The house on Bedlow Street was built back to front. Colley had bought the land behind it to make room for a sweeping driveway, with a turning circle for carriages and a stabling bay. In front of the driveway was a grand entrance, flanked by tall columns. A pair of heavy teak doors opened on to a high-ceilinged hallway that glowed in the light thrown by three chandeliers.
Colley stood halfway up a wide staircase that started at one end of the hall and swept up to a mezzanine. He watched, a smile on his face as Justy and the Bull approached.
“I expected you at Cherry Street.”
Justy said nothing. Colley gave a small smile. “No matter. I see you have seen reason nonetheless.” He nodded to the Bull. “Have you explained to him how things work?”
The Bull gave Colley a long look. “It was he explained a few things to me.”
“About what?”
“Not here. The library.”
Colley nodded. The Bull led them across the hall to a high pair of double doors. They opened on to a long room, one entire wall of which was lined with books. The floor was flagged with large black and white stones, so that it looked like an angled chessboard. A number of deep leather chairs were clustered around a fireplace in the middle of one wall. A small fire was dying out in the grate.
Colley pulled the doors closed behind him. He strode over to the fireplace, took a poker and thrust it into the coals. “We’re slow tonight. Just two upstairs. But you know we can’t get properly started until the shipment arrives. Those runaways cut our stock down to nine, and it’s been hard enough to break them in. Only a handful are fit for trade as it stands.”
“A round mouth to all of that.” The Bull was holding on to the back of one of the armchairs. His knuckles were white and his face was red. “Did you have my brother killed?”
Colley looked startled for a moment. Then his eyes narrowed. “What on earth are you talking about?”
“Don’t swive about, you sharping bastard. Answer the damned question.”
Colley glanced at Justy. “Is that what he told you? He’s been galumphing up and down Wall Street like a drunken matelot, asking questions that are set to ruin us, and now he’s come up with this? Ridiculous.”
“Is that so?” The armchair made a loud cracking sound as the Bull bore down on it. “Remind me then, why Francis hanged himself.”
Colley shrugged. “Debt. He borrowed to invest in our venture, and he borrowed to buy public stock in the banks. He borrowed too much. When the bank shares fell, he had no way to make his margin payments, and because of the Panic, no one would buy his shares in the venture. Money dried up. He had no way out. There were many others like him. They decided it was better to end their lives than submit to the endless disgrace of debtors’ prison.”
“William Duer didn’t think prison a disgrace,” Justy said.
“William was an unusual man. Moreover, he had wealthy, influential friends. Francis was not so well supported.”
Justy’s head ached. He could feel the open cuts in the back of his scalp burning. “This is horseshit. Get Turner in here. Whether it’s me that works on him, or a couple of my uncle’s men, he’ll tell us the truth.”
Colley’s eyes were cold. “Yes, I’ve heard about your enthusiasm for the fine art of interrogation. And I imagine the Marshal would tell you whatever it was you wanted to hear. But he is not here.”
“Another lie,” Justy snapped. “You have him upstairs in some boudoir, licking his wounds.”
“Or having them licked for him.” The Bull bared his teeth. “But don’t worry. My lads’ll ferret him out.”
Colley didn’t move. He held the poker lightly in his hand. “You’ll ruin our business, Ignatius.”
“What business? Near a year I’ve been sending lads to watch over this place, and I haven’t seen a soft cent so far.”
“I said at the outset you would need to be patient. The procurement process is … challenging.”
“Christ above, man. You’re more full of shit than the Pope’s privy.”
“I’m full of shit?” Colley’s face was tight. He jabbed the poker at Justy. “He’s the one making up stories. Rewriting history. He has concocted all of this in his head. And he has not a shred of proof.”
There was a knock at the door.
“Come.” The Bull’s voice sounded like raking gravel.
Duffy filled up the doorway. The shadow from the candles in the nook made his broken nose look like a hole in his face. “We found him in O’Grady’s, boss. Up to his nuts in guts. We had to pull the dirty skelp off the poor doxy.”
“You paid her, I hope.”
“I did, aye. And then we went to his office for the papers, like you said. He has them now.”
“Wait there.” The Bull still had his eyes on Colley. “All right then, Jack. You say Francis lost his head with all of the rest of them during the Panic. What started it?”
Colley shrugged. “There was no one thing. People had been nervous for weeks. There were all sorts of rumors flying about. One day shares were up; the next they were down. Then they were up again. As shares are wont to be.”
“You said Francis bought shares in some public companies. Which ones?”
“Banks, I believe. The Bank of the United States and the Bank of New York. They were the stocks that collapsed and triggered the Panic.”
“And what was the date of the collapse?”
Colley winced. “For heaven’s sake, man. It was nearly eight years ago. How can you possibly expect me to remember the exact day?”
The Bull turned to Justy. “What day was it you found your father, do you remember?”
“I remember.” Justy stared at Colley. “It was the second of March. A Friday.”
The Bull turned back to Colley. “So if Francie killed himself in the Panic, the selling must have started before that.”
Colley nodded. “Yes. It did. The week before, as I recall.”
