New York City
July 2, 1857
“My lord?”
Jasper squinted through the haze of sleep at the sound of his valet’s voice. “What t-time is it, Paisley?” he asked as he shielded his eyes against the low-burning gaslight lamp beside the bed.
“Almost five thirty, my lord.” He paused, and then added, “In the morning.”
Jasper smiled at Paisley’s gentle hint. Ever since his neighbor Mrs. Dunbarton’s suicide, his normally dictatorial servant had worn kid gloves around him.
Paisley had known—in the way servants do—that Jasper had begun to develop a liking for the acerbic widow. No doubt Paisley believed that Jasper’s subsequent five-day absence was his way of grieving for Mrs. Dunbarton. In part, his valet was correct.
But Jasper was ashamed to admit that the impulse that had led him to Gordon Chang’s place of business in the notorious Five Points area had also been a self-destructive one—at least to begin with.
It was fortunate for Jasper that Mr. Chang wasn’t just a purveyor of opium, he was also trained in the Eastern discipline of acupuncture.
Had Jasper indulged in his favorite vice while at Chang’s?
Of course he’d smoked opium.
But he’d also slept, undergone acupuncture for his relentless headaches, and eaten the hearty but plain food Chang’s Irish wife, Irene, cooked for their customers who stayed in the three monastic rooms the couple maintained—in their own home—for those who came to take acupuncture treatments.
The bulk of Chang’s customers—those who only wanted opium—were relegated to the tiny, darkened warren of rooms behind the small herbalist shop.
It was possible that Jasper might, even now, still be living in that small, immaculate room if he could have overlooked the pity and scorn in Mrs. Chang’s eyes whenever she looked at him. Jasper couldn’t blame her; hiding away from the world was self-indulgent and weak, especially when a person was relatively healthy, wealthy, and had others relying on him for their livelihood.
So he’d come home before poor Paisley had needed to come and fetch him.
“Detective Law is downstairs, my lord.”
Paisley’s voice shook Jasper from his sleepy reverie and he pushed out of bed, grimacing as he did so. Yesterday, his first morning back home, he’d resumed his exercise regime with a vengeance. And today he was feeling all thirty-four of his years.
Hieronymus Law glanced at the much-diminished plate of pastries.
“You go on, Mr. Law. His lordship won’t eat ’em, and lord knows I don’t need any more,” said Lightner’s new cook, Gloria Freedman.
“Thank you, ma’am.” Hy surreptitiously watched Mrs. Freedman as he munched on the strawberry jam–filled tart. As far as Hy was concerned, the woman’s name suited her to a T. Not only did she cook the most glorious damned food he’d ever eaten, but she was glorious to look at, too. She was on the smallish side, with a curvy figure that even her big dun apron couldn’t hide. Her hair was covered by the sort of ugly white cotton cap female servants seemed to wear, but even that couldn’t diminish her fine looks. Full lips, a sharp chin, and the prettiest melting brown eyes Hy could ever recall seeing.
Still, as beautiful as she was, the best thing about her—in Hy’s opinion—was the way she put Lightner’s terrifying valet, Mr. Paisley, in his place without hardly trying; the woman was truly fearless.
Paisley scared the shit out of Hy.
“Do you always get up this early?” Hy asked after he’d washed down the last of the tart with strong coffee liberally lightened with cream and sweetened with three spoonfuls of sugar; the cook had only served him breakfast twice before, but she already knew his coffee habits.
Mrs. Freedman looked up from the massive lump of dough she was kneading into submission. “I have the past few days.” Hy thought her smile looked strained. “All the other kitchen workers quit last week.”
Her words made him realize it was strangely quiet, and he glanced around the enormous, gleaming, and surprisingly cool kitchen. “You doin’ everything yourself?”
Before she could answer him, the door opened and Lightner walked in.
Hy hadn’t seen the other man for almost a week—not since the day the rich society woman, Hesperis Dunbarton, had committed suicide. He couldn’t help thinking the Englishman looked gaunt and tired.
Mrs. Freedman pulled her fists out of the dough and dropped a curtsey. “Good morning, my lord.”
Hy got to his feet; there was just something about his new boss that seemed to demand the courtesy. “Mornin’, sir.”
“Good morning, Mrs. Freedman, D-Detective Law.” Lightner glanced around the empty kitchen and a notch formed between his arched, black brows. “Are you alone, Mrs. F-Freedman?”
“Yes, my lord.”
The notch became more pronounced. “Where are your helpers? I r-recall Paisley engaged several scu-scullery maids?”
The door he’d just come through opened again, and Paisley himself entered before Mrs. Freedman could answer. “I’ve set two places in the breakfast room, my lord.”
Lightner gave a dismissive flick of his hand. “Nonsense. I shall have a quick c-c-cup of tea in here.”
Hy bit back a smile at the lightning-fast look of displeasure that flitted across the hoity-toity valet’s face.
“Would you like a slice of almond coffee cake with your tea, my lord?” Mrs. Freedman asked, cutting Paisley a look that was decidedly triumphant as Lightner settled down at the kitchen table.
“That would be lovely, Mrs. F-Freedman.” Lightner nodded at Hy. “What do we have this m-morning, Detective?”
Hy pulled his gaze away from Paisley, who appeared to have grown roots in the tiled kitchen floor. Hy could only assume that Lightner, the son of a duke, wasn’t supposed to eat his meals in the kitchen.
Welcome to America, Mr. Paisley.
As if he’d heard him, Paisley shot Hy a narrow-eyed look, turned with military precision, and left the kitchen without another word.
Hy took out his notebook, even though the details were pretty much branded into his brain, probably forever.
