Absence of Mercy

by S. M. Goodwin

  “Do you know who killed him?”

  She hesitated. “Yes.”

  Jasper waited.

  “It was Ryan—Mary saw him.”

  He struggled to absorb her answer, not wanting to think what it meant for Jemmy Hart—last seen in the violent copper’s company. “Why d-didn’t you tell me?”

  She gave a laugh of disbelief. “Do you know who Ryan works for?”

  “Who?”

  “I don’t mean a specific name; I mean the organization.”

  “You th-think T-Tammany had Finch killed?”

  “Somebody sent Ryan; who else can use the police department like their private army? Stay out of this—you can’t protect us. You can’t protect yourself.”

  Sadly, Jasper suspected she was correct.

  “Does Mary know what h-happened to the papers Finch had that n-night?”

  “How do you know about that?”

  “Where are the p-papers, M-Miss Horgan?”

  “Mary said she was going to get them, but she never came back.” Jasper heard the fear in her voice. “Ryan ripped Mary’s room apart looking for them. The only thing good about his visit is that it told me they hadn’t caught her. Yet.”

  “Is he the one who h-hit you?”

  “Yes, but I didn’t say anything. I knew if I told him anything, I’d end up like Finch. That made taking a few slaps and punches easy.”

  “T-Tell me what happened.”

  “Mary and Finch—”

  “Were helping escaped s-slaves get to C-Canada.”

  “You knew that?” she asked.

  “D-Do you know what’s in the p-papers?”

  “How did you find out about those?”

  “Miss Horgan.”

  He heard her teeth chattering and pulled her close. She resisted only a second and then grabbed him as fervently as she’d done earlier.

  “It’s Finch’s signed confession, along with documents that will prove certain men were selling arms to rebels in the South.” She hesitated. “It also describes a plan for a rebellion in the North—a fake rebellion—they’re going to make it look like a bunch of freedmen did it.”

  “What?”

  “You were right about Finch and Mary believing they were helping slaves escape to Canada. You can’t have public meetings any longer, because the slave-takers show up. So there was a sort of code: Mary would post notices for jobs, but it was really to get people out. At least that was the idea.

  “But this last Monday Mary heard a story from a young boy. The boy was one of a group of escaped slaves who’d gone to meet the people who were supposed to take them to Canada. Instead, the men who met them worked for Amos Baker and took them to a sort of prison. They divided people into two groups: those who’d be taken south and sold and a few that were kept behind because they wouldn’t fetch enough money to bother.

  “The boy was one of those kept behind because of his clubfoot. The men threw him into a cellar with a few others, some who’d been there for weeks. Their captors would get drunk and taunt them, telling them how they were more valuable as corpses—how they were going to kill them and make use of their bodies for their fake slave rebellion in Albany. They’d make it look like freed slaves had tried to overthrow the government of New York. Baker’s men would end up looking like heroes because they’d shot the rebels and foiled the rebellion.”

  Jasper shook his head in disbelief. “B-But that’s—”

  “Outlandish, stupid, foolish, and dangerous? Yes, it’s all those things. But you’ve seen the way things are here. Every day there’s more grumbling about the freedmen taking jobs away from whites. The democrats blame the abolitionists for worsening relations between the states. There are plenty of people in the Points and uptown who believe slavery is not New York’s concern. Most people don’t care unless it matters to them. This rebellion—no matter how stupid—would turn the tide against freedmen.”

  “Tell me what happened with F-Finch.”

  “After Mary heard the escaped boy’s story, she sent Finch a message; he came almost immediately and listened to the story himself.” She paused, then said, “I always thought Finch was just another rich man playing at being an abolitionist, but his fury over what he’d helped them do—”

  “Them? Them who?”

  “He said Symington came up with the plan to get more freed slaves to Canada and brought Finch in to help him.”

  Jasper couldn’t help it; he laughed.

