Justy’s conversations with his landlady had so far been short and transactional, but he was curious to know more about the tall, wide-hipped woman who had married an English officer and was childhood friends with Kerry’s father, O’Toole. So when she asked him if he would join her for an early supper, he readily agreed.
Clodagh Montgomery’s dining room was decorated with the same whitewash and plain jute carpet as the rest of the house. But it was dominated by her dinner table, a flawless oval of polished walnut, surrounded by six delicate chairs. The ensemble seemed to glow in the evening light.
“My late husband’s,” she said, spooning vegetable and barley soup into Justy’s bowl.
Justy was on the point of asking what had happened to him when there was a knock at the door. When he opened up, he saw a familiar red coat.
“Good evening, Mr. Flanagan.” Jacob Hays stood on the bottom step, his hands clasped behind his back.
Three men stood in the street behind the Marshal. Two of them were big watchmen dressed in long black coats. It wasn’t until the third man turned, his small, bright eyes gleaming in the candlelight, that Justy recognized the other Marshal, Turner.
Hays stepped forward. “Forgive the intrusion, but may we come in?”
Justy heard Mrs. Montgomery come into the hallway behind him. She looked over his shoulder. “Police?”
“How did you know?”
She made a face. “Only a lawman would have the spunk to walk about dressed like a lobster in this city.”
Hays smiled and made a slight bow. “You speak with the verve of a soldier, madam.”
“My husband was one, so I shall take that as a compliment.”
“I meant it so.”
She looked at Justy. “Are you in trouble?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Then show them into the parlor.”
* * *
The room smelled of damp and wood polish. A large painting of a white horse on a green field hung above the empty fireplace. Four armchairs were arranged around a low table in the center of the room.
Justy lit a candelabra and placed it in the center of the table. Hays sat in the chair facing the door. “You’re probably wondering how I found you.”
Justy said nothing.
A smile twitched at the corner of Hays’ mouth. “Marshal Turner and I hold the same rank. But we occupy different positions in the city administration. I am, for want of a better term, the chief of police. Marshal Turner is our head of intelligence.”
“Your spymaster.”
Hays ignored the comment. “Marshal Turner has considerable experience in the gathering of information. He was a scout in the war, and he has kept his skills sharp since, recruiting agents all over the city. They see a great deal. For example, they observed you taking up residence here. And they saw you meet with a Mr. Drummond yesterday afternoon.”
Justy waited. His palms were suddenly slippery with sweat. Drummond was either badly injured or dead. There would be no other reason for the Marshals to visit him in person.
“Do you deny meeting him?” Hays asked.
“No.” He knew the drill. Answer simply and precisely, don’t elaborate, don’t volunteer information. Wait for them to tell you what they know, not the other way around.
“What did you discuss?”
“The weather.”
Hays frowned. “Don’t toy with me, Mr. Flanagan.”
Justy thought for a moment. Hays would doubtless speak with Drummond’s chief, Desjardins. If he hadn’t already.
“I went to the jail to see William Duer earlier this week, but I was told he had died. I wanted to ask Drummond if he knew much about Duer’s affairs and his dealings with my father.”
“And did he?”
“No.”
The candles flickered as the door to the parlor swung open. Turner nodded to Hays, then lowered himself carefully into a chair, his black, birdlike eyes fixed on Justy.
Justy stared back as Turner settled himself. The Yorkshireman looked about fifty, but it was his clothes that made him move stiffly, not his age. His coat and breeches were fitted so tightly to his lean, spry frame that it took him a few moments to adjust them and get comfortable. He ran a hand lightly over his widow’s peak, smoothing a stray hair into place. He was wearing gloves, and he tugged at the cuffs of them, pulling the leather tight over his fingers. Justy remembered the bandage he had been wearing the night before.
Hays cleared his throat. “You and Mr. Drummond parted ways at Chambers Street. Which way did he go?”
“I don’t know. North.”
“Did he say where he was going?” Turner asked.
“No.”
Hays placed his hands carefully on the arms of the chair. “I have to tell you that Mr. Drummond was found dead about an hour after you parted.”
Justy exhaled slowly, feeling the pulse in his temples. He saw the candles in the corner of the room flicker and smoke a little, and he wondered if Mrs. Montgomery was standing at the door, listening. “Where was he found?”
“Little Ann Street.”
Justy frowned. “Did he live there?”
Little Ann Street was one of the network of stinking, muddy lanes around the southern end of the Collect Pond. Much of the city’s freshwater still came from the pond, even though the sewage from abattoirs, tanneries and breweries had turned it into little more than a cesspool rimed with bright green scum. The streets around it were not much better, breeding grounds for yellow fever and cholera where only the most desperate lived.
