Chapter 22
Chapter Twenty-Two
S ir Nathaniel had been given an ample head start, so they kept their pace brisk toward Spring Street. Jasper wanted to be wrong about the commissioner. The yearning stayed alive in the back of his mind and in his heart. But the more he sorted through the facts and connecting threads, the closer he became to certainty instead.
He’d forgotten about the commissioner’s walking stick. He only employed it when the weather was cold and damp, as it had been the night of Clarence Stillman’s murder. Paired with the inexplicable timing of Sir Nathaniel’s arrival at the Yard just now, so soon after Munson’s arrest, and his stark expression of terror when Leo took the photograph from Jasper’s waistcoat pocket, he knew what they would find once they came upon the morgue.
Apprehension coiled through him as they neared the dirt lane between the former church vestry and the burial ground. Should he accuse Sir Nathaniel without proof, he would lose his position at the Met. He’d be ridiculed, and the Inspector would be disappointed. Which was why Jasper needed to be certain.
“You should know that this one time, I would very much like to be wrong,” Leo said softly.
“So would I,” he said. Then raised his hand. “Darken the lantern.”
Leo had carried a patrolman’s dark lantern from Whitehall Place. The oil lamplight had shone through the bullseye lens, lighting their way. Now, however, she turned the lantern’s top, sliding a shield behind the bullseye glass. The light disappeared, obscuring the remainder of their approach.
It had been quick thinking on Leo’s part to fib about the photographs having been left behind in the crypt, and then to show the commissioner the one of Samuel Barrett. The dread in Sir Nathaniel’s eyes when she brought it forward, when he’d believed she was about to show him a photograph of his daughter, had been all the evidence Jasper needed. However, Chief Inspector Coughlan would require more.
When they turned onto the dirt lane, that evidence kicked Jasper squarely in the chest.
A man stood at the back door to the morgue, lit only by moonlight. From his tall stature to his long coat and top hat, it was most assuredly Sir Nathaniel. He appeared to be attempting to pick the lock. Disappointment mingled with fury as he and Leo approached. Jasper signaled to Leo. She spun the shield out of place, and light from the lantern illuminated Sir Nathaniel. He startled, holding up his arm to block the sudden brightness.
“I have a key, Commissioner, if you are looking for something inside,” Leo said.
He fumbled with the lockpicks as he hurriedly stuffed them into his pocket. There was no excuse for being found in this manner, but that didn’t stop him from trying.
“Why, Miss Spencer, it’s you. And Inspector Reid,” he said, greeting them with false joviality. “I thought I would come by and collect that box, as you said things were rather busy at headquarters. Save you the trouble.”
“There is no box.” Jasper reached into his coat pocket and held up the photographs of Elsie. At this distance, the commissioner wouldn’t be able to see them in detail, but his expression still went cold and sober with understanding.
“How much was Carter asking for?” Jasper asked. “It had to have been a fortune for you to hire an ex-convict to retrieve them for you.”
“I rather think you’re out of line, inspector. I’ve no idea what you mean by all this.”
Leo stepped forward, the lantern swinging its light. “There is no need to keep up the charade. We are aware you hired Clarence Stillman to recover the photographs that Mr. Carter was blackmailing you with.”
“That is absurd,” he spluttered with another bemused laugh.
“I have a witness who saw you collect Munson and Stillman at the Jugger on the night Carter was shot,” Jasper said.
Tommy Welch’s identification of the commissioner wasn’t likely to hold up in court, given his prison record, but it worked to put Sir Nathaniel on edge.
“That is utter tripe and nonsense,” Sir Nathaniel said. “You are crossing a line, Reid.”
“Then I am in good company,” Jasper replied. “You convinced Munson to clean up this mess with the photographs, and in return, you arranged for his marriage to your daughter. Promised to take him with you into the top echelons of society and government. And Elsie wouldn’t complain, would she? Marrying Munson was her penance for putting you in this tight spot. I’m curious as to how she met William Carter to begin with. My guess is that you hired Hogarth and Tipson to arrange for your uncle’s funeral services. November, wasn’t it?”
The timing suited. His uncle’s passing had been the reason he and Elsie were invited to Charles Street for their holiday supper.
“How dare you make these accusations?” he barked. “You have no proof, no evidence at all.”
