Absence of Mercy

by S. M. Goodwin

  “You said any w-w-woman might be angry enough to k-kill her own husband, but why would she kill another’s?” He shook his head in wonder. “You all but handed me the truth, d-didn’t you? You d-didn’t kill your own h-husbands, you killed each other’s.”

  She looked away, but not before he saw the truth.

  “It’s b-brilliant, and so very simple.”

  Small details suddenly stood out, and Jasper scrambled to put them in the correct order.

  “It w-was Emma Sealy who killed Janssen. The doctor said she’d been ill for a while. That’s why there was a gap: she was too ill to do her p-part a few months ago, wasn’t she? Emma is left-handed—as was the p-person who killed Alard Janssen—I noticed that when she served me t-t-tea.” He snorted softly. “Her h-hands were bleeding through her g-gloves; she m-must be in pain.”

  Fury burned in Hetty’s icy blue eyes as she glared up at him.

  “Mrs. Sealy t-talked about her dead husband as if she still loved him. Why did she agree to s-such a thing? Was she regretting it when it came her t-turn? Did you and Mrs. J-Janssen have to threaten her to do her part? Did you r-remind her that you’d done yours? Because I know you would have gone f-first, Hetty.” A muscle in Hetty’s jaw ticced. “You couldn’t just allow her to shoot J-Janssen. Any old murder wouldn’t do—it w-was all to send a message. Three wealthy men, mutilated and m-murdered the same way, all outside a n-notorious virgin peddler’s whorehouse. B-But your message got muddled.” Jasper shook his head as one piece after another fell into place. “You m-must have been furious when the bodies were moved from S-Solange’s. I d-don’t understand about the p-pine sap. Did you lure them here to k-kill them?”

  “You have nothing,” she said.

  He cocked his head as he studied her. “You d-don’t feel any guilt—but what of the others? It’s not the syphilis that has d-driven Emma Sealy to l-lock herself away in that place, is it? She’s sick with guilt at what she agreed to do—what she’s d-done.”

  Hetty flung aside the garment she’d been clutching. “Emma is a fool. She’s dying from syphilis because Wilbur gave it to her. He as good as murdered her, and yet she still loved him!”

  “And Mrs. Janssen—”

  “Alard was the worst kind of hypocrite—a reformer who raped little girls. As for me? Well, I have the best reason of all. I promised the girls I brought here a better life—a safe place to live. And do you know what I did to them? Can you guess? I delivered them right to the very men I’d tried to protect them from. Oh yes,” she said, reading the revulsion in his eyes. “Felix and his sick friends bribed the guard I hired to protect these defenseless young girls—don’t bother looking for him, by the way—to act as their own personal procurer, bringing them virgins in this very room. They scheduled their rapes for Saturday nights and took turns—all so very civilized. I don’t know how long it went on before I realized the horror of what I’d done—” Her laugh was tinged with hysteria. “I’d provided them with the very commodity they’d once had to go searching for. Hesperis Dunbarton, the great humanitarian, was even worse than despicable Solange Dupuy.” Her voice dripped with self-loathing. “You’re absolutely right I went first. When Wilbur Sealy came for his Saturday perversion, he found me instead of a harmless, drugged little girl.” She stared through him as if seeing somebody else. “It was a bad decision to do it here. I never expected so much blood.” Her gaze sharpened and settled on Jasper. “Death was too easy an escape for those three—I just wish they’d suffered more.”

  “You m-mutilated them while they were still alive—they would have suffered p-plenty as you hacked out your pound of flesh.”

  “They deserved it, and I’d do it all over again.” She gave a mirthless snort and shook her head. “It was all so perfect. Except for the watch—that damned watch. Was it that policeman? I thought, with the case files gone—”

  Jasper gaped. “That was you?” he asked stupidly.

  He deserved her derisive laugh. “Finding a bent copper willing to destroy a few files is easier than getting a table at Delmonico’s—and costs considerably less. How did you find out about the watch?” she persisted.

  “Detective Ryan t-told me.”

