the Sisters!”

  The old man’s eyes widened. “No! Not the nuns.”

  “Aye,” Law argued, but without any real force. “They’re the only ones who’ll take you.”

  “Just cut me throat now!” Mr. Gamble dramatically flung back his head.

  Jasper’s eyebrows shot up. “Are they r-really that b-bad?”

  Law snorted. “You’ve no idea, sir.”

  * * *

  Hy was stunned that the Englishman wanted to accompany the old man to the mission.

  “We can stop b-by the Black C-Cat when we’re finished,” Lightner said as they climbed into yet another hackney, this time with old Mr. Gamble, whom they’d had to carry from the cellar.

  Lightner had purchased a blanket—only slightly cleaner than Mr. Gamble’s—from one of the people who’d come out to watch the free show. Hy guessed the Englishman had paid at least twenty times more for the pitiful rag than its value, but the purchase had been well worth it as the old man had soiled his bedding and was covered in sores.

  Hy breathed through his mouth to keep from vomiting. He didn’t know how Lightner could bear the smell—or the human misery—but the other man chatted—loudly—as politely as ever, all the way to the mission.


  The Sisters of Perpetual Sorrow had been one of the first to set up in Five Points. Hy experienced the same heavy sensation he felt whenever he came near the old Catholic church.

  It was just his luck that the nun to answer their late-night knock was none other than Sister Mary Catherine.

  “Well, if it isn’t Hieronymus Law himself,” she said, peering up at him through eyes as sharp as any raptor’s. “Come for mass, have ye?” She exaggeratedly studied the plain watch pinned to her habit. “Are ye ten hours early, Hieronymus? Or thirteen hours late?”

  Hy risked a look at Lightner, who was visibly amused to see this tiny nun raking him over the coals.

  “Er, neither, Sister.”

  “We’ve g-got an old gentleman in n-n-need of your help,” Lightner said, apparently deciding—correctly—that Hy was outmatched.

  Sister Mary Catherine snorted. “Church of England.”

  Lightner bowed low, as if to royalty. “G-Guilty as charged, Sister. May we b-bring him in?”

  Hy could see the old nun was tempted to have a go at the elegantly dressed—now shit- and blood-smeared—Englishman, but she must’ve decided he was too easy game to offer much sport.

  Mr. Gamble had looked tired and ill in the cab, but he was instantly reinvigorated when he saw the good sister; the two proceeded to go at it, hammer and tongs, in Gaelic.

  “What are they s-saying?” Lightner asked softly.

  “Hieronymus wouldn’t know, because he never applied himself to his studies,” Sister Mary Catherine barked, not breaking stride in her argument with the old man.

  “Excellent hearing,” Hy mouthed.

  Lightner chuckled.

  Half an hour—and an undisclosed donation, once again paid by Lightner—later, they were headed for the Black Cat.

  CHAPTER 25

  The Black Cat was a pub so vile that it would have been better called The Rathole, as that creature, and not a cat, was one of the first things they saw upon bellying up to the bar.

  “I wouldn’t drink anything here,” Law said under his breath as they watched a grossly obese rat amble over one of the beer kegs behind the bar.

  As slow as the rat was, it was still moving faster than the barkeep.