Dutch Street was one of the few streets in the city that hadn’t changed since the colonists built its stone-walled, gambrel-roofed houses a hundred years before. It had survived fires, floods, riots, even the rapacious developers who seemed to want to turn every building in the city into a tenement. Perhaps it was because the street was so short and easy to miss, running as it did for barely a hundred cobbled yards between the licentious hurly-burly of John Street and the commercial grit of Fair Avenue.
The street had no markings and its entrances were as plain and as narrow as an alleyway, barely wide enough to allow a hansom cab. It was easy to miss the turn, but once you were past the corner it was like walking into an old walled garden. The sounds of the city fell away, and the air filled with the smell of herbs and flowers. The narrow gables of the houses loomed above the street, so that it seemed the apexes of their doglegged roofs might touch each other, three stories up. The ground floor windows of the houses were fronted by wide flower boxes, brimming with herbs and blooms. It was so quiet that the sound of dripping water was loud on the cobbles, and Justy found himself stepping lightly, careful to keep his weight off the noisy heels of his boots.
The house was three-quarters of the way down, on the north side of the street. The red stone had been scrubbed, and the wooden cornices above the windows had been whitewashed. The door had been painted a glossy black. The leaded windows glittered in the afternoon sun.
Justy stood, looking up at the single third floor window, high up under the apex of the roof. He heard the scrape of a footstep behind him, but he didn’t turn around.
“They painted the door,” he said.
Kerry stood beside him. Their shoulders touched. “I preferred it green.”
“That was the Bull’s idea. He said Father should fly the flag in the midst of the enemy.”
“That sounds like the Bull, all right.”
He turned to look at her. “What are you doing here?”
“Just keeping an eye on you.” Her eyes were cool and green and amused.
“You followed me?”
“I saw you up on Wall Street. I thought I’d see what you were about.”
“You were forking, were you?”
A shrug. “A girl’s got to make a living.”
“Well, I’m sorry if I queered your pitch.”
“No fear.” She smoothed the empty pockets of her coat. “Slim pickings today.”
She pointed her chin at the window on the third floor and leaned against him slightly. She smelled like olive oil, warmed in the sun. “I used to sit up there, on that padded bench you made, do you remember?”
Justy smiled. “It took me months to make that thing. I could never get the horsehair to stop poking through the velvet.”
“It was like sitting on a hedgehog, right enough. And it wobbled.”
“I never was much good with my hands.”
“Plenty of time for that.”
Her fingers brushed the back of his hand, and his whole body seemed to vibrate. He felt the heat in his face and the thump in his chest, and he pulled away, walking towards the door.
“What are you doing?” Her voice was sharp.
“I have to see inside.”
“Justy!”
But it was too late. He rapped his knuckles on the thick paint. There was the sound of a firm tread on a wooden floor, deep in the house, and he counted to himself, recalling how many paces it was from the scullery to the front door.
The bolt clicked, and the door swung open. A big, bald man with a ruddy face stared at him. He wore black breeches and a tight black waistcoat. A long club was propped against the wall behind him.
“What’s your business?” the man demanded in a strong Dublin accent.
“Justice Flanagan. Attorney-at-law. Is the master of the house in?”
“A lawyer?” The man’s eyes flicked over Justy’s shoulder. “So who’s this?”
Justy glanced at Kerry. “My clerk.”
“He doesn’t look like no clerk. Looks like he should be heaving spuds.”
“Nevertheless. Would you let your master know I am calling on him?”
The man scowled. “My master’s not in. And even if he were, he wouldn’t be troubling himself with the likes of youse.”
He went to slam the door, but Justy stepped into the doorway.
“Get on out of it,” the man snarled.
“Don’t worry, Terrence.” The voice echoed down the hallway. A man shuffled into the light. He was bent over a cane, long white hair spread over his shoulders like a nun’s wimple. Terrence stood aside as the old man made his way to the door. He brushed away a wisp of white hair and peered up at Justy.