  She nodded, looking unsurprised. “I regretted lying the moment the words slipped out of my mouth—especially since Caitlyn had already stupidly confessed. But once I’d spoken, it was too late to take them back.” Her expression shifted to one of regret. “I wish you’d never figured any of it out, but I can’t say I’m surprised.” Her voice softened. “You have no proof, Jasper, only the word of a corrupt policeman. It would be my word against his, and who will people believe? You can allow justice to be done without feeling as if you’ve failed in your duty. We are untouchable, my lord. You have nothing.”

  She was right: he had nothing.

  When you are left with nothing, Jasper—then you must use that. The voice belonged to Eugene Vidocq.

  Jasper recalled just what had started him on this wretched journey this morning: Law’s visit.

  “We know about Amy G-Grady, Hetty.”

  She stared, her eyes blinking rapidly. He began to think his bluff was just that: a bluff.

  But then she laughed—a forced, brittle sound—and that’s when Jasper knew he had her; Hetty knew it too.

  “I have no idea what you’re talking about.”

  “Detective Law—the p-policeman Caitlyn entrusted to take Amy to Philadelphia—just received a l-letter from Amy. She’s g-guilt ridden about what happened to her sister. Detective Law has gone to c-collect the girl and b-b-bring her back.” Jasper hesitated, then said, “Tell me how it st-started, Hetty. Did she b-blackmail you? Was that it?”

  For a moment, he thought she’d tell him to go to hell. But then her brilliant blue eyes shuttered and her shoulders slumped.

  “No, Caitlyn didn’t blackmail me—she didn’t want money. She brought Amy to me because she wanted me to know what kind of man my husband was.” Her lips twisted bitterly. “As if I didn’t already.”

  Her gaze sharpened and focused on Jasper. “Do you know what Caitlyn said when I went to visit her in that horrid cell?” Jasper opened his mouth, but she wasn’t interested in his answer. “She said that Felix never even recognized Amy that night.” She shook her head, wondrous. “I was stunned. I couldn’t understand how that was possible.” Her jaw hardened. “And then I realized—those countless girls weren’t even people to him, just objects for his pleasure.”

  Her breathing had become harsh and shallow, and her eyes blazed at him. “The idea for everything was mine, but all of us agreed to it—even Emma. She still loved Wilbur, but she knew that he’d keep spreading disease and death to more girls and that she’d be an accessory if she did nothing to stop him.”

  A long, charged moment of silence hung between them, and then Hetty cocked her head, her expression curious. “Amy is a fourteen-year-old girl—thirteen when she was made pregnant by a man no better than a rapist. Tell me, Jasper—will you really punish her?”

  “I don’t mete out punishment, Hetty.”

  She gave a bitter laugh. “No, because that would require you to take a stand. It would require you to be something more than just form. It would require substance. The reason you can be so placid and calm is because there is nothing inside you to disturb.” Suddenly, her face crumpled, her composure dissolving with shocking rapidity. “I’d hoped you were coming to care for me. How could you do this?” She brushed her cheek with the back of one hand, sniffed loudly, and then reached for the ugly, oversized reticule that sat on the settee beside her.

  Her reticule.

  Jasper’s body acted before the thought was fully formed.

  But she was faster and swung around and caught him two long strides away.

  “Stop.” She leveled the gun he’d returned to her only days before at his chest. At this range, she could hardly miss. It was a small-caliber gun, but it could kill.

  “Step back,” she ordered. “Another.” Whe
n he complied, she said, “I didn’t mean what I just said about you lacking substance.” She smiled, her eyes dry. “I just needed to distract you. You’re caring and kind, Jasper. It’s the horror of war that has left you detached. I understand that. I know it was naïve and foolish of me, but after last night, I’d hoped—”

  “It’s not as grim as it appears, Hetty. There were extenuating c-circumstances—”

  “Don’t, Jasper; don’t lie to me. I’m not stupid; I always knew there was a chance somebody would say something—let something slip.” She smiled wryly. “What’s the saying? Three can keep a secret if two of them are dead? I’ve written a letter confessing to all of it, and it’s in the safe. Cates knows the combination, and he knows what to do with the letter. I confess, Jasper. It was me—I killed all of them. Don’t go after the girl—don’t ruin her life.”