“I’m sure Mr. Tipson has record of it,” Leo said. He glared at her, as though she was the one deceiving him. It ignited a new spark of ire under Jasper’s skin.
“My detective sergeant is currently on his way to your home to collect Elsie for questioning,” Jasper said. “I’m certain once I sit down with your daughter and show her these portraits, she will tell me everything. Including how she came to be betrothed to Benjamin Munson.”
Sir Nathaniel’s expression turned thunderous, and Jasper allowed his own anger to feed and grow. He’d respected Sir Nathaniel. Admired him. And yet he’d consented to murder—including theirs—to keep his reputation intact and unblemished.
“Stay away from my daughter, Reid.”
“I’m afraid that’s impossible now. How long do you think Munson will hold his tongue when he is threatened with the noose?”
“You cannot trust a word from Munson’s lips. The man is a killer, you said so yourself.”
“What I would like to know,” Leo said, her voice placid compared to the ratcheting tension Jasper felt, “is why Mr. Munson would agree to such a scheme. He is devoted to you, surely, and to Elsie, but committing murder for you? That is extreme, even for the most devoted servant or friend.”
The commissioner pinned her to the spot with a glare. “Miss Spencer, I’m ashamed of you for joining Jasper in his outlandish accusations.”
“And why,” she went on, ignoring his chastisement, “was Samuel Barrett stabbed rather than shot? Mr. Munson possessed a revolver.”
The commissioner shook his head, his composure beginning to break apart.
“I’m sure you read Constable Carey’s report on Hannah Barrett’s accident. Someone on that omnibus gave a good description of Clarence Stillman,” Jasper pressed. As commissioner, he would have had access to it. Just as he’d had access to the files in the convict office. “That was one reason you decided to have Munson shoot Stillman. The other was that when he handed over the locket, the paper wasn’t inside. He asked for more money before he would give it to you.”
It was speculation, but Munson would likely confirm it. Perhaps in exchange for a reprieve from the noose.
“Hear me, the two of you—if you continue with this, you’ll be sorry. Your promotion to the C.I.D. is already a subject of dispute, Jasper. And you, Miss Spencer…do you imagine whispers of your uncle’s infirmities aren’t already being heard?”
The warning cut deep, and if Jasper had held any doubt at all that the commissioner was guilty, he might have eased off. But he reasoned that this was exactly how Sir Nathaniel might have convinced Munson to kill for him.
“Chief Inspector Coughlan told you of the scheduled disinterment of Barnabas Strange’s coffin, but the two of you were at a dinner with the Home Secretary that evening.” Jasper frowned. “It wasn’t until after your dinner that you were able to speak to Munson, telling him to get to the grave first.”
“That is why he was still at All Saints when I arrived at dawn,” Leo said. “He found the glass plate negatives but not the photographs. So, the two of you paid a visit to Mr. Barrett together. It wouldn’t have been easy meeting one of the men in those photographs with your daughter. Might you have lost your temper?” Leo asked.
The commissioner sniffed, his fingers lifting and lowering as he regripped the silver knob of his walking stick.
“Tell me, Commissioner, if I were to take that walking stick, would I find a hidden sword sheathed inside?” Jasper asked.
Sir Nathaniel’s scowl flattened. He didn’t respond. It seemed he’d exhausted his denials.
“And if I were to ask the publisher of the Daily Chronicle if you met with him this afternoon, would he confirm it? Or had you simply followed Miss Spencer and me from Samuel Barrett’s home?”
The commissioner turned his head to stare out toward the darkened burial ground. His answer was unmistakable. It had been no chance encounter on Fleet Street. He’d wanted to know what Jasper and Leo had discovered. Why they had gone to The Times .
“I don’t understand,” Jasper said. “Why not just pay Carter the asking price and be done with it?”
Sir Nathaniel’s leather-clad fingers drummed the knob on his walking stick, as though deliberating.
“Money isn’t the only thing scum like Carter want. Connection, political influence, a lenient associate in a powerful position. Those are the things anyone in this city with the surname of Carter wants.”
The commissioner’s voice had deepened to an acerbic pitch; it was as though another man was speaking. Jasper reveled in the beginnings of a confession. The confidence Sir Nathaniel had in Munson had cracked, as had his trust that Elsie would remain steadfast.