“Young Justice Flanagan. You look just like your father.” The old man’s voice showed no sign of age. It was deep and mellow, and Justy felt the jolt of recognition.
“Mr. Kimball?”
The old man tapped his cane on the floor in appreciation. “Very well met, Justice. How long has it been?”
Justy knew exactly how long. The last time he had seen Jeremiah Kimball was at his father’s memorial service. The priest had refused to bury a suicide in consecrated ground, but Kimball, then Chief Judge of New York, had threatened all sorts of jurisprudential retribution. They had compromised on a cremation and a scattering of ashes, followed by a memorial in the church.
Kimball had mentored Justy’s father. He was a staunch Protestant of English stock, but he saw the value in training Catholic Irish lawyers who could represent their people properly in the new America. He was disappointed when Francis turned away from the law and towards Wall Street, but he had remained a mentor and a friend, comforting him when his wife died and acting as a grandfatherly presence in Justy’s life, with gifts on birthdays and invitations to his mansion on Broad Street each Christmas.
“What are you doing here, Mr. Kimball?”
“Why, I live here, of course.” The old man smiled at Justy’s confusion. “Why don’t you come in and I’ll explain.”
“May I bring my clerk, sir?”
Kimball’s eyes were watery, but still sharp. They looked Kerry up and down, lingering on her face. “As you wish.”
He shuffled in a half circle and led Justy and Kerry to a small room that was made smaller by the four heavy armchairs that took up most of the floor space and the books that lined all four walls. Every square inch of wall was occupied by shelving, all the way to the ceiling, and even the spaces above the door and below the window were heavy with books. A thick rug covered most of the floor, dampening the sound and making the room feel womb-like.
Kimball eased himself into a chair. “Do you remember what this room was used for when you lived here?”
Justy glanced at Kerry. She shrugged.
He tried to picture the room as he had last seen it. “Storage, I think. I remember bare floors and walls, and piles of dusty boxes full of papers. Very little to interest a boy who chafed to be outside, running about. It’s much improved.”
Kimball waved his cane. “Please sit down. Terrence will bring us some refreshment presently.”
They sat, and Kimball leaned forward in his chair, both hands on the knob of his cane. “Do you remember Mrs. Kimball, Justice?”
Justy had a sudden memory of a tall, severe woman with pale eyes and a faint mustache. “Of course, sir.”
“She died two years ago.”
“I’m very sorry.”
Kimball flicked the sentiment away. “She was a good woman, but I can’t say it was much of a marriage. Once it became clear we weren’t going to be blessed with babies, we occupied our time in separate ways. I in the law and she in her missions. Ah. Here we are. Thank you, Terrence.”
The big Dubliner came into the room, carrying a tray of glasses. They each took one. Kimball stared into his for a moment.
“Mrs. Kimball,” Justy prompted.
“Ah yes. Well, once she passed, I found myself rattling around in that place on Broad Street like a marble in a magician’s hat. So I sold it to some Wall Street chap with far more money than sense. I could have rented it out, of course, but where’s the fun in that?”
“But how did you manage to end up here?”
“Simple. I owned the place.”
Justy blinked, and Kimball thumped his cane on the carpet. “Yes. I thought that might surprise you. I bought it after your father died. No one else would, you see. Thanks to the Panic, no one was buying anything, and then there were the circumstances of your father’s death.” He glanced away. “Makes a house hard to sell, that kind of thing. And there was a mortgage. That didn’t sit too well with your uncle.”
“The Bull likes to be the one owed, not the one owing,” Kerry said.
Kimball laughed. “Just so. Yes, Ignatius wanted rid of the place, so I bought out the mortgage, along with a small premium for the rightful heir.”
He smiled, and Justy felt his eyes fill with sudden tears. “I didn’t know. He never said.”
Kimball flicked the sentiment away. “But now it’s your turn. I heard you tell Terrence you’re a lawyer.”
“Yes, sir. My uncle sent me to study at St. Patrick’s, in Maynooth.”
“The new Catholic college? Excellent! And you graduated?”
“I did, sir.”
