July 4
“Goddammit!” Jasper glared at the extra that Paisley had brought in with his usual morning papers.
“Albert Frumkin Returns to NYC … In Seven Pieces.”
Words like extortion, Beauchamp, and Martello leapt off the page.
He flung down the crumpled paper and shoved back his chair.
There was only one way this story could have leaked out: the report he’d left on Davies’s desk.
Cranston and Richards knew the man was dead, but neither man knew the details of his murder. Only that bloody report contained all the pieces of the puzzle.
“Goddammit,” he said again, under his breath. He needed to get over to Jessica Martello’s, now. The poor woman was probably besieged by newspapermen and being hounded half to death.
He ground his teeth; and this after he’d promised to keep her name and relationship to Frumkin quiet. Jasper hated looking the fool. Or worse, looking incompetent.
Christ!
Paisley was in his dressing room when Jasper flung open the door.
“Are you ready for—”
“Just a shave and a quick wash,” Jasper said, forcing the words—quietly—through his teeth. Paisley didn’t deserve his temper.
Paisley had him shaved, washed, and dressed in record time.
“I need to get something from the st-st-study,” he said, heading in that direction. “Fetch me a hackney.”
When Jasper entered the foyer a few minutes later, Paisley had just stepped inside and was closing the door behind him.
“Good Lord,” Jasper said, pulling on his gloves. “What the d-devil is that racket?”
“I’m afraid there is a parade blocking Fourteenth Street, my lord.”
“Ah, of course—a F-F-Fourth of July affair.”
Bloody hell; just what he needed.
“The Ancient Order of the Hibernians, sir.” Paisley hesitated. “The gentleman I spoke to said the organization was, er, virulently Irish.”
Jasper snorted; coming from an actual Irishman that was amusing.
“There are no hackneys, my lord. You’ll need to go to Fourth Avenue.”
A walk would do him good; he was so vile-mooded he wanted to break something.
He took the pewter-handled stick with the concealed rapier—it seemed like a good day to be armed—and his hat, but he scowled at the overcoat his valet held out for him. “I simply c-c-can’t. It’s too damned hot.”
Paisley nodded, his expression suspiciously bland. “The newspaper was predicting record heat today.” Which was his way of saying he would forgive Jasper’s scandalously half-dressed state.
Jasper opened the door and flooded the foyer with the din of brass and percussive instruments. “I shall be b-b-back in a few hours.”
“Very good, sir.” He hesitated and then added, “I will be spending the afternoon and early evening at Battery Park, my lord.” Paisley’s pale face looked slightly flushed.
Jasper stared; Paisley was going out on a frolic on today of all days?
How … singular.
Well, he couldn’t think about that now. He jerked a nod and headed out into the fray.
He was fortunate enough to have missed the bulk of the parade and was able to cross Fourteenth Street without too much bother.
A line of hackneys trailed down the side of Fourth Avenue, and he approached the nearest.
“Elm and White,” he told the driver before climbing into the closed carriage, grimacing at the miserable heat, not to mention the stench, which indicated that somebody had vomited in the carriage. Recently.
He tried first one window and then the other, which only opened halfway. Heavy, sluggish air moved grudgingly through the carriage as it plodded along and Jasper sagged against the battered seat, already wilting from the crushing heat.
It was just after ten o’clock. If he had not allowed himself to sleep in that morning and then do his daily hour of exercise plus another half hour—because today was an official day off—he would have read the paper hours ago. Lord only knew what the poor woman had been dealing with all morning.
Who at the Eighth Precinct had sold the news? He didn’t suspect Davies, for all that the man hated him. It had to be Featherstone or one of the bent coppers the man consorted with.
Jasper knew Detective Featherstone was crooked. Unfortunately, his best proof of that suspicion was an old rag picker who had mysteriously disappeared after last being seen with Featherstone.
He could only hope that Mayor Wood’s abrupt disbanding of the Municipal force would mean that men who’d openly supported him, like Featherstone, might be out of a job.
