Justy pushed open the door to the Counting House and waited until his eyes adjusted to the light. The tavern was one long, narrow room, with a counter along one side and a line of benches and tables that ran the length of the opposite wall. Light came from candles burning in sconces on the whitewashed walls. Regimental pennants and old weapons hung from the beams of an unusually high ceiling that was darkened with smoke from the drinkers’ pipes and cigars. There was a large brass spittoon, halfway down the counter, in the middle of the floor.
It was still mid-afternoon, and the tavern had just one patron, a small, thin-haired man, dressed in a dark blue military coat that had been patched and stitched many times. He raised his glass to Justy, grinned a set of toothless gums, then spat with pinpoint accuracy into the spittoon.
A tall man stood behind the counter. A mismatched pair of cavalry officers’ swords hung on the wall behind him, their handles downwards, their curved blades crossed close to the tips, just above the man’s head. The man looked to be in his early fifties. Candlelight gleamed on a long, brutal scar that wound its way from his right eye and around the back of his shaven skull.
“What’ll it be?” the barman asked.
“Calibogus.”
“Flicker or bumper?”
“Flicker.”
Justy settled himself on a stool.
The barman poured a small measure of rum into a half-pint glass, then filled the glass up with a light spruce beer from a black bottle.
Justy sipped the fragrant mixture. It had a warm, sweet taste. “It’s good.”
“Aye, well, this be a soldiers’ stop. Can’t get away with flogging balderdash or pug cider. Either it’s quality tipple or it’s stingo, or I’m out of business.”
There was a door to the back of the premises at the end of the counter. It swung open a little, and a small fair-haired boy in a pale green waistcoat and black breeches poked his head through. “I’ve finished the mugs.”
“Good lad,” the barman said. “Away down to Mrs. Rose and get the towels.”
The boy disappeared. Justy took another sip. “I was supposed to meet a fella here yesterday. Name of Drummond. He’s a warden up at the jail.”
The barman’s face was expressionless. “Was a warden, you mean.”
“You heard the news, then.”
“The cossacks were in here. Said he’d been milled, up by the Collect. They wanted to know when he was last in.”
“What did you tell them?”
“Why should I tell you?”
The challenge hung between them.
Justy’s eyes flicked to the scar that bisected the man’s eyebrow. “Toasting iron?”
The man’s eyes were cold. “What makes you think so?”
“I’ve seen a few sword cuts. You were lucky.”
“Lucky I’ve got a hard head.”
Justy nodded at the crossed swords on the wall. “Was one of those two the doer?”
The barman gave a faint smile. “Aye. Redcoat bastard cut me deep. I thought the top of my head was off. Then one of the lads put a ball through his swede and I filched his poker. Just as well, with the rest of the lobsters scuttling through the gate like rats. Hundreds of ’em. And not inclined to stop their slaughter, even though we’d surrendered.”
He looked up as two men came into the tavern. They were both tall and lean, about forty, with hard faces and watchful eyes. One of the men held up two fingers and the barman nodded. The men removed their hats and walked quietly to a corner.
The barman took two tall bottles from a shelf under the counter and two mugs from the wall and carried them over.
“Bleedin’ shoulder-clappers,” the toothless drinker said. “This used to be a place you could escape from the cossacks. Not anymore.”
“Shut up, Sharky.” The barman took up his place behind the bar again.
Justy nodded at the swords. “What about the other poker there? Where’d you get that one?”
“My brother-in-law.”
Something clicked in Justy’s head. He remembered his conversation with Drummond. “I heard Fort Griswold was a hard day.”
“What do you know about it?”
“Only what Drummond told me. He told me he stole an officer’s sword and shab’d off to New London to warn his sweetheart. Your sister, right?”
The barman was about to reply when the back door swung open again, and the small fair-haired boy’s face appeared. “I got half the towels, Da. Mrs. Rose says she won’t have the rest until tomorrow. They’re still drying.”
The barman nodded. “All right then. Sit and do your letters until supper.”
The boy disappeared, and the man turned his attention back to Justy. He dropped his voice. “Callum told me he was going to meet some young lawyer here. I suppose that’d be you.”
“It would.”
“He said he was going to sell you some papers.”
Justy nodded. “I still want the papers. I was hoping you’d tell me where to find his wife. I’d like to speak to her about it.”
“Sure. Go up onto the Broad Way and turn left into town. You’ll find her right at the northwest corner of Lombard Street and Thames Street.”
Justy was halfway off his stool before he realized he’d just been given directions to the Trinity Church cemetery. For a moment he was about to snap at the man. Then he remembered Drummond’s wife was his sister. “When did she pass?”
