Captain Davies appeared less than elated to see Jasper still among the living.
“Well,” Davies said, his mouth twisted with distaste as he eyed Jasper up and down. The Welshman’s gaze lingered on the hideous bump and gash on his forehead, scraped brow, and swollen eyelid, leaving Jasper with the distinct impression that Davies wished the damage had been a bit more severe.
“G-Good morning, sir,” Jasper said, glancing over at Law, who was grinning from ear to ear, which he’d been doing ever since appearing at Jasper’s kitchen door at the inhospitable hour of nine o’clock that morning. And embracing Jasper—almost crushing his ribs—to the amusement of his American employees and Paisley’s horror.
“What’s the status on the dog?” Davies asked, as though Jasper hadn’t been lost and presumed dead for days.
Jasper ignored the suspicious choking sounds coming from Law’s direction.
“Patrolman O’Malley is on his way in as w-we speak, sir. Detective L-Law informed me the patrolman spent the last few days engineering a, er, well, a trap for the d-d-d-dognappers.” How annoying to stammer on that ludicrous word.
Davies appeared to be combing through Jasper’s words, looking for something to complain about.
“Hmmph. Well, don’t let him go over to Brinkley’s on his own—understand? I want you to go with him.” Before Jasper could respond, he turned to Law. “And you. The next time you decide to just skip work to cruise around in a boat for days on end, don’t bother coming back.”
He slammed the door to their office behind him.
“You reckon that’s a Welsh way of saying he missed you?” Law asked, chuckling.
“Apparently absence does not always m-m-make the heart grow fonder.” Jasper sighed and turned back to the report they were almost finished drafting.
“So, Doctor P-Powell is at liberty.” He glanced at Law, who nodded.
“The captain said we had to let him out because we couldn’t hold him for Fowler’s murder after one of the coppers from the Ninth admitted to seeing him. And we couldn’t hold him for Frumkin’s murder because of Martello’s confession.”
Jasper nodded. He didn’t believe the suicide letter for one minute, but he knew it was difficult to ignore given the saw’s presence at Martello’s apartment. “Did you ever t-talk to the remaining tenants about the comings and g-g-goings the day Martello died?”
“I managed to talk to the last two tenants before meeting you that night—well, when I was supposed to meet you—at Abattoir Row. Neither of them had girl visitors or an old lady visitor. Neither had gone out that day. That just leaves one last tenant to talk to. I’ll pop by there today.” He hesitated and then said, “I know you think there was somethin’ off about the suicide letter, but we just don’t have anything to prove it, sir.”
Jasper knew the other man was right. Even the bruises on Miss Martello’s body were not conclusive of murder—she might have had a struggle at any time that day or the day before, perhaps with one of the newspapermen hounding her.
Law was right; they had nothing. But none of this felt right.
“Do you think Vogel lied about it?”
“Hmm?” Jasper looked up from the paperwork.
“Do you think he really did kill Frumkin? I mean, if you believe Fowler’s diary, Vogel had left and the kitchen door was locked. But there was that ten-minute period of time when she was with Powell. What if Vogel didn’t leave, but was the one to lock the door, with himself inside?” He frowned. “But then why didn’t the servants find him?”
“It is a p-p-puzzle,” Jasper conceded.
“How come we never get any normal, straightforward murders?”
Jasper grinned. “Where would be the f-f-fun in that, Detective?”
“I expect I could do without quite so much fun,” Law grumbled.
Jasper felt a momentary pang of guilt. His disappearance—even though it hadn’t been his fault—had clearly taken its toll on Law. The younger man looked as if he’d lost a stone in a matter of days, and the purplish smudges beneath his eyes were a testament to his anxiety.
The door that Davies had just slammed opened. “Sir?”
Jasper looked up to find Patrolman O’Malley standing in the doorway. “Ah, Patrolman. I received your message that you wanted to m-meet. You have g-good news?”
“I do, sir.” He hesitated and then added, “And, if I might be so bold, it’s good to have you back, my lord.”
“Thank you.” Jasper was touched that the other man appeared genuinely pleased that he was not dead. Unlike Davies, who’d looked personally offended.