The cane thumped. “Damn good show. Well done. I’m proud of you!”
Justy’s nose tingled, and he had to blink hard again. “Thank you.”
Kimball beamed. He took a long sip of his wine. “So why come back? And why come here? Not to see me, I’m sure.”
“I just wanted to see the old place, sir.”
“You seemed pretty determined.”
Justy felt his skin prickle.
“Come on, lad. Out with it.” Kimball’s voice was sharp.
Justy looked at his hands. “I found him, sir. Out there. In the hallway.”
Kimball glanced at the door. “I thought your uncle…”
“The Bull cut him down. But I found him.” He kept his voice low. “I’ve been thinking about it a lot these past few years. I have dreams.”
“I see.”
“I thought that coming back and looking at the place again might help.”
Kimball leaned on his cane. He tapped a fingernail on the polished wood. “There are those who believe that the unspeakable events of the past should remain in the past. After a lifetime at the bench, I cannot say that I agree. My experience is that the truth will come out, eventually.” He glanced at Kerry. “Better for us all to confront our past and live in the truth, wouldn’t you say, young fellow?”
Kerry was trembling. She looked away. The room was silent.
Kimball stirred. “This was your house once, Justice. I’d like you to treat it as your house again. Take your time. Go where you need to go.”
* * *
The soft evening light streamed into the hallway through a window at the top of the stairwell. Motes of dust turned in the still air. Justy stood at the bottom of the stairs, looking up at the landing.
Kerry stood behind him. “Are you all right?”
Justy thought for a moment. “I’m fine.” He looked at her. “What about you?”
She shook her head. “Who is he?” She kept her voice low.
Justy smiled. “He used to be a beak. The terror of the state bench, they said. My father told me there was no lie that Jeremiah Kimball couldn’t sniff out. So don’t feel bad about him twigging you.”
She said nothing, and he turned back, looking for the banister that his father had been found hanging from. The heavy rope had chafed and splintered the wood, he remembered, but now all the banisters looked the same. Perhaps the Bull had it restored, before putting the house on the market.
He felt detached. There was a picture in his mind of his father hanging, but there was no sense of horror or despair. Instead, he looked carefully around the space, recalling every detail. He walked under the landing and stretched his hand up. The ceilings of the house were unusually high, twelve feet up, and impossible for him to reach.
He walked carefully up the stairs to the landing, then leaned over the railing and looked down into the stairwell. Carefully, he climbed over the railing, so that he was suspended over the hallway; then he let go.
He landed hard on the wooden floor, and the sound of his boot heels echoed through the house.
“Jesus Christ, Justy!” Kerry’s face was white.
The door to the library swung open, and Kimball shuffled into the hallway. “What’s going on? Where’s Terrence?”
“I’m sorry about the noise, sir. And I’m not sure where Terrence is. But I’ve finished looking around.”
Kimball’s watery eyes were unwavering. “Some help to you, I hope.”
“Very much so, sir. Thank you.”
The old man tapped his cane on the floor. “Well, I hope you’ll come and see me again.”
“I shall.” Justy paused. “Before I go, may I ask you one question?”
“Of course.”
“You said you paid more for the house than the mortgage was worth. Why didn’t the money go to pay off my father’s creditors?”
Kimball thought for a moment. “I’m not aware that there were any. Certainly none ever made themselves known to me. The only loan I was aware of was the mortgage on this house.”
“My father didn’t borrow money to buy securities?”
“He may have. Many do. But if he did, he never told me about it.”
“And no one ever called at the house?”
“Never.”
Justy looked into the library, at the books lining the walls.
“What about his papers, sir? That room used to be full of them. Do you know what happened to them?”
“I would assume your uncle took them, when he cleared out the house and put it on the market.”
Justy nodded. “Thank you, sir. I won’t trouble you any further.”
“It was no trouble at all, Justice. I’m delighted to make your acquaintance again after all these years.” He smiled. “You have made an old man very proud. I hope you will come and see me again, before long. And that you will consider this place a home.”