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Chapter Eleven

D etective Sergeant Lewis had already returned from Niles Foster’s bachelor’s rooms when Jasper arrived at the CID. The laborers rebuilding the wall in the department had stopped their work for tea, giving the cramped space, still dusted by rubble and debris, a respite from all the noise.

“What did you find?” Jasper asked as he tossed his bowler onto the shared desk.

His nerves were still bundled tight from his visit with Leo and Miss Brooks.

Not only was there now a strong link between John Lloyd and Niles Foster, one that centered around gambling at Striker’s Wharf, but Leo’s waspish irritation with him was truly starting to get under his skin.

Yes, he deserved her anger. He’d concealed a vital piece of the truth surrounding the most significant event of her life from her. A moment in time that had haunted her as well as him. Jasper knew there was a good chance she would never forgive him.

But hell . He was not ready to give up.

“Learned some interesting things at Foster’s rooms,” Lewis answered.

He was seated at the desk, a half-eaten cheese sandwich in newsprint open before him.

His wife sent him with a bite to eat with tea every day, but Jasper had yet to meet her or their two little boys.

A part of him wondered if it was because Lewis did not truly like him and was only cordial since they worked together.

It was also possible the detective sergeant simply wanted to keep his family shielded from his work.

That would be understandable; he dealt with criminals and murderers every day, the real bottom-feeders of London.

“His landlady had warned him last week she’d give him the toss if he couldn’t pay his yearly lease,” Lewis said.

The man’s bachelor’s rooms weren’t far from the Thames and Houses of Parliament. In that busy part of the city, there were plenty of men looking for lodging. A landlady couldn’t be faulted for evicting a lodger who couldn’t pay.

“How much was the lease?”

“Fifty pounds,” Lewis answered.

Jasper nodded, the row between Oliver and Foster now becoming clear. “He asked Lord Hayes for that amount last week, which the viscount refused.”

“It isn’t cheap lodgings, but a single man with a good paying job shouldn’t have been so hard up,” Lewis commented as he picked up his sandwich and looked at it with lackluster interest.

“According to Hayes, Foster was an inveterate gambler.” Jasper hesitated to share what Leo had imparted, but his sergeant needed every bit of information if he was to be truly effective.

“Miss Spencer recognized his body. She’d seen him at Striker’s Wharf previously.

It appears he was tossed out of Bloom’s back room, which is reserved for gambling. ”

Lewis chewed his sandwich, his forehead creasing. Once he swallowed, he said, “Miss Spencer witnessed this?”

Jasper nodded, and before anything more could be said about Leo and her frequenting a criminal’s nightclub, he asked, “What more did you learn from the landlady?”

Lewis dropped his sandwich to the newsprint and brushed his hands together, dislodging crumbs.

"It was her daughter who had something more interesting to impart. She caught me on my way out. It seems she and Foster had a…beneficial arrangement.” He tucked his chin and winked to indicate this arrangement was of an intimate nature.

“And?”

“Foster appealed to her when her mum told him to pack his things. Claimed that he’d come by some information that was going to make him a small fortune.”

Jasper braced his hands against the desk’s edge. “What information?”

“She didn’t know. He never said. But if it was information he had, he probably planned to use it to blackmail someone.”

Jasper agreed. “What did you find among his belongings?”

“Nothing much. Clothes, a few photographs, some folios and papers that looked to be from his work. I’ve sent Price and Drake to collect the boxes containing Foster’s possessions.”

He anticipated the tedious work of poring through those boxes later, perhaps well into the evening.

Jasper had no other plans, though. It was curiously freeing not to have to worry about whether he’d given enough time to Constance.

Odd, how only now could he clearly feel the weight of that struggle no longer resting on his shoulders.

Lewis finished his lunch and drained his beaker of tea. “What’s next?”

“I suppose I should tell you that I’ve found a connection between John Lloyd and Niles Foster.”

It had the expected effect—Lewis went still in his chair, staring. The leftover crumb clinging to his mustache accentuated the sergeant’s dumbfounded expression.

Quickly, Jasper explained about the matching wrist ligature marks, indicating they’d both been bound in the hours before their deaths; the similar gashes on their left cheeks; their swollen, blackened left eyes; and their shared connection to Bloom’s backroom casino.

Lewis drummed his fingers on the pitted desktop. “You really don’t want to get involved in Tomlin’s bombing case, guv.”

“You don’t need to convince me of that. But it might have some bearing on our case and cannot go ignored.”

The detective sergeant exhaled. “Tomlin won’t like it.”

Jasper thought of the surly detective inspector and found he quite enjoyed the idea of being a thorn in his side. “All the more reason to press forward.”

The laborers began to reconvene at the hole in the exterior wall of headquarters, and Jasper and Lewis gathered their coats and hats to leave. Their natural next step was to pay a call on Eddie Bloom’s club across the river on the Lambeth wharves.

The long, rambling structure built upon a pier had a distinct air of neglect during daylight hours, while at night, gasoliers and brackets throwing off golden light disguised it as a posh place.

Though it wasn’t yet early evening, Bloom already had muscle guarding the entrance.

Jasper and Lewis opened their warrant cards for the man to see. He barely looked at them.

“Mr. Bloom is busy.”

Jasper didn’t have the patience for stonewalling today.

“I’m sure he can find a minute to speak to us,” Jasper said. “Unless it is more convenient for him to be escorted to Scotland Yard for an interview.”

The sentry held firm his unimpressed glower for a moment longer, then went inside. A minute later, he returned and gestured for them to follow him.

