Lars dragged Justy out of the warehouse by the collar. Then he followed, grim and silent, as Justy led the way though the network of alleys to Cantillon’s house. The gate was open, but the door was locked, and as he tried to use Turner’s knife to lift the latch it was opened from inside.
“Jesus Mary!” Sarah Boswell leapt backwards. The broom she was carrying clattered to the floor.
“Sarah! What are you doing here?”
“Me? I work here, remember?” She clapped a hand to her breast. “Sweet Christ! What you done to yourself?”
Justy touched his head. His fingers were sticky with blood. “Don’t worry about me. Did you know Mr. Cantillon is dead?”
“Yes. Some crusher name of Turner came round this morning and told me. He said he got drunk and fell in the East River. Poor Jarlath. I didn’t know what to do when I ’eard, so I just kept cleaning. Been cleaning ever since.” Her eyes brimmed.
“I’m sorry, Sarah.”
She brushed a hand over her face. “Don’t mind me. What about you?”
There was a large ewer of water and a wide, shallow basin on the table in the middle of the room. Justy picked up the jug and poured water over his head. A wave of pain made him stagger. He felt hands grasping him, and he let Lars sit him down. Sarah pulled his coat off. She gasped. His shirt was soaked in blood.
“Not all mine,” he muttered.
“Off,” she ordered.
Lars stood in the corner of the room, leaning on the wall, watching as Justy stripped and Sarah Boswell washed him down, examining him for cuts. She tore the shirt into strips and used them to bandage his hand, then made him lean forward as she washed his head.
She winced. “These cuts are deep, Justice. You need a surgeon to sew them. There’s one lives two doors down from here. I’ll get him.”
Justy shook his head. It felt twice its normal size, throbbing. “Just wash them clean, then brush the hair back. I’ll get them seen to later.”
She pressed her lips together and poured the water over Justy’s head. He gritted his teeth. Looking down, his head between his legs, he saw the water run scarlet into the white bowl and onto the tiled floor.
He dried his hair carefully with a towel. “I need to borrow one of Carrots’ shirts, Sarah. It’ll be too small, but I’ll roll up the sleeves.”
“You’re cracked. You need those cuts stitched and into bed, right away.” She stood beside the table, her hands on her hips, her bonnet tipped onto the back of her head. Her white apron was streaked and spotted, like a butcher’s.
“A shirt, please, Sarah. And no arguments.”
She rolled her eyes and walked out of the scullery. Lars was looking at him, expressionless.
“What?” Justy snapped.
“What was that? Back there…”
“That was me questioning a prisoner, Lars. That’s all.”
“Questioning? You damn nearly killed him!”
“Not even close. I wanted him to think I’d kill him, so that he’d tell me the rest of it. Who killed Drummond. And Cantillon. And my father. And he would have, if you hadn’t stopped me.”
Lars shook his head. “I saw it, Justy. In your eyes. You were like … someone else.”
“Don’t be soft!” But Justy felt the shame crawling over his skin as he remembered the sense of power he had felt at Turner’s helplessness. Cutting open his clothes. Pressing the knife against his groin. He felt a wash of relief that Lars had stopped him from doing what he might have done.
They sat, looking at the floor, listening to the sound of Sarah’s footsteps coming down the hallway. She bustled into the scullery and tossed a shirt to Justy. The sleeves stopped in the middle of his forearms and the shirt bloused around his waist. He tucked it in tight and rolled up the sleeves.
“How do I look?”
“Like a sorry shag-bag, I’d say.” Lars’ eyes crinkled at the corners, and Justy grinned like a fool, his skin prickling with relief.
“So what now?” Lars asked.
Justy struggled into his coat. “Now I go up to Federal Hall.”
Lars snorted. “Jesus, your woman here has it right. You are cracked.”
“No, I’m not, Lars. I have to get the law involved. It’ll make sense when this is over. You’ll see.” He held out his hand. “Give me the knife.”
Lars took Turner’s knife from his pocket and dropped it in the basin. Justy washed the blood off, dried the long blade with a piece of his ripped shirt and wrapped it in the linen. “Where are you meeting your lads?”
“The Norwegian place. At four.”
“I’ll see you there. If you find Kerry first, bring her.” He touched the tiny cut under his ear. “She may not want to come, but try and persuade her.”
“Persuade? How hard?”
“Just do your best.”
Sarah looked indignant. “Who’s this Kerry?”
Lars winked. “Don’t you worry, a chara; it’s a friend of his, not of mine. I’m fancy-free.”
“Ignore him,” Justy said. He reached for Sarah’s hand. “Thank you.”
She brushed him away. “You nearly ’ad me in an early grave, coming in like that. Don’t think I’m going to forgive you in a hurry.”
“I’m sorry. I’ll make it up to you. I promise.”
“I’ll believe that when I see it.” She glanced at Lars. “Promise me you’ll make him see a surgeon about those cuts.”
The big sailor put a hand on his heart. “On my honor, sweet lady.”
She snorted. “Don’t mistake me for someone who falls for a lost cause.” There was the faintest touch of color in her cheeks.
Lars grinned. “Don’t worry, a chara. We’re a long way from being lost just yet.”