By the time Jasper made it back home it was nearing five o’clock.
He had hoped not to be out and about so late on such a chaotic day, but he’d wanted to wait for a patrolman to arrive at Miss Martello’s before he’d taken his leave.
After Patrolman Flynn showed up, Jasper had needed to spend longer than he’d liked explaining what it was that he wanted from the younger man, who was obviously a bit simple.
Once he was back in the safety of his blissfully empty house, Jasper decided to spend what remained of the day going through the names in Frumkin’s book and finding addresses and occupations for the people listed. He was aided in his work by Trow’s City Directory, a veritable treasure trove of information.
The city directory was compiled annually and boasted that it was the oldest directory of its kind, and also the most thorough.
It should have taken no time at all to find either work or home addresses for everyone in the book. Unfortunately, he was working more slowly than usual thanks to the periodic booms and blasts that seemed to come from all directions, some so loud they rattled the doors and windows. Thus far the list included a jeweler, a doctor, a dentist, an actor, several socialites, an insurance agent, a lawyer—not Richards or Cranston—a mannequin, a ship captain, an accountant, a milliner, a gas fitter, a city health inspector, a customs agent, and on and on.
Frumkin had been an equal-opportunity extortionist.
Jasper had also come across two names that weren’t listed in the thick, red clothbound book.
According to Mr. H. Wilson—the man who compiled the city directory—the people who didn’t wish to be included in the directories generally had criminal or nefarious motivations for avoiding the yearly city census.
Jasper had to agree with Mr. Wilson’s rather testy assumption, and moved those two names up to the top of his list of people to investigate after he’d finished with Frumkin’s tenants and Vogel.
He’d also decided that it would be interesting to talk to some of the oldest names on the list to see if Frumkin ever removed his hooks from any of the people he’d been extorting, or if it was a lifelong leeching.
Once Jasper finished looking up the last name in the book, he sat back in his chair and rubbed his dry, gritty eyes. He put aside the mind-boggling number of potential murderers and considered the patrolman he’d left at Miss Martello’s earlier today—Myron Flynn.
Jasper wasn’t concerned that Flynn couldn’t keep newspapermen from bothering the woman—he was as big as a bloody ox—but he was worried Flynn mightn’t stay the course.
Not only had Flynn appeared a bit slow, but he’d also seemed anxious and edgy. Jasper could easily imagine the man getting frightened by the fireworks booming or all the crowds milling around him and wandering off.
Flynn’s presence wouldn’t have been necessary if Davies wasn’t insisting on reports that he couldn’t keep secure.
Jasper scowled at the thought. Doing his job was already hard enough with all the political turmoil, but the need to protect information from one’s own coworkers was beyond maddening.
This case—with all the names in the black book—was a disaster waiting to happen.
It was more than a little ironic that, even with all that information, he really had nothing of any use to go on. The truth of the matter was that over a hundred people had good reason to want Frumkin dead.
He’d never had a case like it before.
It’s a challenge, Jasper. You like those, don’t you?
He did enjoy a challenge, but this was something beyond that.
All he knew was that December seventeenth was the last day Frumkin’s servants had seen him. But the Spirit of Freedom hadn’t set sail until the twentieth. Where had Frumkin spent those three days? Already cut up in a box somewhere?
Jasper took off his reading spectacles and set them on the table before rubbing his eyes. He was tired, but it was barely ten o’clock, and he was too restless to go to bed.
He poured himself a drink from the fresh bottle of port Paisley had left for him and took his glass to look out the double French doors that were usually open onto the back terrace, but were closed tonight.
Even though he was wearing only his shirtsleeves and waistcoat, it was still unpleasantly muggy with the doors shut.
So he opened one just a crack.
The sounds of explosions and revelry were louder outside, and he could see colorful flashes of light in several directions. His neighbors were quiet, but there was more than enough activity on Fourteenth and Fourth.
Jasper sighed and pushed the door open enough to step outside. He sat on the small bench that faced his garden. Paisley had hired a gardener when he’d engaged the other servants, but his valet possessed a green thumb and liked to work in the dirt himself. Jasper had seen Paisley pottering around in the early morning, before the heat became too oppressive.
The night air was surprisingly redolent with the last of the year’s roses, but the floral scent was mixed with the smell of smoke.