“Body of a dead male found inside a crate, packed in salt.”
Lightner’s eyes widened. “Good Lord. Where?”
“Well, that’s the thing, sir.” Hy gathered his thoughts, not wanting to blurt things out all willy-nilly and sound like an idiot.
“What thing?” Lightner prodded gently.
“So, the crate started out in New York and was shipped to New Orleans last Christmas—on the twentieth of December. It arrived in New Orleans on January seventeenth. Nobody came forward to claim it. Apparently, the company appropriates any unclaimed goods and holds them for four months against their fee for storage. When they opened this crate they found the body of Mr. Albert Beauchamp.” Hy realized Mrs. Freedman had been heading toward them with a teapot, but was now standing frozen in place, her mouth open. “I beg your pardon, ma’am.”
Lightner’s pale cheeks flushed slightly as he glanced at the cook. “P-Perhaps we should take this to the b-breakfast room.”
His words galvanized Mrs. Freedman into action. “You don’t need to leave on my account, sir.” She set down the teapot. “It just took me by surprise is all.”
“M-Me too,” Lightner murmured. “So,” he said, continuing, “they opened the crate and then somebody in New Orleans identified the b-body and then decided to s-s-send it back.”
“I don’t believe the folks in New Orleans removed Mr. Beauchamp from the crate. Er, at least they don’t say. They assumed it was Beauchamp since that was the name on the ticket.”
“Ah. So we’ll n-need an identification?”
“Yes, sir.”
Mrs. Freedman returned with a cup and saucer and a small platter heaped with slices of what must be almond pound cake. Hy’s stomach growled. He’d already eaten four pastries, but sometimes his bottomless stomach surprised even him.
Lightner’s lips twitched as he offered Hy the plate.
“Thank you, sir.” He took two slices—what the hell—and Mrs. Freedman refilled his coffee cup. Hy nodded his thanks and said, “Knowing how you like the body to stay in the condition it was found in, I wouldn’t have removed him from the crate, but, er, unfortunately the two stevedores who were moving it dropped it.”
Back at her kneading, Mrs. Freedman gasped.
Lightner winced and took a sip of coal-black tea before saying, “If he was p-packed in salt I daresay he’s fairly resilient to such v-violence.”
“Exactly, sir. He’s pretty tough, and I don’t think the fall damaged any of his, er, parts.”
“Parts?” Lightner said, his teacup hovering halfway to his mouth.
Mrs. Freedman also stared; Hy felt bad, telling such a gruesome tale in front of a woman. To be honest, seeing all Beauchamp’s pieces had almost made him puke.
Still, his boss had asked him a question. “Oh, didn’t I mentioned he’d been dismembered?”
“You f-f-f-failed to mention that, Detective.” Lightner stopped, cut Mrs. Freedman a quick glance and thankfully left the unpleasant subject alone for the moment.
They both took a bite of almond cake. Hy wasn’t so embarrassed by the satisfied grunt that slipped out of him when he saw Lightner’s expression of pure bliss.
They ate in reverential silence for a moment before Hy said, “After they loaded the salt and Beauchamp into a fresh crate, I had the body taken over to Bellevue, to Doc Kirby.”
“Good.”
“Beauchamp’s address is 148 Sullivan, not far from Houston—that’s a tony street, by the way. It straddles the wards, but the Eighth got lucky and pulled this case.”
Lightner—a notoriously sparing eater—finished his slice and reached for a second.
At Hy’s surprised look Lightner gave a sheepish shrug. “If I d-don’t eat it now, Paisley will—he’s quite g-g-greedy about Mrs. Freedman’s almond cake.” He cut the smirking cook a smile. “I trust you will use that p-piece of information wisely, ma’am.”
Mrs. Freedman chuckled and, for the first time, Hy almost felt sorry for the badly outmatched Mr. Paisley.
“How did you learn all this about the b-body?” Lightner asked.
“The wharf agent sent a letter with the crate. He said the New Orleans police didn’t want any part of it. They figured it was a New York matter since Beauchamp arrived dead.”
Lightner chuckled. “Well, what d-do we know about Mr. Beauchamp’s journey to N-New Orleans?”
“The crate went down on a ship in the Merchants Steamship Line. The wharf agent said the port police brought them the sealed crate January seventeenth.”
“I wonder why they n-never opened it?”
“Apparently nobody wanted to open it because it was in one of the first-class cabins, and they assumed the owner would return quickly to claim it. Those tickets cost fifty dollars, one way, so nobody believed the room would have been booked for nothing but a crate.”
Lightner gave a laugh of disbelief. “And n-nobody in the crew noticed the passenger never ate—never l-left his cabin, never needed f-fresh linens?”
“There was nothin’ about that in the letter, sir.”
“I suppose the crew were th-thrilled to have such an undemanding passenger.”
Hy chuckled. “Aye, I expect that was part of it. The ship is called the Spirit of Freedom and is due back at Pier 42 tomorrow.”
“Was anything else in the c-cabin?”
“The letter didn’t say, sir. I suppose we’ll be able to ask the crew, not that anyone will remember after so much time.”
“Well, the circumstances are odd, so hopefully somebody will r-r-remember.” Lightner took a drink of tea, shook his head at Mrs. Freedman’s offer of more, and said, “One would have thought the New Orleans p-p-police would have been curious about the body. Beauchamp is a French surname. It’s a w-wonder they didn’t look for relatives, at least.”
Hy had wondered about that, too.
Lightner tossed his napkin onto his empty plate and stood. “Well, it scarcely matters now. M-Mister Beauchamp has come all the way b-back to us, so I suppose he n-now belongs to us.”