“Come in and sit, Patrolman. Your m-message indicated you’d caught your criminals dead to rights.”
O’Malley grinned. “Aye. And they’re down in the lockup. I already questioned them, but I thought you might want to go over it again.”
“Why, n-no, that’s not necessary. Not if you are s-satisfied.”
O’Malley’s grin threatened to split his head in two. “They confessed, sir—not to just the one we caught them on, but to five others, including Brinkley.”
Law whistled appreciatively, lowering the chair he’d been leaning back in with a thump and clapping. “Well done, O’Malley.”
“I c-concur, well done.”
O’Malley’s face threatened to catch fire.
“So,” Jasper said. “Where is, er, M-M-Mister Waggers?”
O’Malley’s face fell. “Well, that’s the thing, sir.”
Jasper patiently waited for the thing.
“They claimed Mister Waggers just up and died. They said they’d been feedin’ him better than they ate, but he died less than a day later.”
“Ah. W-Well, that’s unfortunate.”
“Wait,” Law said, glancing from O’Malley to Jasper. “Does this mean no reward?”
“I d-don’t recall,” Jasper confessed. “Didn’t I g-give you the letter from Mister Brinkley?”
“Yes, sir. Um, it doesn’t really say,” O’Malley said and then, for no apparent reason, blushed yet again. “Er, I talked to Miss Brinkley—this was before the arrest, sir.”
Jasper grinned. “Did you now? Quite p-p-pretty—and lively, too—isn’t she?”
O’Malley nodded, his blush spreading to the tips of his ears. His eyes slid to the open doorway. “I know Cap’n Davies didn’t want me goin’ over there, but I needed some information from Mr. Brinkley. He was out of town, but I talked to Miss Brinkley. I hope I didn’t do wrong.”
“You did exactly r-r-right, Patrolman. You are the policeman of r-record; it was your duty. So, what did M-Miss Brinkley say?”
“Well, she just said they wanted the truth about Mister Waggers. She said that she believed her father would give the reward even if something, er”—he opened his book and quickly flipped through the pages—“um, ‘even if something foul had befallen Mister Waggers,’ was her words.”
He bit back a smile. “So it seems you should g-go and let them know, Patrolman.”
Jasper recalled the rather mortifying conversation he’d had with Grace Brinkley that day—right after she’d told him about her father’s plans to acquire Jasper as a son-in-law.
“I can see you’re as taken with the idea of marriage as I was,” Miss Brinkley said when Jasper had just gaped like a landed trout.
He’d been mortified by his gauche behavior. “N-No, it’s not that. But … well, you are rather young.”
She’d given an enchanting gurgle of laughter. “Don’t worry, my lord, I don’t want to marry you, either.”
Jasper hadn’t known whether to be relieved or insulted. “You have a beau?” he guessed.
“No, not yet.” She’d spun her parasol, her expression contemplative. “You see, Papa wants the best for me—and, to his way of thinking, a man like him isn’t it. But Papa doesn’t understand that I lived too long in a mining camp to ever be a proper society lady.”
“Ah,” Jasper had said, comprehending. “You want a young man who will make his own way in the world.” Young being the operative word.
Her brilliant blue eyes had shone. “That’s it exactly. He doesn’t need to be a wealthy man—in fact, I’d rather not be forced to mix in society. I think I prefer the … rough and tumble sort.” She’d cut him a sly look. “And a bit young—like me,” she said, echoing his earlier words.
Jasper smiled as he recalled the conversation. He looked at the two rough and tumble young men across from him, an idea popping into his head.
“Er, Captain Davies w-w-wants Detective Law to accompany you to the Brinkley house, Patrolman.”
Law squinted at Jasper. “But I thought he said—”
“Since you don’t have the body, they’ll just have to t-t-take your word about Mister Waggers’s fate,” Jasper said, shaking his head at Law, who gave him a quizzical look but didn’t argue.
“Oh, there’s another thing,” Patrolman O’Malley said.
“Yes?”
“Well, the dognappers sold Mister Waggers’s body to a—” He again flipped through his book.