Jasper sniffed and frowned. It wasn’t only the odor of sulfur and bonfires, but the heavier, dirtier smoke that came from a building that was on fire.
As if on cue, the faint clanging of a fire bell penetrated the night.
Fire.
Jasper stepped back inside and closed the door, locking it before depositing his glass on his desk and heading for the foyer. The front of the house looked out over Fourteenth and Fourth, which had been teeming with revelers all day long. Perhaps on the front stoop he’d be able to see if—
Jasper was just reaching for the door handle when somebody pounded on the door with the bronze knocker.
He unlocked the door and gawked at the ragged pair on the stoop. “Good Lord! What happened? C-C-Come in,” he added, taking a step back and opening the door wider.
“I’m sorry, my lord, but the servant entrance was locked and I’m afraid I’ve lost my keys.” Paisley—disheveled and hatless—was leaning heavily on Mrs. Freedman’s far smaller frame.
Jasper slid an arm under Paisley’s free shoulder. “C-Come along to the small sitting room,” he said.
It was a room Jasper had only been inside once, when he’d inspected the building after moving in. He recalled there was a good-sized settee in the room. Also, it was on the ground floor so they would not need to climb stairs.
“I’m going to run to the kitchen, my lord,” Mrs. Freedman said, heading toward the narrow doorway and corridor that led to the servant areas. “I want to get my medicine box.”
“You should lock the door, my lord,” Paisley said, the strain in his voice apparent. “I’ll wait here.” The valet leaned against a wall that was covered with cream silk, something Jasper had heard him scolding servants not to touch. The action told Jasper better than any words just how distracted Paisley must be.
After locking the door, they limped down the hall together.
“Are you in much p-pain?” Jasper asked, not that he could imagine Paisley admitting it.
“No, sir. I think I’ve just sprained my ankle.”
Jasper opened the door, not bothering to close it as he took Paisley toward the settee.
Paisley gave a slight grunt as he sat. “Thank you, my lord.”
“Here,” Jasper took some cushions off the other sofa. “Lean back and put your foot up.”
Now his valet looked in pain. “Really, sir, you needn’t wait on me. I shall be—”
“Oh, do leave off, Paisley. I’m going to help you b-because there is n-n-nobody else here. Never fear, I am in no great r-r-rush to play n-nurse. N-Now, lie back and feet up,” he ordered. He tucked a cushion under his grumbling employee’s head and another two beneath his injured foot. “There, comfortable?”
“Yes, my lord, thank you.” He was lying as rigid as a board, wearing an equally stiff expression of displeasure.
Jasper glanced around the room and saw the ubiquitous tray of decanters. Knowing Paisley, whatever was in them would be as fresh as what was in the library. While they might not use this sitting room, his valet would never leave it less than well stocked. He poured a glass of brandy—Paisley didn’t seem the sort to appreciate bourbon—and took the glass back to the settee.
“Here.”
Paisley frowned at his outstretched hand and opened his mouth as if to argue.
“Paisley.”
He sighed and took the glass. “Thank you, my lord.” He sounded as if somebody had squeezed the words from his lungs.
“If you are in a gr-gr-great deal of p-pain you could try one of my madak cigars?” The opium cigars could ease any discomfort quickly.
“That won’t be necessary, my lord.”
Jasper brought a chair closer so his valet wouldn’t have to crane his neck. “So, tell me what happened.”
Paisley rested the untouched glass on his chest, his face showing more emotion than Jasper had seen in years, mainly anger and irritation.
“I mentioned that I was escorting Mrs. Freedman and the boy down to the Battery?”
Jasper nodded, even though he didn’t recall being told any such thing. He had to bite his lower lip; it tickled him to imagine his stuffy valet with the equally starchy freedwoman and a light-fingered street urchin.
“It was a dreadful crush—both on the journey down to the Battery and back, as well as during the fireworks show. And of course the weather—” He shuddered. “Some of the shops were open when we were coming back, and I saw a sign for Thwaits.” The skin over his razor-sharp cheekbones flushed. “Mrs. Freedman and the boy had never had one, so I stopped to purchase three bottles. The line was long and, just before I got to the clerk, I heard an eerie sound,” he frowned. “It put me in mind of the stories you hear about banshees.”
Given Paisley’s heritage he’d probably heard such tales at the knee of a grandparent. Although a young Paisley, Jasper had to admit, was all but impossible to conjure.