  “Hetty, I’ll—”

  “No. Whatever you’re going to say doesn’t matter. You see, everything will change soon. Everything. I was so foolish. I thought—” She muttered something Jasper couldn’t hear, then said, “Felix was embezzling from Ohio Life and Trust. Men came to talk to me a few days ago.” She gave a laugh of disbelief. “He’s been stealing from them for years—since before we were married, even. They only discovered it after he died, and they’re still untangling it all. They said he’d begun to replace some of the money just before he died, but not nearly enough. They’ll take me to court for whatever they can get—which is everything. I shall be destitute and will have to move back in with my father—I’ll be a child all over again.”

  Jasper knew, then, why she’d invited him into her bed. “I c-can help you. I’m a w-wealthy man, Hetty. We can—”

  “You’re a good man, Jasper—the sort of kind, handsome knight a homely young girl like me always dreamed would rescue her. But you were too late.”

  “Put d-down the gun. I give you my w-word that I’ll help you.”

  “I believe you would—even after what I’ve done.” Her hands wavered slightly, and then she said, “If I put down the gun, will you still arrest me—us?”

  He hesitated less than a second, but it was enough.

  The gun steadied and she smiled sadly. “Close your eyes, my lord.”

  “No!” He took a step toward her, but his boot stuck and he staggered. “Hetty—”

  “Good-bye, Jasper.”

  Jasper launched himself at her, but the bullet went through her brain before his feet left the floor.

  EPILOGUE

  Jasper personally delivered Hetty’s body to her house.

  Cates seemed to have aged twenty years, and looking into his guilt-ravaged eyes, Jasper saw the truth. The butler might not have wielded the knife—indeed, he doubted Hetty would have allowed it. But Jasper suspected he would find a katara—a ceremonial Indian dagger, with its signature H-shaped guard—somewhere in the older man’s quarters.

  And the knotted rope, a classic weapon of the Thuggee—a group bent on vengeance—was apt for three women seeking their pound of flesh.

  He told Cates to destroy the letter and left the older man to his guilt and grief and went to White Street.

  Jasper didn’t know whether Tallmadge believed the story he’d told him—that Mrs. Dunbarton, distraught to learn she was soon to be penniless, had taken her own life—or not.

  He did know the man didn’t want the truth; who would? Jasper wished with every particle of his being that he’d not gone to Ryan. He wished he’d not hesitated when she asked if he’d arrest her. He wished—

  He wished he could relive the last few hours and do things differently.

  He wished that instead of holding a dead, cold body in his arms that evening, he’d just finished watching young, well-cared-for girls perform a play celebrating the founders, men who’d done a less-than-exemplary job of protecting them.

  Perhaps after he returned home from the play, he might have slipped next door, using the side entrance to the house—the way he’d come in from Hetty’s that morning. If he had been fortunate, he might have been in her bed even now, making love to a woman who deserved to be loved.

  Instead, he was headed down Baxter Street at midnight.

  Why?

  Why not? Where else did he have to go?

  The men and women he passed on the street looked like they were up to nothing good. Either was Jasper, or at least he soon hoped to be.

  He passed one of the many grim alleys that this side of the island possessed. A bawd and her customer were leaned up against the brick wall, too involved in each other to notice Jasper.

  He’d briefly considered going to Horgan’s tonight; the city had mysteriously dismissed its violation, and she was back in business. Jasper knew he could find some measure of comfort with Elizabeth Horgan. After all, she was a woman who understood vice—especially his.

  But he didn’t want to be with another woman. Not tonight.

  What he wanted was to get his brain to stop turning things over and over, like a farmer working arid soil.

  Wrong or right, he’d already decided that he would let the matter die with Hetty. Emma Sealy, Zuza Janssen, and Amy Grady could live with what they’d done.

  But making that decision didn’t mean he could stop his thoughts from churning. He needed something to help him forget. How was that for irony?

  He paused at a street crossing and looked up to find O’Reilly’s. The saloon was so full of humanity it was bursting at the seams. The off-key music, sounds of revelry, and bright lights repelled him.