Or perhaps it was Jasper who no longer had a job? It was difficult to say these days.
Captain Davies of the Eighth had straddled the line between Municipal and Metropolitan, trying to obey two masters. Whether he’d pleased the Metropolitan higher-ups, Jasper didn’t know. Quite frankly, he had no interest in the departmental shenanigans. At least not beyond how they impacted his investigations.
He had to admit, unwillingly, that accusing Detective Featherstone of selling the Frumkin information to the newspapers without any evidence—even in the privacy of his own mind—was neither wise nor just. After all, it could be any of the sixty-plus coppers who worked at the Eighth. Or it could be the janitor or cleaning woman who’d found the envelope on Davies’s desk and seized an opportunity. No doubt the money—for an exclusive, at that—would have been too tempting for a lot of people to resist.
He’d been a bloody fool to leave it in the captain’s office, even locked. He’d been a bloody fool to give it to Davies at all. He should have told him to go to hell. Or, at the very least, given him a half page of pablum. The man didn’t deserve the truth.
Just thinking of his asinine dognapping order made Jasper’s blood boil. If he wasn’t careful, Davies would have him wearing motley.
The carriage shuddered to a halt and Jasper stuck his head out the half-opened window, scowling at what he saw. The road was jammed with milling bodies and loud music was pouring from more than a few saloons.
The carriage panel slid back, and the driver frowned at him. “Sorry, mate,” he said before Jasper could speak. “It’s the Fourth and this is as good as it gets. There’s another parade coming down Spring. I ain’t goin’ nowhere.”
Jasper opened the door and hopped out. “How much?”
He paid the driver and then glanced around, taking his bearings.
“You’d best use Grand,” the driver said. “You’ll not be able to get a cab out of that mess, either. I should have known it would be startin’ early,” he muttered to himself. “Elm is one block over,” he added, and then clucked his tongue and moved his horse toward where several other hackneys were clustered, half on the sidewalk.
Grand was just as bad as Bowery and Jasper took a deep breath as he pushed through the oncoming crowds, which were likely headed for the parade.
He had to brush away more than one hand, the touches ghostly and light as they reached for his breast pocket, watch pocket, and trouser pockets.
An image of John flickered through his mind. He’d given the boy the day off, along with the rest of the staff. He could only hope he wasn’t among the many urchins who’d be out working the crowds today.
Martello’s building, number 28 Elm, was right where White and Elm met. Thankfully, the mad crush thinned considerably on White, although the streets were certainly teeming.
It was early in the day, but he could already hear the distant crack of fireworks. Jasper was reminded of Guy Fawkes Day in Britain—a day he generally spent indoors.
His brain knew the explosive sounds were just that: sounds. But his body reacted as if he were still in the Crimea. Every explosion, no matter how minor, was like the sharp crack of a cannon. Every shout and puff of smoke jangled his nerves. And the acrid bite of sulfur left him anxious and combative. His pathetic reactions shamed him, but that admission did nothing to ameliorate the effects.
By the time he reached White Street, his jaw was ratcheted so tight that his temples ached. He paused at the corner to collect himself, check his pockets to ensure he still had his watch and wallet, and assess the scene outside Jessica Martello’s building.
A handful of men in cheap suits were assembled around the entrance to the grimy building, clearly loitering. He was disappointed, but not surprised that they were already here. Unlike Jasper, they would have been up before the cock’s crow, nosing about for stories, and had likely been here for hours. And there would be more of them upstairs.
Jasper strode toward the front door, struggling to leash his temper. After all, they were just doing their job.
A hand landed on his arm before he could push open the door. “Hey, you need to wait your turn, pal. We’ve been—”
Jasper’s body responded even as his mind urged caution.
He grabbed the wrist with his left hand and twisted the man’s bent arm away from his body. He didn’t use excessive force, but neither did he stop until his aggressor had folded to his knees on the splintered wooden porch.
“Hey! Heeeey!” The younger man squealed, trying to pull away. But Jasper held him at an angle that caused more pain when he struggled.
