Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
“ G racious, I started to wonder if I’d ever set eyes on you again.”
Constance Hayes closed the door to her boardinghouse and came down the steps to meet Jasper on the pavement. He extended his elbow, and she hooked her arm through it, leaning against him with familiar ease. He liked the weight of her against him and the delicately scented cloud of jasmine she brought with her.
“I’m sorry. These last few nights have been eventful,” he replied.
He might have had to postpone with Constance yet again, had Mary Stillman, Clarence’s widow, still lived at the address in Stillman’s convict file. But after Jasper telegraphed Thames Division and requested that a constable from a local station bring Mrs. Stillman to the central office for an interview and to show her the body of her husband, he received the news that she no longer let the rooms there and couldn’t be found. Lewis had turned to looking through the most recent city directory, searching for her there, when Jasper had left for the evening.
He walked Constance to the waiting carriage, but she pulled back.
“Where have you instructed the driver to take us?”
“The Albion, if you still wish to dine there.”
She smiled brightly, the bridge of her nose crinkling with mischief. “I have a better idea. Driver, take the Waterloo to Belvedere Road. Stop at Striker’s Wharf.”
Jasper followed her into the carriage, and the driver started for the nearest bridge over the river.
“What is at Striker’s Wharf?” he asked, wary of the location. The docks and wharves weren’t suitable places come nightfall. They were usually overrun with punters and prostitutes as well as the upper classes looking to lower themselves for an evening.
“A fun little establishment I’ve heard about for ages,” she answered, still holding onto his arm and leaning against him. She’d only started to do that recently. “Some of the girls at work said there’s a band and dancing?—”
Jasper sighed, his curiosity dulling. “Dancing?” He didn’t like to dance. He wasn’t any good at it, and he didn’t have the inclination to better himself.
Constance nudged him with her elbow. “Yes, dancing. And I read in the Illustrated London News about a cocktail there that the bartender sets on fire! The flames are gone as soon as he serves it.”
Jasper usually didn’t mind being carried along on one of her bubbles of enthusiasm. Constance enjoyed having fun, much like her cousin Oliver, Lord Hayes. The two were alike in many ways, and in their company, Jasper always felt like a singular rain cloud in an otherwise blue sky. Their sunny dispositions balanced him out. Without their encouragement, he’d probably stay in every night at his bachelor’s rooms with a bottle of single malt and a stack of case files.
For the last two months, he’d been taking Constance to dinner, to the theatre, to dinner parties thrown by Oliver, and on Sunday afternoons, they would go for strolls in the park—that was, whenever his work did not interfere. Somewhere along the way, they’d officially begun courting, and though neither of them had broached the subject of the natural next step, Jasper could feel it closing in.
He shifted on the seat as the driver took them across the bridge.
“You’re distracted.” She gave his arm a squeeze.
He turned to meet her gaze. She was beautiful, radiantly so, with cornsilk blonde hair, deep blue eyes, flawless, creamy white skin, and a full mouth that Jasper had kissed chastely a few times. She’d granted him no additional favors; she was a lady after all, even if she lived as a modern woman. However, there was no question in his mind that her favors would be abundantly pleasurable if he ever got the chance to know them.
“An investigation,” he responded. “It has me preoccupied.”
“Heavens, not another ghastly murder?” She sounded galled by the idea.
“With millions of people in this city, and the majority of them living in poverty, murder should come as no great surprise to anyone.”
She pouted. “I’ll never understand why some people are inclined toward violence.”
“I don’t suppose society page typists see a lot of it.”
It was the only section of the paper that would not scandalize a woman of her good breeding—or so Oliver had explained to him when he’d first introduced Constance at a dinner party.
She loosened her arm around his. Belatedly, Jasper realized he’d spoken too harshly—again. He’d been doing that a lot of lately, since finding Leo locked inside the morgue closet.
“Yes, they are short on murders,” she replied tartly.
“Is that why they’re so dull?” he said, winking and trying to make her smile again. It wasn’t a hardship. Constance preferred being merry to upset.
