July 18
Jasper was reading about the riots that had gone on for the last few days in the Seventeenth Ward when there was a knock on the library door.
“Detective Law to see you, my lord.”
“Show him in.” He folded the paper and laid it aside.
He’d not seen the other man since the imbroglio with the Stamplers.
He smiled at Law. “You catch me having a lazy afternoon, Detective.”
“I reckon you needed a bit of rest, sir.”
Jasper gestured for him to have a seat. “Bring the d-d-detective a coffee and some of that—what was it c-called?”
“Mrs. Freedman calls it buttermilk pie, sir.” Paisley cocked an eyebrow, his bland gaze fixed on Jasper.
“Yes, yes,” Jasper said with a laugh. “I’ll have another p-p-piece as well—and some coffee.”
“Very good, sir.”
“I’ve never had a milk pie. Good, is it?” Law asked when the door shut behind Paisley.
“That is far too tame a word for it. I t-tell you, the woman shan’t be satisfied until I’m too fat to f-f-fit out the door.”
Law laughed. “There are worse things in life, I reckon.”
“So, how is your sh-shoulder, Detective?”
“It was just a scratch.” Law rolled his left shoulder, only wincing a little.
It was more than a scratch, but Jasper knew better than to argue.
“Believe it or not, my fingers hurt worse than the gunshot wound.”
Jasper did believe it; a person didn’t realize how much they relied on their hands until they were damaged.
“How’s your, er, head?” Law asked.
“The doctor t-t-told me to quit hitting things with it.”
Law grinned. “Did he charge you for that advice?”
“Of course. He insisted I stay home one m-m-more week before returning to work. Who am I to disagree?”
“Ah, playin’ hooky, eh, sir?”
“Just so, Detective.” Jasper didn’t tell the other man that this had been the first time ever that he’d not argued about enforced rest—not while his vision had developed a disturbing tendency to double when he was doing nothing more strenuous than reading or sitting. He could not, in good conscience, go to work when he’d potentially be a hindrance in a dangerous situation. He would wait another week and reassess at that time.
“So,” he said, changing the subject. “Anything of interest happen while I’ve b-been lounging about?”
“I got called in by Walling to help over on Staten Island,” Law said.
“Ah, yes—the arson at the new quarantine facility. Is it as b-bad as the papers say?”
“Worse. Those oystermen burned most of the new construction down to the ground.” Law frowned. “It should never have happened—those men have been threatening to torch the place for ages. The police should have been prepared.”
Jasper knew he was correct; there had been violent protests over the quarantine facility for years but they’d begun to come to a head with the expansion that was currently underway. The residents didn’t want to live next to thousands of people with life-threatening diseases.
“Cap’n Walling said he’ll want your help when you come back,” Law said.
Walling was the head of the Metropolitan Police. Although Jasper had never met him, he sympathized with the poor man, who’d inherited a riot-infested city and a fractured, unruly force.
“Oh,” Law reached into his coat pocket and came out with an envelope. He pushed it across the table.
“What is that?” Jasper asked, not reaching for it as he suspected he knew what it contained.
“It’s your part of the Brinkley money.”
“I did n-nothing on that case. T-Take it and split it with O’Malley.”
Law frowned, his expression one Jasper hadn’t seen before: mulish. “I didn’t do nothing for it, either, sir.”
“Well, then g-give it to O’Malley.”
“Should I offer some to Davies?”
Jasper snorted.
“All right, sir,” Law said, unsuccessfully hiding his smile. “I’ll give it to O’Malley. But you know he’ll have something to say about it.”
“I’m sure you c-can handle it. Did you hear anything from New Orleans?”
“They arrested Gordon Dupuy. I thought they’d be eager to ship him up to us, just like they did Frumkin’s body, but it sounds like they’re dragging their heels.”
“What d-does District Attorney Hall have to say about that?”
“He said he’d file for extradition if they didn’t send him along willingly. We’ve got a strong case what with the conspiracy and all.”
“And the Stamplers—er, Mrs. Chenier and Howard, that is?”
“She’s still claimin’ it was all her and that the boys didn’t know anything.”
That had been the old lady’s argument from the moment Jasper and Law had arrested them. Jasper was relieved the case was now in the hands of the district attorney. It would be a mess, complicated by the fact that one conspirator was over a thousand miles away, not to mention that Mrs. Chenier could be very convincing when she put her mind to it.
“The good news is that we’ve pretty much returned everything in Frumkin’s black book to the owners. Oh, and Vogel’s butler came into the station—he had a telegram from Mrs. Vogel, from Halifax. She’s on her way to—”
“Venice?” Jasper guessed.
“Ah, so you did know where she went.”
“It was only a guess.” Jasper was happy that she would be far away from the circus surrounding her husband’s death.
“Featherstone made a deal with the DA over Vogel—he admitted to seeing Vogel kill Fowler in exchange for a reduced sentence.”
Jasper frowned.
“He’s gettin’ five years, sir,” Law said, reading his expression correctly.
Jasper had tried, twice, to talk to the dirty copper about an old man—Jemmy Hart—who’d helped Jasper with his first case in New York and subsequently disappeared, but Featherstone had refused to see him, as was his right. Because there was no trace of Hart’s body, it was unlikely that Jasper would ever learn what happened to him.
“You thinkin’ about poor old Jemmy, sir?”
“Yes,” Jasper admitted. “I had—”
The door to the library opened and Paisley stood in the open doorway, his eyes wide, his hands without any tray.
“Yes?” Jasper asked.
“It’s—well—” Paisley’s eyes slid to something in the hallway and widened.
“I’ll not be kept standing out in the bloody corridor as if I was a dunning agent,” a very familiar—and unwanted—voice boomed.
Jasper stood, his own eyes bulging when a stocky figure shoved past Paisley.
“F-Father?” Jasper said stupidly.
The Duke of Kersey glared up at him, red-faced from either heat, anger, or both. “Good Lord, Jasper—what the devil happened to your face?” he demanded, his piercing blue gaze darting from Jasper to Law, who’d stood and was staring at the duke as if he were an exotic animal that had just wandered into their midst.
Which Jasper supposed he was.
“What are you d-d-doing here?” Jasper asked, unable to come up with anything more intelligent to say.
“Jasper, darling—you look dreadful.”
“Mother?”
The duchess entered in her husband’s wake. Beside her stood a young woman who looked strangely familiar.
Jasper frowned. “Who—”
“Hello, Jaz,” his brother said, appearing beside the stranger. “Aren’t you going to invite us in?”
Crispin wore a smile, but Jasper saw the strain beneath it.
He looked over Crispin’s shoulder, no longer surprised to see yet another face—this one belonging to Letitia, his brother’s wife.
Her smile was as uncertain as her husband’s. “You look so surprised to see us, Jaz. Didn’t you get His Grace’s telegram?”
Jasper turned to the duke, who—for the first time in Jasper’s life—looked uncomfortable.
“No,” he said, his gaze flickering over his family, and settling on the stranger. “I’m s-s-sorry,” he said, “But I’m afraid I d-d-don’t recall your name?”
Crispin put his arm around the young woman and guided her forward a step. “You’ll never believe it, Jaz. But this is Amelia.” Crispin cut their father an uncharacteristically grim look. “She’s alive, Jaz.”
Jasper looked into eyes the same color and shape as his own. Her lips, thin, but shapely like their mother’s, flexed into a hesitant smile.
“Jasper?” said the woman who was supposed to have died twenty years ago.
Jasper sat down before he fell down.
“Well,” he heard himself say from a long way off, in a voice that didn’t sound the least like his. “I suppose we c-c-could all use some t-t-tea, Paisley.”