Jasper looked up at the other three men, who’d at first bunched up behind their fellow but now took several steps back.
He glanced down at the man kneeling at his feet, who was whimpering softly, but was wisely motionless.
“I’m not gonna do anything,” his captive promised, although Jasper hadn’t asked.
He released his wrist and then pushed open the door, unmolested this time. He could hear talking—the low hum of male voices and one female voice raised—coming from above, and he took the stairs two at a time.
By the time he reached the fourth floor landing his skin was on fire, but his lungs, thankfully, were functioning fine thanks to his daily exercise. At the end of the hall, just in front of Miss Martello’s door, two men had someone—he couldn’t see who—crowded into the opposite corner.
“You might as well tell us what we want to know, sweetheart. It’ll be easier on you if you’ll just—”
“Step away from her,” Jasper said quietly.
The men spun, the movement allowing him to see Miss Martello’s wide-eyed, frightened, and furious face.
“Go back into your lodgings, Miss Martello,” Jasper said. He nodded encouragingly as she began to inch toward her door. Once she’d shut it, he turned his attention to the two rough-looking characters who’d been badgering her.
“I’m Detective Inspector Lightner with the M-Metropolitan Police. You need to l-leave.”
One of the men, wearing a gray suit that was so grimy it looked as if it could stand up on its own, laughed. “You’re the stuttering duke’s son.”
Normally Jasper would have been amused by the newspaperman’s misplaced modifier. Today his amusement evaporated like a drop of hot water hitting a red-hot stove.
He closed the distance between himself and the two men, not stopping until he was within cane’s reach. “You need to leave,” he repeated.
Both men put up their hands.
“Hold on there,” the slightly cleaner man said. “We’re with the papers. I’m with the Herald and he’s with the New York Sporting Whip. In this country we have freedom of the press.”
“Does that include the f-freedom to corner a w-w-woman and bully her outside her own l-lodgings?” Jasper asked, taking another step closer.
The two men stumbled back, hitting the wall behind them. “Hey, hey, hey. Wait just a sec, there, er, my lord. We just wanted to talk to her,” filthy suit said in a whiny voice that only irked Jasper more.
He spun the handle of his cane, the motion drawing both men’s eyes. “Your f-freedom doesn’t include coercion and trespass. You are on p-p-private property. Go w-w-wait on the street.”
Both men looked like they wanted to argue, but knew they were in the wrong legally.
They moved crabwise until they were clear of him and then made their way down the hall, grumbling loudly enough for him to hear, if he cared to listen.
He waited until the sound of their footsteps disappeared down the stairwell before knocking on Miss Martello’s door.
It opened immediately. Miss Martello hadn’t looked happy or particularly healthy the last time he’d visited, and she appeared to have aged a year in only a day. Her large dark eyes were red-rimmed and swollen, the skin beneath them ashen.
Jasper’s face heated beneath her rightfully accusatory glare. “I’m t-t-terribly sorry, Miss Martello.”
“You promised,” she said hoarsely.
The fact that she was right only made him feel worse.
He nodded, unwilling to give excuses. “I did.”
“They were here before daylight, and they’ve been knocking at the door and yelling up at my window, throwing stones until I thought they’d break the glass They were harassing the woman across the hall—she’s blind and her sister, who takes care of her, is at work. That’s why I went out—so they’d stop bothering a blind woman.”
“I’m sorry.” There was nothing else he could say; he was sorry. The uncomfortable moment hung between them as thick and unpleasant as a London pea-souper.
After what felt like hours, she went back inside, leaving the open door for Jasper.
Her small room was as clean and stultifying as before. Except this time, he saw her work had been carefully stacked and put aside on her wooden tray. Instead, a newspaper and Bible sat on the almost empty table.
She sank onto one of the only two chairs in the room, and Jasper took the other. The paper was turned to the story below the fold; it was her father’s story.
Miss Martello gestured to the paper. “Why didn’t you tell me how he died? Because it was so—so gruesome?”