“A taxidermist?” Law asked.
Both Jasper and O’Malley turned to stare at him. O’Malley nodded. “Yeah, that’s the word. But how did you know?”
“Powell told me people sometimes brought him dead animals to stuff and that he’d pay a little for them—depending on the animal and condition.” He hesitated and then said, “What did the dog look like?”
O’Malley took the leather folding case out of his pocket and handed it to Law, who took it, and then hooted. “By God—that’s one of the dogs he had in his ice chest.”
“He kept an ice chest full of dogs?” O’Malley gasped. His flush had drained away, leaving him pale as a sheet of paper.
“Yep. But not just dogs. He had a cat and two ground squirrels waitin’ to be gutted and skinned.”
O’Malley looked positively bilious.
Law glanced at Jasper. “Should we go over an’ see if he’s workin’ on the dog? Or maybe it went bad while he was in lockup. I know when I was there he’d just sawed the head off a cat and—”
Jasper looked pointedly at O’Malley, who was gripping the doorframe. “Why don’t you both g-g-go and inform the Brinkleys of Mister Waggers’s, er, demise. Ask them if they w-w-wish for the body, if it can be located. Don’t tell them about the st-st-stuffer—yet. I shall take a trip over to Doctor Powell’s. There was s-something I wanted to take a look at in the c-carriage house.”
“Oh?” Law said, looking interested.
“The rivermen who found me mentioned how, years ago, their f-father used to run smuggled goods to a series of houses right in the m-m-middle of Manhattan—not even close to the water. They said there were t-tunnels between the houses and out-b-b-buildings. Apparently one of the houses used to belong to M-M-Mr. Vanderbilt. Given what we know about Fr-Frumkin’s pursuits, I’m curious to see if something of that sort exists between his house and the carriage h-house. Apparently, the smugglers would k-k-keep the goods in the tunnel in case of a raid, leaving the carriage house empty. I’ll see about M-Mister Waggers while I’m there,” he added.
Doctor Powell’s shed was locked when Jasper tried the handle. He peered in the tiny window but could see nothing other than an empty workbench.
“He’s not here.”
Jasper gave an undignified squawk before turning to find Harold Stampler. “Good Lord, Harold, you gave m-m-me a scare,” he said.
“Sorry.” He didn’t look sorry, but then Harold never looked anything in particular.
“Where is he?” Jasper asked, once his heart stopped racing.
“He went to stay with his sister in Albany.” Harold frowned. “He said he’s going to move there because there are too many memories here.”
Jasper could well believe that. “Do you h-have a key to his shed?”
“Shop,” Harold corrected.
Jasper smiled at the younger man’s pedantry. “S-Sorry, his shop?”
“No. He took everything out.” Harold frowned. “He didn’t even finish the animals we’d been working on.”
“Ah.” He nodded. Well, that was probably for the best, he supposed. He couldn’t imagine Brinkley being pleased to learn that somebody had stuffed Mister Waggers without his permission.
“Grandmother wants you to come to tea.”
Jasper was amused by the blurted, awkward invitation. He found both Stamplers odd, but he was glad for the invitation because he wanted to have a look in all the apartments in both houses Frumkin owned—as well as the carriage house—to search for any possible tunnel entrances. So this would be a good opportunity to have a look at the Stamplers’ apartment.
“I would be honored.”
“I’ll take you in through the front instead of the kitchen,” Harold said when Jasper headed for the closer back door to their apartment.
He didn’t offer any explanation, so Jasper followed him. The hallway between their unit and Powell’s was stacked with several packing crates.
“Are you l-leaving?” he asked Harold as the other man ushered him into their lodgings.
“Yes.” Harold gestured to the chairs in the parlor. “Sit and I’ll get grandmother.” He lumbered off before Jasper could demur, which he now felt like doing. If he’d known they were in the middle of packing, he wouldn’t have barged in on them.
“Well, aren’t you a sight for sore eyes, my lord!” Mrs. Stampler stumped toward him and, for a moment, he was horrified that she might embrace him; Americans did appear to enjoy embracing one another. Fortunately, she caught herself at the last moment. “Harold and I were just beside ourselves with delight when we read that you’d come home.”