She laughed, and the tense moment passed. Things were easy with Constance. That was one of the things he liked about her. That, and she did most of the talking.
“It must be horrible, seeing those things all the time,” she said. Then, sitting up straight as if struck by an idea, “I know—you should get a promotion!”
“I just did,” he reminded her.
“Maybe you could get another one. A position where you don’t have to investigate murders but stay at the office as a manager of some sort.”
He cringed. “That sounds awful.” Not to mention, he’d rather leave the force entirely than be relegated to a desk job.
“Why? Isn’t that what your father did before he became ill?”
“Yes, but that took many years for him to achieve,” Jasper answered. “Besides, I like my work. It’s difficult, but I’m good at it.”
“Yes, you are.” She reached up to kiss his cheek. He wasn’t sure how she would know; she didn’t make it a habit of asking about his cases. The few times she had, she’d been discomfited by the stories. Most young ladies did not wish to discuss crimes of the desperate and the poor, let alone investigate them.
Leo Spencer was a conundrum, to be sure.
Their biting words in the carriage on the way to Mr. Barrett’s home had agitated him. For a long time, he’d suspected she remembered more about the night of her family’s murders than she’d ever revealed. With her oddly perfect memory, she simply had to remember. And yet, she’d avoided his question by clapping back about his own reluctance to share anything about his life before he’d met Gregory Reid. She’d been right, of course.
“They’re coming in June.”
Jasper looked up from the floor of the carriage and peered at Constance. “Pardon, who is coming in June?”
“You weren’t listening, were you?” she said, though she wasn’t truly vexed. “My parents, Jasper. They’re traveling from Hampshire in June. I’d like for you to meet them, and they would very much like to meet you.”
If the carriage roof had suddenly fallen in, he wouldn’t have been more stunned. Her parents? Hell . Mr. Stanley Hayes was Oliver’s late father’s brother. His wife was the daughter of a knight. The pair of them hadn’t been supportive of Constance’s decision to work for a living, but she’d done so, nonetheless. The only reason they hadn’t dragged her back to Hampshire, Oliver had confided, was because they believed she at least had the protection of her cousin by living at Hayes House—a complete falsehood.
And now, Jasper was to meet them. June was still a handful of months away, so he resolved not to panic prematurely.
“Perhaps by then, another position at the Met will open up,” she said. “Something more civilized.”
With a twist in his gut, he pulled back from her. “You don’t believe they’ll approve of my job.”
Her pale brows pressed together. “I don’t care what they think. You know that. But they’re old fashioned and want me to be on the arm of a man of our set.”
“A peer, you mean.”
“Or landed gentry,” she said with a shrug. “But that doesn’t matter to me. I just thought if they were to see that you were rising in the force to, say, a superintendent or assistant commissioner?—”
“Commissioner?” He couldn’t help but laugh. “Constance, that is an appointed position through the Home Office, and it is only given to military men.”
Men like Sir Nathaniel Vickers.
She gave another little pout, displaying her full bottom lip. “It was just a thought. It doesn’t matter.”
But Jasper couldn’t get the suspicion that it did matter out of his head as they finished their drive to Striker’s Wharf.
“Are you sure about this place?” he asked as the driver slowed alongside a rambling, well-lit building located at the end of a pier.
“Not at all,” Constance replied with a giggle. “That’s what makes it fun.”
He bit his tongue and paid the driver, then started toward the club entrance with Constance on his arm. Lively piano music could be heard, and after paying the entrance fee at the door, the music hall tune wrapped around them as they stepped inside. It was an assembly room of sorts, with an open dance floor surrounded by a perimeter of tables. They were all occupied, as was the main floor, where couples danced arm in arm. This was no stiff waltz. The couples moved quickly, twirling and spinning, all of them looking like drunken miscreants.
Jasper’s feet turned to lead as Constance wended her way toward a long, glossy bar. Patrons swarmed here too, but at least they weren’t dancing.