“Last September. Yellow fever.”
Justy remembered Drummond’s slow, sad smile and felt his own chest tighten. “I’m sorry for your loss.”
The man gave him a careful look. “I do believe you are.”
“My own mother was taken by the fever. In ’83.”
The barman nodded sadly. It was a common enough tale in New York. “Sorry I can’t help you.”
“Will you tell me where Mr. Drummond lived, at least?”
“You know the big building up at Fisher’s and First Street? He has a room in there. Not that it’ll do you any good. The crushers’ll have stripped the place to its beams and boards by now.”
* * *
Justy stood outside the tavern, blinking in the late afternoon sun. It was that time of the day when all the smells of the city seem to congeal in the air, ripened all day by the heat. His throat felt as though he had swallowed a teaspoon of sand. A horse clopped past, its tail high in the air, and he blinked as the hot smell of fresh manure clogged his nose.
The barman was right; Turner’s men would have torn Drummond’s place apart by now. His landlord would have plundered his possessions for anything worth selling. The rest would already have been thrown into the street, to be picked over by all comers. Justy’s only hope was that no one would have seen any worth in a bunch of old papers.
As he passed the alley that ran down the side of the Counting House, he heard a whistle. He stopped and peered into the gloom. The small fair-haired boy was halfway down the alley, beckoning.
The alley appeared to double as the tavern’s latrine. Justy followed the boy, breathing through his mouth. They made a left turn around the back of the tavern, and Justy found himself face-to-face with the barman. He had a worn leather infantryman’s satchel slung over one shoulder. “Sorry to drag you down here. I just don’t want the crushers knowing my business.”
“Those two men who came in?”
“Nah. They’re old campaigners. Mates of mine. It’s Sharky Ward, that scrawny little weasel. He’s a mounter. Thinks we don’t know he tells anything he hears to the law, but everyone’s wise to him.”
He ruffled the boy’s hair. “Good lad. In you go and study your letters. Don’t shirk. I’ll not be long.”
Justy waited until the boy had gone. He glanced at the satchel on the barman’s shoulder. “Are those the papers?”
“Aye. Callum left them with me after Rosalie passed and he sold their house.” The man clamped his arm around the bag. “He said you’d pay.”
“And I will. A quarter eagle, we said.”
“That’s not what Callum said. He said five quarters.”
Justy shook his head. “The deal was an eagle for him to answer any questions I had and a quarter for the papers. Now that he’s dead…”
The man’s face darkened. Justy took a step back, opening the distance between them. He could see the man deciding what to do. He could use the bag as a weapon, it was heavy enough, but swing wrong and Justy might just grab it and run.
The barman’s shoulders sagged. “A quarter eagle?”
“That was the deal.”
“Damn it.” He thought for a moment. Then he scowled. “Go on, then.”
He swung the satchel halfheartedly. It scraped against the wall of the tavern, and Justy had to bend forward to catch it before it landed in the muck. He slung the bag over his shoulder. “You said Drummond sold his house?”
The barman sighed. “Aye.”
“To provide for the boy?”
Something changed in the man’s face. His eyes softened. “Aye. He’s mine, but my wife died a year after he was born. Callum and Rosalie looked after him much of the time. A tavern’s no place for a lad that age. But when Rosalie passed…” He shrugged.
“You’ve got a tutor for him?”
“Aye. And we’re saving to get him schooled properly.” He looked suddenly lost. “Or I am, I suppose.”
Justy unbuttoned his waistcoat and fumbled in his money belt. He held out the coins. They gleamed dully in the dim light of the alley. “Here. Five quarters.”
The barman looked at the coins. He frowned. “That’s not the deal, you said.”
“Here’s a new deal. A quarter for the papers, an eagle to keep your eyes open on my account. I’ll be back.”
The barman gave him a long look. Then he nodded. “Fair enough.” He tucked the coins into his waistcoat pocket. “So where did you get your licks?”
“What do you mean?”
The barman smiled. “Your phiz may not be marked like mine, but don’t think I can’t see your scars. I can see you know what it’s like to stand in the line while the bees buzz about your head and men drop around you. It’s in your eyes.”
Justy nodded. He knew exactly what the man meant. “Ireland. The Rebellion. More than a year gone now.”
The barman nodded slowly. “We heard the news. A bad time.”
“A small affair compared to what went on here.”
The barman rubbed the scar above his brow. His eyes glittered. “The size of the stage don’t mean much to them has to play on it.”
“You’re right about that.”