  “I know, I know,” Miss Horgan said. “It’s hard to believe Finch could be so stupid. He said there were others helping, but everyone’s identities were kept secret because of potential punishment under the Fugitive Act. I’ll be honest, I don’t really understand it all because Finch didn’t understand it all. I’m guessing Symington kept him ignorant because they were using him.”

  That was a fair guess.

  “After talking to the boy, Finch went straight to Symington.”

  Jasper could just imagine the old man’s reaction.

  “Symington told him he was being a fool—to forget about the slaves being sold because that was just the law. He told him about the guns and how he’d put them both in a position to make millions. He said Baker made some deal with people down South: guns and slaves for money. While everyone was focused on the rebellion in Albany, the real one would take place in the South.”

  “Why would Symington t-tell him all this?”

  “Symington told him his neck was in a noose too, because nobody would believe he could have been that stupid and naïve.”

  That did sound like Symington. “Are you sure Finch d-didn’t know? I simply c-can’t—”

  “If it’s any consolation, Finch did realize what a fool he’d been. And he was livid. He wasn’t a smart man, but I think he really loved Mary and did this because he wanted to help.”

  “Why d-didn’t he simply c-come forward? Why compile this-this dossier?”

  “He didn’t think he’d live to tell the story. Symington must have guessed what was on Finch’s mind, because he threatened him—he told Finch that Dunbarton and Janssen had angered his other partners and look what happened to them.”

  “S-Symington said he had those men killed?”

  “Finch said Symington never came right out and admitted it.” She hesitated and then said, “I can’t help thinking Symington planned all along to kill Finch—after this s-so-called rebellion.”

  Jasper agreed. “He would have made an excellent sc-scapegoat—if he were d-dead and linked to an abolitionist society.”

  “It all sounds so far-fetched that I wouldn’t have believed it if Finch hadn’t been murdered exactly the same way as those others. These people—Symington and the others—they’ll obviously kill whoever gets in their way.”

  Jasper didn’t comment on the killings. Instead he asked, “What d-did Mary see?”

  “She was supposed to meet Finch late Monday night; don’t ask, I don’t know where. She was about to get out of the hackney when she saw a police wagon roll up beside Finch. Ryan jumped out and hit him on the head. The next time she saw him, Finch was in the alley, dead.”

  “D-Did Mary say anything about the p-papers?”

  “She said it happened too fast to see if Finch had anything with him. But Ryan wouldn’t be tearing everything apart if they had them, would he?”

  “I wouldn’t have thought so.”

  “Finch said he wanted to write the truth down for Mary. He said it would be her insurance if anything happened to him.” She paused, then added in a choked whisper, “I think those bloody papers might be the death of her.”

  Jasper feared she was correct.

  * * *

  Jasper woke in complete darkness and found a soft, sleep-heavy body draped over his. The evening came back to him in rush: he knew the truth but didn’t have a scrap of evidence—other than the testimony of an ex-convict prostitute who dressed in women’s clothing, had no alibi, and had last been seen arguing with the deceased.

&
nbsp; Whoever had sent Ryan to kill Finch—whether it was Symington or someone else—would not hesitate to kill two whores, a disgraced New York copper, and a foreign policeman to protect themselves from charges of treason and God knew what else. In the current chaos, it would be so simple for four people to disappear.

  Jasper needed Finch’s papers.

  Elizabeth Horgan shifted, and her leg jostled the one part of his body that was eager to face the new day. Jasper sucked in a breath and was about to carefully move her leg off his erection when her hand slid between his vest and shirt. For a moment, it just rested there. And then it began to slide down his abdomen, over the waistband of his trousers, stopping on his placket.

  Jasper gritted his teeth and laid a stilling hand on top of hers. “I d-don’t need payment to help you and Mary. It’s my j-job, Miss Horgan.”

  “You not only talk like an honorable man, you behave like one too.”

  Jasper didn’t think it was honor that was thrusting against his drawers just now.

  He felt hot breath on his neck and ear. “I don’t need to do it, my lord; I want to. Besides,” she added, her voice heavy with amusement. “Lorena Paxton has a pool going as to which of us would have you first.”