“Isn’t it marvelous?” she said after he’d ordered a whisky and one of the flaming drinks she’d mentioned. Jasper rested an elbow on the bar, his eyes peeled on the crowd. Men and women mingled freely, most of them young, and from their styles of dress, they looked to be from a range of classes.
“It’s certainly spirited,” he said, sipping his drink. No amount of liquor, however, would tempt him onto the dance floor.
Constance bumped his arm with her shoulder. “Try not to look so much like a policeman.”
He grunted. It wasn’t exactly something he could refrain from. After becoming a plainclothes detective and no longer needing to wear the standard blue uniform and custodian helmet, his father had joked that he now looked even more like a copper. “That’s because you have the heart of a policeman, my boy,” he’d added with a proud nod.
The bartender lit Constance’s drink aflame, and she and a few others around them squealed and laughed at the bit of theatre. As the blue flash receded, Jasper’s eyes landed on a familiar face.
Across the dance floor, Miss Nivedita Brooks sat at a table, smiling and conversing. A couple on the dance floor twirled out of his range of vision and revealed Leo sitting beside Miss Brooks. Jasper lowered his whisky glass. The two women were close friends, so he wasn’t surprised to see them together. But he hadn’t expected to find them in a place like this.
They weren’t alone. A curious friction scrambled through Jasper’s veins as he recognized two men in their presence. PC Lloyd and PC Drake were out of uniform, but they still had the squared shoulders, straight spines, and clean-cut look of police constables.
“Did you know she would be here?” Constance asked. She’d followed his stare as she sipped her drink, the flames now fully extinguished.
“You chose this club, not I,” he reminded her. She pursed her lips, her merriment tempered.
For the next few minutes, Jasper sipped his drink and endeavored not to drag his eyes in Leo’s direction. The few times that he failed, however, he noted the differences in her appearance. Her dress, for one, was not a somber gray or blue, as she typically wore to the morgue. She wore a bustled gown of vivid emerald silk, trimmed with black lace. Her dark hair, usually in a low, plain knot, had been braided and swept up into a soft twist, leaving a few sable tendrils loose to frame her face. What wasn’t different was her serious mien. While Miss Brooks and the two constables smiled and laughed, Leo sipped a glass of wine with a pensive expression, appearing distant from their animated conversation.
By all accounts, it looked as if she wanted to be at the club less than Jasper did.
The piano softened and slowed its pace, while a few violins joined in to play a waltz. Miss Brooks accepted the hand of PC Lloyd, and they moved onto the dance floor. Leo and PC Drake sat in silence, with Drake angling himself toward her as if to make conversation.
“Would you at least consent to a waltz?” Constance asked, breaking Jasper’s concentration.
“If I knew how to waltz, I would,” he answered.
“No, you wouldn’t,” she replied, and he grinned. She was right; he wouldn’t. It was true, though, that he didn’t know how to dance. It wasn’t something his father had ever thought to teach him.
“I suppose you want to say hello to Miss Spencer,” Constance said just as the constable placed his hand atop Leo’s on the table. He leaned closer to speak into her ear. Leo fixed her attention on his hand, her posture stiffening.
“It would only be polite,” Jasper said and, with his arm at Constance’s back, led her in the direction of Leo’s table. They skirted the dancers and some others milling about in the crowd.
Jasper had no idea what he was going to say beyond hello, but his feet wouldn’t stop moving. He was several paces away from the table when Leo’s eyes clapped onto him. Her hand was no longer on the table or covered by Drake’s, and she’d moved her chair away from him. Now, her eyes rounded, and her lips popped open in surprise. They sealed again when she saw Constance.
“Detective Inspector,” the constable exclaimed, standing to attention. Jasper acknowledged him with a nod, pleased by his alarmed reaction.
“This is the last place I imagined I’d see you,” Leo said in greeting. She aimed a tense smile toward Constance. “Miss Hayes, how do you do?”
“I’d be much better if Jasper knew the waltz,” she replied, hooking his arm again.
“Witnessing him dance the waltz would certainly be worth the price of admission,” Leo said, then seemed to realize the constable was still with them. “Oh, I should introduce Constable Marcus Drake. Constable, this is Miss Constance Hayes.”