They found Bloom at a table with three liveried waitstaff, white gloves on as they handled a variety of glassware.

“Back again, Inspector?” he said jovially. “I’d say it’s a pleasure, but I’ve been told not to lie to the police.”

Bloom might have been in his mid- to late forties, but he exuded a youthful vigor that most men his age tended to have already lost. He dressed well, slicked back his full head of jet hair with pomade, and wore a consistently bemused expression.

It made him appear affable to those who were less aware of his true nature.

Although his syndicate was not as far-reaching as some of the others in London, it was still strong.

Eddie Bloom was not a man to be crossed.

“We have questions about two of your regular patrons,” Jasper said. “John Lloyd and Niles Foster.”

Bloom set a wine glass down and stripped the white gloves from his hands. “I have many patrons. Am I supposed to know all their names?”

The last time Jasper had been here, questioning Bloom after one of his patrons had been poisoned, he’d certainly seemed to know a lot about Leonora Spencer. Her family’s brutal murders sixteen years earlier. Her closeness to Jasper’s father, Gregory Reid, and of course, to Jasper himself.

“John Lloyd was often here with Miss Spencer and her friend, Miss Brooks,” he provided.

Bloom’s expression lightened. “Ah, Miss Spencer, is it? I remember now. Lloyd was that PC that got himself blown up a couple days back.”

He’d known the constable’s name all along. Eddie Bloom didn’t miss much.

“What can I possibly tell you about him, Inspector?”

Jasper reached into his waistcoat pocket and retrieved the gaming token Leo had given him the other night. He hadn’t delivered it to Tomlin as he’d intended.

“Is this one of your markers?” He showed him the face of the marker stamped with the heron and the fox. Most establishments kept their gaming markers consistent, with some even customizing the cast.

Bloom gave it a look. Deliberated. Then nodded once. “It is.”

To deny it would have been folly; they could easily prove otherwise with a look at his casino room.

“Was John Lloyd here three nights ago?” Lewis asked.

“I couldn’t say for certain. This here is a busy establishment. I don’t keep tabs on all my patrons’ comings and goings.”

Jasper knew Bloom wasn’t going to like his next question, but he didn’t have time or patience for finesse.

“I think you’d remember a police constable at your gaming tables. Especially if that constable was turning a blind eye to anything he wasn’t meant to see.”

Bloom’s amused facade vanished. “Are you accusing me of paying your bobby to look the other way?”

“Was he receptive?” Jasper replied, feeling a touch of hedonistic pleasure at being able to rile Bloom.

“I’m offended. I don’t have a thing to cover up around here.” He came forward a step. “It’s your bobbies who might have an indiscretion or two to hide.”

Jasper took the dangled bait. “Lloyd specifically?”

Bloom shrugged. “Tell me about this other bloke,” he said, avoiding the question. “What was his name?”

“Niles Foster,” Lewis said. “A parliamentary aide.”

Bloom crowed a laugh. His serving staff, still looking on, did the same. However, Jasper couldn’t tell if they were genuinely amused or if they only knew it was wise to follow their boss’s lead.

“My place attracts all sorts these days,” he said. “How would I have known him?”

“Mr. Foster was ejected from your back room about a week ago,” Jasper answered. “He was forcibly thrown out by another man, described as being tall and fair-haired, his left eyelid drooping lower than the right.”

In his peripheral vision, he saw Lewis shoot him a startled look at the precise description.

“Is the man I described employed by you?” Jasper asked.

Bloom started for the bar along the wall, where his bartender was polishing the top with a rag. “He’s not one of mine. You’re talking about Olaf,” Bloom said, tapping the glossy walnut to order a drink. The bartender produced a shot of whisky in a blink.

“A German?” Lewis asked.

“A Swede,” Bloom answered, tossing back his drink. “A heavy for Barry Reubens.”

The name lit an unexpected spark in Jasper. Barry Reubens was the head of a motley gang out of Spitalfields, known as the Angels.

“You associate with the Angels?” Jasper asked.

Bloom shrugged. “I’ve got nothing against them or any other outfit, so long as they don’t do business or cause trouble at my place. These are established rules, Inspector.”

Two months ago, when Andrew Carter’s new wife was poisoned at Striker’s Wharf, tension between Bloom and the Carters had ensued. But the truth—that her murder had been planned by someone wholly unassociated with any crime syndicate—seemed to have alleviated that tension.

“What complaint did Olaf have with Niles Foster that night?” Jasper asked.

“No idea. Whatever this Foster bloke did to get on Olaf’s bad side, it’s nothing to do with me. You’ll have to ask Olaf.”

Approaching Barry Reubens, however, wouldn’t be simple.

Spitalfields was a den of thieves and criminals.

Police officers patrolled there in pairs, sometimes as trios, for their safety.

While the Carters had worked to elevate themselves in society, the Angels had stayed true to their cutthroat roots. By Bloom’s smirk, he knew as much.

“I’d like to speak with your dealers to see if they can recall PC Lloyd at their tables three nights ago,” Jasper said. He’d inquire about Niles Foster as well, but it would be a waste of time. If Bloom instructed them to stay quiet, they wouldn’t go against him.

“They’ll be here tonight, Inspector. Do come back and enjoy yourself,” he replied with a falsely bright grin.

Thanking Bloom for his time, they left, emerging onto the wharf in quickly warming sunshine. The briny scent of the Thames held a note of rot and waste.

It illustrated Jasper’s thoughts on Eddie Bloom perfectly.