“Mr. Drummond lived on Fisher’s Street,” Hays said.
Fisher’s Street was the other side of the Bowery, nowhere near the Collect. Which meant there was no obvious reason for Drummond to be on Little Ann. There were no taverns in that area, and Drummond didn’t seem the type to go leching after the kind of dangerously cheap doxies who plied their trade in that quarter.
Hays smiled, as if reading his thoughts. “It’s a mystery, isn’t it? Normally I would ask what time you left Mr. Drummond and the time he was killed, but we have a witness who saw you part ways.”
Justy recalled the white face in the glass door of the almshouse. “The nurse.”
Turner tugged at his gloves again. “There’s nowt to say you didn’t double back and kill him.”
Justy grinned. He felt a sudden rush of clarity. “Except Mrs. Montgomery just told you what time I got here. And without a spot of blood on me.”
Turner’s black eyes stared. “A good killer knows how to keep his cuffs clean.”
“I still wouldn’t have had time. I would have had to walk all the way down Chambers, then double back, kill Drummond by the Collect and then get here. It would be hard to do, even if I was running fit to bust the whole way.”
A muscle twitched in Turner’s jaw. “Who says he was killed by the Collect?”
“He must have been. It’s the only part of Ann Street where there’s places to take a man in broad daylight.”
“You talk like you’ve had some experience.”
“I didn’t kill him. And you know it.”
There was silence. Turner and Justy glared at each other. Hays stood up and walked to the fireplace. He peered at the painting of the horse. “You have a fine deductive mind, Mr. Flanagan. And you are very cool, if I may say.”
“Shouldn’t all lawyers be so?”
“Of course. But you appear to have been given some unique training.”
Justy said nothing.
Hays leaned on the wooden mantelpiece above the fireplace. “I went to the morgue today, to take a second look at that unfortunate young woman who was murdered last night. You were right about the mark on her face. It was a fresh cut. Someone had rubbed dirt into it, to stop the blood and make it look old.”
Justy nodded. “I saw the same mark on a woman pulled out of the harbor on Monday. She had her throat cut in the same way, too. And I’ve heard the same happened to two other girls.”
Hays frowned. “You speak as though you believe it’s the same man.”
“Don’t you?”
“It’s not the kind of thing we want to hear spoken of. A man, walking the streets, killing women. The city is restless enough, what with the yellow fever outbreak and these labor disputes with the Negroes. We nearly had another riot earlier this week.”
“Yes. I saw you down at the docks.”
“And no doubt you got the feel of the crowd last night. The city is like a box of tinder.” He stared. “But perhaps you don’t think any of this concerns you.”
Justy sighed. “What do you want, Marshal?”
Hays smiled. “Why, your help, of course.”
“So I can spy on my uncle and report back to you?”
Hays waved a hand. “Good heavens, no. Marshal Turner has more than enough people in that quarter of the city.”
“What, then?”
“I would like to make you an advisor. Unofficial, of course.”
“And unpaid.”
“I told you he’d want money.” Turner’s voice was dry. “I told him you’re nowt more than a waterfront rat with an education, and the idea of civic responsibility would be a mystery to you. And so it proves.”
“That’s enough,” Hays snapped.
Turner sat back in his chair, smiling slightly. His eyes were as black as pitch.
“That may be Marshal Turner’s opinion of you, but it is not mine,” Hays said.
Justy felt a pulse in his throat. His mouth was dry. He controlled himself.
“But the Marshal’s right,” he said. “I am a waterfront rat. The Bull is my uncle. So what makes you think that I would want to help you?”
“Your actions say so. Why did you even engage me in conversation yesterday, if not to offer your help?” Hays looked serious. “You have trained in the law, and not just as a lawyer. You appear to have received an education in police work as well, in London or Paris, perhaps. You are here, not as your father’s son, or as your uncle’s nephew, but in your own right. As a man of the law. And I need men of the law. Particularly those with the kind of unique skills that you appear to have acquired.”
“Perhaps I have other aims.”
“On Wall Street?”
Justy tried to hide his surprise. Hays smiled. “I am not suggesting that you derail your ambitions, merely that you lend me some assistance.”
Turner had sat back in his chair, so that his face was now cast into a deep shadow. But Justy could still feel the contempt in his gaze. He fought down the urge to step across the room and punch Turner in the face.
“When do I start?”
Hays beamed. “Immediately.”