  Jasper seemed to inspire pools. “How m-much?”

  “It’s up over fifty dollars.”

  He chuckled. “So r-really it would be me d-doing you a favor?”

  “Let’s just agree this can be mutually beneficial.”

  The irony of his situation was not lost on him; he was surrounded by his greatest temptations.

  To his left was a tray that likely contained enough opium to solve today’s problems—at least for a few hours.

  To his right lay an entirely new set of problems.

  Of course there was a third option: get up and leave like a smart man.

  Her leg slid around him, the heel of her foot hooking beneath his hip and pulling him closer.

  Jasper gave up struggling. And then he turned to the right.

  CHAPTER 32

  Jasper returned to the hotel just before daybreak to find Paisley climbing the walls.

  He’d been too exhausted to chronicle his evening and had fallen face-first into his bed and slept like the dead, waking around nine. It still wasn’t as much sleep as his aching head needed, but today wasn’t a day to sleep.

  He took a sip of strong, black coffee and worked his way through a third newspaper, which had a slightly different version of the events of the previous night than the other two. But they all agreed on one thing: the mayor had been arrested but then released from police custody less than an hour later.

  Jasper heard the bell ring, and a moment later Paisley entered the room. “Patrolman O’Malley to see you, my lord.”

  Jasper smiled at the sight of the terrified young man, who was visibly cringing away from Paisley. He gestured to the empty chair across from him. “Have a s-seat, O’Malley. Thank you f-for responding so quickly to my m-message. Another pot of c-coffee, Paisley,” he said, not turning away from the boy, who was still gawking. “Sit,” he repeated, as O’Malley hovered on the brink of fleeing.

  “Where is Detective Law?” he asked, once O’Malley was seated.

  “I dunno, sir. We were at the place on Greene, and the detective sent me out to get somethin’ to eat. But when I got back, he was gone.”

  “He left you n-no message?”

  “No sir, nothin’. I waited two hours.”

  “D-Did he say—”

  The doorbell rang again. “Ah,” Jasper said. “That must be him now.”

  But the person who flung open the door was not Law.

  Jasper and O’Malley stood as Elizabeth Horgan stormed into the room, Paisley several steps behind her.

  “Ah, Miss H-Horgan,” Jasper said, looking from her frantic, tear-stained face to his servant.

  Paisley’s eyebrows rose one hundredth of an inch—a shrug from him.

  Her red-rimmed eyes flickered from Jasper to O’Malley. “The Sixth Precinct has Mary—they’re charging her with the murders of Alard Janssen and Stephen Finch.” She swallowed noisily. “And they say they have a witness.”

  * * *

  After much arguing—with Paisley—Jasper went, alone, to the tailor shop Grew mentioned.

  It was too easy. He walked in, said he was collecting something Finch had left, and walked out less than a minute later with a brown-paper-wrapped packet of documents. He perused the documents during the brief cab ride back to the hotel: Finch’s confession bore out everything—and more—that Miss Horgan had said last night.

  Three-quarters of an hour after returning to the hotel, Jasper was in another hackney, this time with O’Malley, headed to the Sixth Precinct.

  “You will stay in the c-carriage and wait outside the station,” Jasper repeated for the third time.

  O’Malley nodded. “Yes, sir, I will stay in the carriage.”

  “And if I don’t c-c-come out of the s-station in an hour?”

  “I will find a boy to run word to your servant, er, Mr. Paisley. I will not leave my post or stop watching.”

  “And if you see me l-l-leaving the station?”

  “I’m to follow you and then send a message to Mr. Paisley from wherever you end up.” He said Paisley’s name with a great deal of reverence.

  “Good.” Jasper absently smoothed the fingers of his gloves, his gaze drifting over his cane, the same one he’d carried yesterday.

  “I’ve been lookin’ into the things Detective Law told me to investigate,” O’Malley said, clearly uncomfortable with silence.

  “What s-sort of things?”

  “Er, about the pine sap.”

  “Ah, of course.” Jasper had forgotten about that bizarre detail.