“It seemed as if every single person in the shop turned as one—just like the tide—and swept out into the street, bearing me along with them. A veritable horde of men armed with sticks and clubs and rocks had parted the crowd.” His eyes flickered to Jasper. “I believe it might have been some of the same men your lordship encountered last month.”
“Gangs, then.”
Paisley nodded, absently lifting his glass and taking a sip. “I heard several people shouting the name Plug Uglies. In any event, they were coming from the direction of Bowery Street, which is where we had been headed, hoping to find an omnibus on that line since those on Broadway had stopped running because the streets were too crowded. The three of us hastily turned about and tried to head back east. Although Broadway was a dreadful crush, it was revelers, not gang members.” He swallowed. “We’d gone a good six blocks when we encountered several police officers surrounded by men dressed in fireman clothing.” He glanced at Jasper. “But they were not behaving like firemen.”
“No, that’s another g-gang. Er, the Atlantic G-G-Guard—or maybe R-Roach Guard.” Jasper needed to spend some time learning about the various New York gangs when he had a spare moment. “Where is J-John?” Jasper asked.
Paisley grimaced. “I’m afraid we got separated, my lord. We had just managed to get past the fighting policemen, firemen, and gangs when a clutch of boys stopped us. It appeared they knew John. When Mrs. Freedman and I tried to move along, the boys attacked us.” Paisley’s mild features shifted into an expression of disgust. “They attacked a woman, my lord.”
“Did they hurt her?”
Paisley’s thin lips twitched and Jasper stared. Was that a smile?
“It was the other way round, actually.” Paisley gave a soft snort that almost sounded like a chuckle. “She carries a rather large, er, well, I suppose you’d call it a reticule or purse, which she’d brought food in. She beat the lads holding John while I held back the others. John didn’t want to leave us, and we had to shove the boy—make him run—after he got free.” This time a genuine smile curved his usually stern mouth. “John did his best to lure them off, but I think it was Mrs. Freedman’s bag that really did the trick. She had an empty jug in it. It was rather heavy, but she refused to allow me to carry it,” he added hastily, lest Jasper believe that his gentlemanly servant had not offered to carry a lady’s burden.
Jasper laughed at the imagery of the small woman beating back street urchins. “How is it that—”
Paisley pushed himself up and his eyes slid over Jasper’s shoulder.
Jasper stood, turned, and saw the cook balancing a large tea tray along with a cloth bag tucked beneath one arm.
He hurried toward her. “Let me,” he said.
She opened her mouth, doubtless to argue.
“I insist, Mrs. Freedman. I shall set it down while you look at Mr. Paisley.” He took the tray. “I know how to m-m-make tea,” he assured her when she moved toward the tea service rather than Paisley.
Truly, the stubborn woman was a fine match for his valet.
“It’s already steeping, my lord. I know how strong you like it,” she said, a slight emphasis on the word know.
He smiled and set the tray on a nearby table and then leaned over the back of the chair he’d been sitting in to watch the entertainment.
Paisley gave him a frantic, pleading look. “But … my lord—you’ve gone to medical school. Surely you could—”
“You know the only b-b-bodies I’m accustomed to examining are dead ones. Besides, I’m afraid I m-m-missed the week on ankles, old man. I daresay Mrs. Freedman has m-m-more relevant experience.”
Paisley glared at him while he shoved himself up into a seated position, staring up at the diminutive woman with apprehension.
“Lay back, Mr. Paisley—as you were,” she ordered. “Put your ankle up here.” She gestured to the cushions Jasper had piled.
Paisley hesitated. “It’s not necessary. I’m quite—”
Mrs. Freedman made a soft hissing sound.
Paisley’s jaw dropped, but he stopped arguing.
When Mrs. Freedman bent as if to pick up his foot, he hastily lifted it onto the cushion.
She sat on the sofa beside his knee and Paisley almost levitated off the settee when her hip pressed against his leg.
Jasper grinned as Mrs. Freedman began to unbutton Paisley’s impeccably polished black leather ankle boot.
His valet was a slender but wiry man of medium build. Jasper wouldn’t have called him either attractive or unattractive, but rather nondescript. He had light brown hair he kept cut unfashionably short, was clean-shaven—for all his nagging that Jasper needed to sport facial hair—and had a pale, narrow face with small, even features. His most noticeable characteristic was his dignity, which was currently taking a bashing under Mrs. Freedman’s competent hands.