“He wanted you in his pocket,” Jasper said. William Carter had surely regretted his ambition when the commissioner failed to acquiesce.
“I refuse to be bought,” Sir Nathaniel said through clenched teeth.
“But you find murder acceptable,” Leo replied.
“Munson hired Stillman, and Munson killed Carter— without my directive. I wanted the photographs of my Elsie, that was all.”
Jasper could see how this would be believable to a Grand Jury. One party was dead and couldn’t speak for himself; the other was an underling without the clout the police commissioner possessed.
“Stillman was a madman,” Sir Nathaniel went on. “He chased Miss Barrett into the street, and then later, he attacked me. It was hardly murder. Munson was defending me.”
“You admit to being there, which makes you an accessory to murder,” Jasper said. “And you withheld vital information in a murder investigation. The Home Secretary will not care for that, I imagine.”
“It might have been wiser for you to have acted alone,” Leo added. “Mr. Munson will sink you. So will Elsie.”
“She won’t.” The commissioner clung to that hope with audible desperation.
“We’ll see, won’t we?” Jasper took his revolver from his holster and stepped forward. “Sir Nathaniel Vickers, I’m placing you under arrest for aiding and abetting in the murders of William Carter, Clarence Stillman, and Samuel Barrett?—”
The commissioner pulled the silver knob on his walking stick, and a short sword flashed into view—just as Jasper had concluded. He took a deft swipe toward Jasper, the tip making a shallow slice near his shoulder. He staggered back.
“Commissioner, don’t!” Jasper aimed his Webley, his blood seizing in his veins. He didn’t want to have to shoot his father’s friend. But he would if he needed to.
Sir Nathaniel held the sword in a defensive position. Then, he ran, heading fast toward the darkened burial ground.
Jasper gritted his molars. “Leo, stay here,” he ordered before pursuing the commissioner. He darted into the burial ground, the moonlight guiding him as it shone dimly on his quarry.
The rows of headstones weren’t neatly drawn, and as Jasper sprinted through them, he was mindful of the smaller stone stubs that often marked the graves of babies and children. If he caught his foot on one, he’d go down and lose momentum.
But then, a shaky light brightened the area around him. It reached toward the commissioner, who was leading by a few yards. Damn it! Leo! He didn’t have time to stop and tell her to go back, and besides, the patrolman’s lantern would aid him considerably.
Sir Nathaniel was strong and fit for his age, but his limp appeared to be slowing him, as were muddy patches and slushy snow. He must have sensed defeat bearing down on him, or perhaps he noticed the light from the bullseye glass growing closer. He came to an abrupt stop, then turned and brandished his sword again.
Jasper dug in his heels, his revolver ready. “There is nowhere to run, Commissioner.”
He held out his arm to prevent Leo from moving past him with the lantern.
“Lower your weapon and surrender willingly.” Jasper heaved for breath after the short burst of sprinting. “Don’t force my hand. If you take one step forward with that sword, I will shoot.”
He’d yet to fire his revolver in the course of his duties, and he sure as hell didn’t wish this encounter to be the one to christen it.
Slowly, Sir Nathaniel lowered the short sword. Lifting his chin, his eyes slipped into the shadows, untouched by the candescent light thrown by the lantern. “You will tell my Elsie how very sorry I am, won’t you, Jasper? Gregory too?”
A knot of foreboding electrified the base of Jasper’s skull, lifting his hair on end. The commissioner’s sword raised again with swift precision, only this time, he readjusted his grip and aim, leveling the tip with the bottom of his ribcage.
“No!” Leo screamed, starting forward. Jasper seized her arm—and Sir Nathaniel fell forward, driving his sword into the soft apex of his abdomen.
He collapsed to the ground in a lump between two tilted headstones. A cold swirl of sick rose in Jasper’s throat as he holstered his revolver and ran toward the commissioner. The tip of the sword protruded through his back. Leo followed, the lantern illuminating the blood already darkening the thin layer of slushy snow. Kneeling on the ground, Jasper flipped him over, but he knew it would be too late. As a soldier, Sir Nathaniel would know where to position a sword to pierce a heart, and he had succeeded.
His eyes were open, and they were fixed in death.