It was after four o’clock by the time Jasper and Law met up at East Eleventh Street.
“Sorry I’m late, sir. The celebrations are starting early,” Detective Law muttered as he stepped out of a hackney in front of the building they had earlier discovered housed not only Cranston, Cranston, and Bakewell but also Gideon Richards.
Jasper couldn’t help thinking that Frumkin’s two law firms sharing the same building was more than a coincidence.
“How did things g-go down at the pier?” Jasper asked as they headed inside.
“Not good. The ship came in today, but she’s at anchor—not at the pier. The wharf agent for the Metropolitan Line said there is some issue with quarantine and they don’t know when she’ll dock. Right now everyone—crew and passengers—are stuck on board.”
Jasper grunted, rivulets of sweat running down his spine as they reached the third floor landing and kept going.
“On the fifth, is it?” Law asked with a wheezy laugh.
“Of course.”
“Did Mrs. Vogel have anything interesting to say?” Law asked as they trudged.
Jasper gave him a very abbreviated version of his conversation with the battered woman.
“That bastard,” Law hissed as they paused to catch their breath outside the lawyer’s office. “Please tell me that Vogel is on our list, sir,” Law said, cracking the knuckles of his huge fists.
Jasper smiled at the menacing gesture and opened the door to an elegantly decorated foyer, complete with a desk and clerk.
Jasper handed the young man a card. “We are with the Metropolitan police and want to t-t-talk to somebody about one of your clients, Albert Beauchamp.
A few minutes later, after thoroughly checking their credentials, the clerk ushered them into the office of Lowell Cranston, the senior partner in the small firm.
“Thank y-you for seeing us so l-l-late in the day,” Jasper said, once he and Law were both seated. “I understand this b-b-building belongs to you.”
“Yes, that’s true.”
“Does your f-firm ever work with one of your renters—Gideon Richards?”
“Don’t know Richards myself,” Cranston said gruffly, his sagging jowls tightened with obvious disapproval, telling Jasper what the old man thought about his tenant. “Edward Bakewell leased the space to him,” he added.
Cranston cleared his throat. “As for Beauchamp—or Frumkin, rather—well, he was Bakewell’s client. Never met the man. Don’t recall ever hearing about him until now.” He glanced down at the file that his clerk had given him when he’d escorted Jasper and Law into his office. “Don’t think Bakewell could have known him well as the will was all he ever did for him.” His frown deepened. “I recall reading about Frumkin.” He glared at Jasper, his white eyebrows like twin drifts of snow, quivering before an avalanche. “A bad business, that. Can’t believe Bakewell took him on as a client.” He grunted. “Well, I won’t speak ill of the dead.”
Cranston heaved a sigh as he looked from the copy of the will Jasper had brought, comparing it to whatever he had in the file. “This copy has been properly signed and witnessed. Looks like the original, although I’ll have to go over it closely.” He pulled a face. “I never liked these things—sign of a petty, controlling individual, in my opinion.”
“What th-th-things?” Jasper asked.
“It’s right here—paragraph nine: Frumkin has left everything to his daughter, but conditionally. If she wants to inherit, she’ll have to write a letter stating she forgives him—get it witnessed and so forth,” he muttered.
“Forgives him for what?”
Cranston shrugged. “Doesn’t say.”
“Is that unusual?”
“It’s not common. Like I say, doesn’t speak well of the testator, in my opinion.”
“Who inherits if she refuses to write the letter?’
Cranston barked out a laugh. “Can’t see that happening—never has in my experience.”
But then he hadn’t met Jessica Martello. Jasper could easily see her telling her father’s lawyers to go to the devil.
“But if she refused, it would go back to the estate and pass to—” he flipped a few pages, his eyes running quickly over the tightly packed legalese. “Hmm, looks like there isn’t an alternative beneficiary listed. Interesting. Can’t believe Bakewell didn’t take care of that. There should be, in the unrealistic event the initial recipient declined. Or maybe died. Damned unprofessional,” he muttered, visibly agitated.
“So you would n-need to s-search for other relatives?” Jasper asked.
“What’s that?”
“W-Would you need to locate more family?” Jasper asked loudly.
“Oh. Well, we’ll put out legal notices no matter what.”
“Where?”
“Usually only in the legal domicile of the deceased, unless there is evidence the deceased had multiple residences.” He cleared his throat and gave Jasper a significant look from under his brows. “Let me give you the words without the bark on ’em, sir—a lawyer’s thoroughness often depends on the estate in question. Hardly worth anyone’s time to spend a hundred dollars looking for somebody if the estate isn’t worth a plug nickel.”
Jasper didn’t tell the lawyer just how much money might be involved.
Cranston made another harrumphing sound. “So yes, we’d do a search for the next of kin if necessary. But the will is quite explicit—no bequests to anyone other than Jessica Frumkin. Can’t see her saying no to a windfall. If other relatives come out of the woodwork and want a share, they’d have their hands full fighting the document.” He frowned at Jasper. “I’ve not read about his death in the paper,” he said. “When was it?”
Jasper hesitated, but then realized they could hardly keep the man’s murder a secret now. Especially as his servants and tenants already knew. “We believe he was killed around Christmas.”
The old man’s eyes opened wide. “Good Lord, are you saying the man was murdered?”
Jasper nodded and stood. “Thank you for your t-time, Mr. C-Cranston.”
Cranston pushed himself to his feet, wavering slightly. “It’s too late today but I’ll get in touch with Miss Martello and the bank after the holiday. I know Sorenson, I bank there myself,” he added, visibly agitated. “I suppose I shall be reading about this in the papers.”
It wasn’t a question, so Jasper didn’t answer.