  “I went to furniture manufacturers, railroad car manufacturers, boatyards, and even some theaters around Solange’s.”

  “Theaters?” Jasper said, momentarily distracted by the odd information.

  O’Malley nodded, his eager expression reminding Jasper of a hunting spaniel when it brought back a game bird. “I was talking to an old man who makes fine furniture, and he said back in olden days, people used it for glue to make wigs and beards and such.”

  “How interesting.” Jasper’s thoughts drifted back to the scene in the hotel room he’d just left.

  He’d been grateful that Miss Horgan had brought him news of Haslem’s arrest, but it meant she’d disobeyed him and stayed at the brothel rather than finding someplace to hide for a few days.

  Oh come, Jasper, calling her Miss Horgan after last night? And then again early this morning?

  Jasper regretfully pushed thoughts of this morning—and late last night—away. He’d left Miss Horgan—fine, Elizabeth—in Paisley’s capable hands. This time she’d not argued about staying away from the brothel.

  Perhaps you should have Paisley act as intermediary with all your lovers?

  Jasper sighed. It was going to be one of those days: a day when his sly mental companion occupied the forefront of his scrambled brain and hurled abuse.

  “What are you going to do?” Elizabeth had demanded after promising him not to return to Horgan’s.

  “Yes, my lord, I should like to know the answer to that as well,” a second voice had chimed in.

  Jasper had turned to find Paisley standing in the doorway, unabashed about his eavesdropping.

  “I’m going to leave shortly. First, I’ll give the concierge a message to deliver. Then I am going to the Sixth P-Precinct to m-make sure McElhenny doesn’t do anything r-rash to Mary.”

  “I will accompany you, my lord,” Paisley said.

  “N-No, you will not.”

  Paisley got that look on his face.

  “I have another t-task for you.”

  “Task, my lord?”

  “Is the house on Union S-Square ready for occupation?”

  “It is furnished, if that is what you are asking. But ready for you, my lord? I still need—”

 
“P-Pack a bag for yourself—and for me, as well,” he added, since Paisley’s face had hardened into a stubborn mask. “You will g-go with him, Miss Horgan. Do not go back to your b-business for anything. Paisley will purchase whatever you need.”

  And then Jasper gave Paisley a brown-paper-wrapped packet of papers. “Take them to Rutledge’s Bank.”

  Paisley had the key to the lockbox, as he’d been the one who’d taken all Jasper’s valuables to the bank when they’d arrived.

  “If I d-don’t return—or if you get word from O’Malley—you can please me by keeping Miss Horgan safe and having this delivered.” He gave Paisley a fat envelope with a London address. It was a desperate measure, and whoever was watching Jasper—and he knew somebody would be—would likely do anything to get their hands on it.

  Paisley had looked thunderous, and ten minutes of argument had ensued. But, in the end, he’d grudgingly agreed to obey. Whether he would do so was anyone’s guess.

  “—sixty-seven theaters in the city,” O’Malley said, his eyes wide and wondrous. “And that’s not counting the ones that aren’t real theaters, like schools, even some churches—our St. Mary’s has a small stage for the Nativity. I played Joseph one year. You wouldn’t—”

  The streets were less trafficked after yesterday, and the wheels brought Jasper closer and closer to the decision he’d made.

  Where the hell was Law? The man hadn’t met him as planned or sent a message. Had he scarpered? The pang of disappointment he experienced at the thought was surprising. But he wouldn’t blame him if he had; Law had told him after the Black Cat just who they were up against.

  What if something bad happened to Law thanks to your prying? Have you considered that, Jasper?

  As a matter of fact, he had considered it. And then he’d shoved it to the back of his brain. As possibilities went, it wasn’t an encouraging one. If somebody had taken him—and if he were still alive—Jasper would have about as much chance of finding Law in New York City as he would in the middle of the ocean. Jasper worried his lower lip, hoping like hell that Law was currently relaxing on a train or boat headed anywhere else.

  “—have you ever heard of that, sir?”