After an awkward moment in which Constance smiled thinly but avoided looking at Drake directly, Jasper raised his voice above the music. “Why did you imagine I wouldn’t be in a place like this?”
“Because of the person who owns it,” she answered.
He clenched his teeth. “And who might that be?”
Miss Brooks and the other constable joined them then. PC Lloyd also jumped to attention, and both men now stood rigidly, their expressions masks of fright, as if awaiting orders—or a reprimand. Jasper suppressed a smug grin.
“Inspector Reid! Goodness, it’s odd to see you here,” Miss Brooks said, breathless from her dance.
“As I’ve been told.” He shifted his attention back to Leo. “Just who owns this club?”
“Ladies, gents.” A man stepped into their circle, his welcoming smile as smooth as his voice. “I see too many frowns at this table. What seems to be the problem?”
“Mr. Bloom, how good of you to join us.” Miss Brooks pasted on a sparkling, if ingenuine, smile.
Bloom. Eddie Bloom. Jasper gave the middle-aged man standing with them all his focus. He was a few inches shorter than Jasper, but he was scrappy and streetwise. For good reason: Bloom headed a small syndicate on the riverfront, his dealings mostly in cargo, shipping, and prostitution. He was small beer compared to the East Rips, but he was trouble just the same.
And apparently, he operated this assembly hall.
“Bobbies always bring the mood down,” Bloom said, giving Jasper a top-to-bottom gander and a disappointed shake of his head. A man like Bloom knew a policeman when he saw one. “Want me to get rid of him, ladies?”
Jasper shifted his footing, facing Bloom squarely with a clear challenge to try his luck.
“Oh, no, please, we’re having a lovely time,” Miss Brooks said with a nervous laugh. She glared at Leo. “Aren’t we?”
“Yes, lovely.”
At her placid tone, Bloom quizzed her with an assessing look. Then, furrowing his brow, he turned his inspection back onto Jasper. “It seems you’ve been exonerated, constable.”
“Detective Inspector.”
At this, Bloom laughed. “Detective Inspector. My, my. Are you on official business then? Or—,” he took Constance’s hand and bowed over it, his dark eyes never leaving hers, “—are you a copper of good taste, taking his lady out for a pleasant evening?”
Constance simpered and allowed Bloom to bow over her hand another moment before retracting it.
Jasper hardened his expression. To frequent an establishment owned by a criminal was to send the message that he was open to giving and accepting favors. Plenty of men on the force did so, supplementing their income by forming friendships and alliances with the less-than-savory citizens they were meant to police. But Jasper was not inclined, and he never would be. Bloom hadn’t offered to toss out the two constables, and so Jasper had to wonder if they were already in his pocket.
After leaving Bloom dangling for a few moments, he replied, “We came for a drink, and now, we’re leaving.” Constance huffed and began to argue, but Jasper spoke over her. “These two were just telling me that they were about to bring Miss Spencer and Miss Brooks home too. Isn’t that right, constables?”
Drake’s pupils sharpened, and his facial muscles twitched with alarm, while Lloyd stammered out, “Yes, sir. That’s right, sir.” Leo and Miss Brooks exchanged vexed glances. They knew exactly what he was doing and that he had no remorse for it. There wasn’t a chance in hell he was going to leave Striker’s Wharf without Leo directly behind him, especially now that he knew the assembly hall was operated by Eddie Bloom.
At Jasper’s side, Constance released his arm but said nothing as Bloom tipped his hat and bid them a good evening. As soon as he’d sauntered off, she whirled away, in the direction of the exit. Jasper cut the constables a firm glare.
“Get them out of here,” he said.
“We can remove ourselves perfectly well, inspector,” Leo said. “After we finish our drinks.”
She took a slow sip of her wine, daring him to argue. He would have, had Constance not been about to walk out on her own. He had to go after her—the wharves weren’t any place for a lady. Hell, what had she been thinking to even bring him here?
He gave Leo one last glare and then turned on his heel.