He’d only returned at three o’clock that morning. “G-Goodness. There’s a st-story out already?”
She riffled through the stacks of papers, letters, and other debris one associated with packing, and pulled out a special edition printed by the Herald. There, in shockingly large letters, Met’s English Copper Alive and Well!
“You see that? An edition just for you, my lord. Of course, you were front page news when you were missing, too. I’m sure everyone in the entire state knew about you.”
Except for the two rivermen who’d found him, apparently.
As mortified as he was to be the subject of such speculation, he hoped Paisley had saved a few papers. He’d send one to his father; the duke abhorred it when the Lightner surname made it into a newspaper.
“Th-Thank you for your concern,” he murmured. “I’m afraid I d-didn’t know you were in the m-middle of packing. I really shouldn’t—”
She waved aside his protests. “I already have the kettle on. We’ve been slaving all morning and afternoon. Haven’t we, Harold?”
“Yes.”
So Jasper sat.
“You could have knocked me over with a feather when I read about that nasty Vogel fellow,” Mrs. Stampler said, settling into her chair. “And the papers said they found him in pieces. Seems like justice considering what he did to poor Mr. Beauchamp—well, I guess his name is Frumkin, that’s right,” she nodded to herself and then turned to her grandson. “You go fetch the tea, Harold.”
Harold moved off toward the kitchen with his eerily soundless tread.
“I see you have quite a knot on your poor forehead, my lord. How are you feeling?”
“I’m quite recovered,” he lied. He was bloody exhausted and looking forward to going home once he took a look around—which reminded him.
“I have a r-r-rather bizarre question,” he said, as Mrs. Stampler turned her attention to the myriad papers on the coffee table and stacked them, clearing a place for the tea tray, he presumed. “Is there b-by any chance a trapdoor or cellar door anywhere in your apartment? It might be locked?”
She looked up. “A locked trapdoor?”
“Yes, I’ve r-r-recently learned some houses in Manhattan have tunnels between the house and c-c-carriage house. Apparently they were built for sm-smuggling.”
“Between our apartment and the carriage house?”
He smiled at her obvious confusion. “It might or might n-not exist.”
“Oh, goodness me. A tunnel? No,” she shook her head. “Why, I’ve never even heard of such a thing. What gave you that idea?”
“It was j-just something the rivermen who rescued me said.”
Her eyes popped. “They said Mr. Frumkin might have a tunnel to his carriage house?”
Jasper laughed. “No, no, just that sm-sm-smugglers sometimes built houses with tunnels.”
“Ah,” she said, nodding in comprehension. “That makes sense given all the illegal goods in the carriage house.” She gave him a stern look. “And he always seemed like such a nice man.”
Jasper thought Mrs. Stampler must be the only person who’d ever thought so kindly of the extortionist.
“After I enjoy some tea and—dare I hope—some of your delicious shortbread, might I p-p-poke around your apartment before I go search the c-carriage house.”
She bestowed a gracious smile on him. “Of course I have shortbread. And you are more than welcome to look wherever you like.”
Harold approached with the tea tray, and Jasper reached for the papers Mrs. Stampler was still holding. “Here, where shall I p-put them for you?”
“Oh, you’re such a gentleman,” she said. “Over there.” She pointed to the opposite wall. “On that bureau will be fine.”
Jasper navigated the piles and boxes. Just as he was about to put the stack down a piece of paper fluttered to the floor. He bent to pick it up, glancing at it. And then looked again; the handwriting on the letter was quite singular.
“Is something the matter, my lord?” Mrs. Stampler asked.
“Er, no, nothing the matter.” He quickly looked at the rest of the page, which was nothing but some sort of list of tools and such. “I believe this m-might be your p-packing list.” His eyes settled on a line toward the bottom of the list: Salve for Gordon.
Gordon?
Now where had he heard that name recently?
For the second time in almost as many days, pain exploded like fireworks inside his skull.
The last thing he heard was, “Catch him, dear—we don’t want him falling on the lamp.”