“Yes, because it is gruesome. But we also wanted to k-keep as many details as possible to ourselves. It c-c-c-can be helpful. Sometimes it allows a d-detective to catch slips—or perhaps people admit to things they sh-sh-shouldn’t know.”
She nodded absently, her eyes on his left hand, which was turning the handle of his cane.
Jasper stilled the restless gesture and she looked up. “He was earning his money by extortion—that’s what you think, isn’t it?”
There was no point in keeping this a secret now—especially as it was not a secret—so he nodded.
“And now he’s left all that to me?”
Jasper nodded.
“Oh God.” She lowered her head into her hands, her shoulders shaking. “I was so relieved that he’d gone and stayed gone. He never did anything for us—for me and my mother. At least nothing good. All I’ve ever felt for him was resentment, maybe even outright hatred at times.” She shook her head but didn’t look up. “I don’t want this—I don’t want anything from him. I just don’t—” She cried quietly.
Jasper considered what he was about to say; telling her about her inheritance was not his duty. He wasn’t a lawyer and should keep what he knew to himself. But if what he knew could offer her even a little bit of comfort …
“Miss Martello?”
She came back to herself quickly, sitting up in her chair, her expression one of mortification. “I’m sorry, that—”
“No,” Jasper said quietly but firmly. “I’m sorry.”
She chewed her lip and nodded, the tension leaking from her slender frame.
“I d-don’t know if this will help, but the will—I’m given to underst-st-stand, is a conditional bequest.”
“What does that mean?”
“In order to inherit you would n-need to sign a statement, er, well, saying you for-g-g-give your father and regret the estrangement.”
“What?”
Jasper nodded.
She gave a snort of disbelief. “Well, that makes it easy enough.” She shook her head in wonder, a spark of spirit in her eyes. “The nerve of that man. The nerve.”
Jasper had to agree.
She inhaled deeply and then forced out a huge sigh. “Thank you for telling me that. I’d sooner choke.”
He did not think that was hyperbole.
“Were you aware your f-father owned this building?”
“He did?”
“Yes, he bought it l-last December.”
“I knew it had changed hands because somebody else collected the rent.” She paused for a moment. “I have to admit the other tenants and I were pleased with the new owner’s repairs—especially the new locks on all our doors,” she said, sounding grudging.
So, perhaps, Frumkin wasn’t entirely a toad; perhaps he’d bought the building to take care of his daughter in ways she wouldn’t reject.
Or perhaps he had done so to spy on her more easily. If he changed the locks, did that mean he also had a copy of the key? They’d found no key ring among his effects, but Jasper couldn’t believe that Frumkin—a man who’d clearly taken joy from ferreting out other people’s secrets—would have passed up an opportunity to invade his own daughter’s privacy.
He grimaced at the repellent thought.
“Is there any way to keep those vultures away from me?” Miss Martello asked, pulling him from his unpleasant musings.
“I’m afraid I c-can’t keep them from congregating outside. Things will be, er, hectic for a while. Do you have anywhere else to st-st-stay?” he asked. “Perhaps with some friends? Just until this settles d-down a bit.”
“The few friends I have don’t have room for me. Even if they did, the last thing they need is me bringing a mess to their doorsteps. I’ll be fine here.”
“I b-believe it will only become worse after this holiday is over and the p-p-papers are looking for more news.”
“I know … but I just don’t have anywhere to go. Besides, I don’t go out a lot, and I often split the food shopping with the woman across the hall—the blind lady’s sister. I’ll just have to rely a bit more on her for a while.”
“I’m going to send a p-p-policeman over—no,” he said, when she opened her mouth, her expression suddenly mulish. “He won’t bother you. I’ll p-put him out front of the building. Just to k-keep the newsmen from coming inside.”
She hesitated, and then sighed. “Thank you. Maybe just for a few days. Until all this dies down.”
Jasper didn’t tell her what he really thought: that this was only going to get worse before it was over.