  He kept walking.

  There were children selling corn next to women selling their bodies. Two shirtless men fought on the side of the street while a handful of others cheered them on and wagered. A boy hawked a penny paper that promised to guide its readers to the best brothels with the cheapest, youngest girls.

  Where Park intersected Baxter, a shadow detached itself from the wall and headed in Jasper’s direction.

  Jasper knew who it was before the slight figure passed under the nearest lamppost. “J-John, how are you this evening?”

  It was impossible to see beneath the dirt to tell if the boy was blushing, but his expression of remorse told him it was a possibility. He held out his hand, and Jasper saw his silver canister of lucifers in the boy’s grubby palm.

  “S-S-S-S—fuckin’ hell! Sorry I pinched it,” he blurted loudly.

  Jasper slipped the canister into his pocket. “Thank you.” He resumed walking.

  “Where ya g-g-g-goin’?” John asked, taking two steps to Jasper’s one.

  “Isn’t it a b-bit late for you to be out?”

  John scowled up at him.

  Jasper took that to mean he had no home. He stopped, reached into his pocket, scooped out all the change, and held the money toward the boy. “Here.”

  John stuck out a hand.

  “Both.”

  When he complied, Jasper dumped all the money into his cupped palms. “Go find somewhere safe for the night—f-fill your b-belly.”

  Once again, John tagged along beside him, his trousers—held up by sheer ingenuity—now jingling with each step. “You shouldn’t b-b-b-be d-d-down here.”

  Jasper glanced left and right before crossing the street; there wasn’t much other than foot traffic at this time of night. Even the omnibuses had stopped running.

  John crossed with him. “Ain’t safe,” he muttered.

  No, it certainly wasn’t—but Jasper wasn’t in danger from the things John was warning him about.

  Down the block from the Old Brewery across from Matt Kelly’s pawnshop was a business with a shop front that had Chinese characters painted on the glass.

  The interior was dark, but a candle burned in the corner of the window, which displayed pots of herbs, some books, a few bolts of fabric, and other sundries.

  Jasper pushed the door opened, the soft tinkling of a bell announcing his entrance. Before he stepped inside, he turned to the boy.

  John was staring up at him, his brow furrowed
with concern, his eyes flickering between Jasper and the shop beyond.

  “Go on,” Jasper said. “I’ll be fine.” He closed the door in the boy’s face, not wanting a witness to his weakness, even if it was only a street urchin.

  A French door behind the counter opened, and a young man stood in the doorway. He didn’t seem surprised to see a well-dressed man standing in his darkened shop at midnight.

  He dropped a perfunctory bow.

  Jasper inhaled the familiar scents that filled the air and held them in his lungs before slowly exhaling: it felt like coming home, but without all the bothersome rituals.

  The other man was a stranger, but he knew what Jasper wanted without needing to ask. He stepped back and gestured for Jasper to follow.

  Jasper walked through the doorway and closed the door behind him.

  AUTHOR’S NOTES

  Writing a work of historical fiction is always an exercise in walking a fine line: how much history and how much fiction.

  As an historian writing fiction, I often find the decision of what to cut and what to keep a painful one. If it were up to me, this book would be eight hundred pages long. (Not including endnotes.) Fortunately for readers, my wonderful editor—Faith Black Ross—was on hand to curb my excesses.

  One of the areas I had to condense most brutally was the Byzantine politics of the period. For example, at first glance it appears New York City is easily divisible into two camps in 1857: nativist versus immigrants and their supporters. But this easy and clear division is not supported after you delve more deeply, and personal interest often superseded politics or group affiliation.

  If you want to read about New York City, I enthusiastically recommend getting your hands on a copy of Pulitzer Prize winning Gotham: A History of New York City to 1898, by Edwin G. Burrows & Mike Wallace. This book is amazing. Gotham isn’t just one of the best history books I’ve ever read, it’s one of the best books I’ve read, period.

  In addition to reducing much of the history to more easily comestible “bites,” I’ve also taken liberties with a few dates, police procedure, and historical figures.