“It’s swollen,” the woman muttered, removing the boot.
Paisley grimaced and became even paler.
“How d-did you injure it?” Jasper asked, hoping to distract him.
“Er, I—”
“He jumped on one of the boys who were yankin’ on my satchel,” Mrs. Freedman said. She turned to put Paisley’s boot on the floor and glanced up at Jasper. “The boy had my arm and might have broken it if Mr. Paisley hadn’t stopped him.”
Stark streaks of red appeared on Paisley’s cheeks. “Er, but—”
“He rescued me at his own expense in other words.”
Paisley’s expression was one of utter mortification. “But I did not save your satchel.”
Mrs. Freedman smirked at Jasper before turning back to the valet’s foot and reaching up his trouser leg to remove his stocking.
The whites of Paisley’s eyes were visible and he looked like a startled horse. “Oh, I say! That’s not—”
“Hush, Mr. Paisley,” Mrs. Freedman ordered.
Jasper snorted but quickly covered it with a cough.
The narrow-eyed look Paisley gave him told Jasper that his attempt to cover up his laugh was less than successful.
“I’m afraid John hasn’t r-returned,” Jasper said, once he was sure he could open his mouth without guffawing like a twelve-year-old.
“That boy will be fine,” Mrs. Freedman said. “He knows the city like the back of his hand, my lord.” She leaned close to Paisley’s ankle, which was fish-belly white and puffy. She carefully rotated his foot, ignoring Paisley’s harsh gasp. “Well, I don’t think any bone is broken, but there are all kinds of things in ankles, and maybe something tore.” She stood and turned from the foot to stare at Paisley. “I do know that you need to stay off it and ice it to bring down the swelling.”
Paisley began to shift, as if to stand.
“I’ll get some ice after I fix your tea, Mr. Paisley.” She wasn’t smiling, but her hazel eyes glinted with amusement. Jasper suspected she was enjoying the stiff valet’s mortification. “I’ll bring you blankets and bedding and fetch your night clothes from your room.”
Paisley gasped, his jaw sagging.
Mrs. Freedman paid him no mind. “You might as well sleep down here,” she said, putting a strainer over a teacup. “There’s no point in climbin’ up and down three flights of stairs.”
Paisley’s eyes threatened to roll out of his head. “Oh, but that’s not—”
“Unless you want his lordship to carry you,” Mrs. Freedman added.
Paisley glanced at Jasper, who merely raised his eyebrows.
His valet frowned. “Er, well. I suppose I shall be comfortable enough here.”
Jasper grinned; watching the woman manage his prickly, awkward valet so easily was far more entertaining than watching a fireworks display.
“My lord?” The cook gestured to the cup of tea she’d just poured.
“Er, n-not for me,” Jasper said, straightened up and glancing at the clock. “I’m f-f-for bed.”
Paisley jolted. “But, my lord—” His eyes darted around the room, as if there might be something he could use to stop Jasper from leaving him. “There is nobody to assist you. Thomas won’t be back until morning, and I—”
Jasper laughed. “I’m sure I can undress m-m-myself for one night, Paisley.” He smiled down at the obviously agitated man. “You just get some r-r-rest and do what Mrs. Fr-Freedman tells you to do,” he added sternly. “If I become c-c-confused or get lost in my dressing room I shall ring for instructions.”
He heard a suspicious snorting sound come from the direction of the tea tray.
“Good n-n-night, Mrs. Freedman.”
“Good night, my lord.”
Paisley shot him a please don’t leave me alone with her look.
Jasper ignored it. “I shall leave y-you in Mrs. F-Freedman’s capable hands.”
As Jasper headed toward the stairs, somebody knocked on the foyer door.
A wave of relief rolled over him; it could only be John, at this hour.
Jasper unlocked the door for a second time. “Detective Law,” he said rather stupidly.
The towering man looked uncomfortable. “Sorry to come by so late, sir.”
“Come in,” Jasper said.
Law removed his hat and stepped inside.
“Mrs. Freedman has just made some tea. Would—”
“I won’t stay long, sir. I, er, just wanted to let you know that Miss Fowler was found.”
Found.
“Dead?” he asked, hoping he was wrong.
Law nodded. “And it looks like she’s been murdered, sir.”