The Bull nodded. “All right then, Duffy. Bring him in.”
The big Galwayman stepped aside and jerked his head.
Ramage stumbled in, shoved from behind, his shoes skittering on the checkered flagstones. He had a heavy satchel over his shoulders that threatened to unbalance him, and it was a moment before he could gather himself. He looked around, smoothing his long, greasy hair with his right hand.
The Bull glared at him. “Do you know who I am?”
The newsletterman looked pale. His knees were shaking. “You’re Ignatius Flanagan. The Bull.”
“And you know these others?”
Ramage glanced at Justy and Colley, his head twitching like a panicked chicken’s. “Yes.”
Colley’s face was a hard mask. Ramage flinched away and glanced back. Duffy stood like a fleshy wall, the door closed firmly behind him.
Ramage looked back at the Bull. “Why am I here?”
“To give us a history lesson. Sit down.”
The Bull patted the armchair, and Ramage crabbed across to it, clutching his briefcase, his head twitching, his eyes wide, doing everything they could to avoid looking at Colley. He slid into the seat.
The Bull looked at Justy. “You said he has proof. Let’s hear it.”
Justy clasped his hands behind his back, ignored the churning in his stomach and looked down at the newsletterman. “I’m sorry about the way you were brought here, Mr. Ramage. But I do appreciate your assistance. And I can assure you, you will come to no harm. All I need is for you to clarify a few things for me.”
Ramage nodded hastily. “Of course.”
“Did you bring your papers from ’92, as Mr. Duffy asked?”
Ramage nodded. He hugged the satchel. “Everything I published, yes. And my notes.”
“Good.” Justy smiled. “First, can you tell me when the Brokers’ Board began keeping records of securities trades?”
Ramage’s eyes glanced at Colley, then back to Justy. He cleared his throat. “The Board? Well, I suppose it began immediately it was formed. In May of ’92.”
“Just after the Panic, then?”
“Yes.”
“So there are no formal records of trades before that date.”
“That’s correct.”
“But you kept records.”
“Well, yes. Of what I heard. And what I published, too, of course.”
Justy nodded. He could feel sweat on his palms. “Did you hear of, or publish news about, any big purchases by William Duer after the New Year?”
“Oh yes. Mr. Duer told me himself, in fact. He was keen for as many people as possible to know.” Ramage scrabbled in the satchel and pulled out a yellowing fold of paper. “Ten thousand dollars of Bank of New York shares on the tenth of February. Another ten thousand on the twenty-fourth. Twenty thousand on the twenty-eighth, and forty thousand on the first of March. His last purchase.”
“Big amounts.”
Ramage nodded. “Very substantial.”
“And do you have the share prices for those same dates?”
Ramage frowned. He hunched over his satchel and dug inside, a hank of greasy hair falling over his forehead. He pulled out a pamphlet. “One of my competitors. The Gazette.” He leafed through the pages. “Here we are. Prices. For the tenth of February, twenty-seven shillings.”
“And the following day?”
“Um … twenty-nine shillings.”
“So the price went up after Duer made a big purchase. Did that happen every time?”
The strand of greasy hair whipped back and forth as Ramage compared the newspaper in his left hand with his own pamphlet in his right. “Yes. Every time. Bank of New York stock was twenty-five shillings on the first of March, when he bought, and thirty shillings the next day. The peak price, as I recall.”
Justy glanced at Colley. He was standing by the fire, quite still, the skin drawn tight over his pale face. He was listening intently.
“Just one more question, Mr. Ramage,” Justy said. “When did the Panic begin?”
Ramage sat up, pleased to share his knowledge. “Well, that’s an interesting question. The coffee houses were buzzing with rumors, and you can see some people had already begun to sell. That was why Duer was making such big purchases, to keep the share prices high and protect his own investments. And it might have worked, if he hadn’t run out of money.”
“And when was that?”
“Oh, just a few days later.” He pulled another of his yellowed pamphlets from his satchel. “I wrote about it. Friday the ninth of March. Duer announced that he would stop paying interest on a number of his loans. He claimed it was to investigate their provenance, but everyone knew he had run out of funds. And that was that.”
“Panic.”
“Indeed.” Ramage crossed his arms over his satchel.
The Bull leaned over the back of the chair and spoke into Ramage’s ear. “I’m not a Wall Street shyster like Jack here, so clear something up for me.”
The newsletterman cringed. “Of course, sir.”
“If a man had bought shares in the Bank of the United States and the Bank of New York in January or February, what would the state of his accounts be on the second of March?”
Ramage swallowed. He kept his eyes on the floor. “Well, it depends on what price the shares were when he bought. But, as I said, peak price for all bank shares was the first of March. So any buyer would be in the black when the market closed that day, and possibly a very wealthy man.”
“Not an unhappy man, then. Not indebted, or disgraced or despairing. Not of the mind to top himself.”
“Quite the reverse, I’d say.”
The Bull stared at Colley. “What do you say to that, Jack? If Francie had bought as much as you claim he did, he wouldn’t have been bushed the day he died. He’d have been as rich as mad King George.”
There was a creaking sound as his massive hands squeezed the back of the chair. “That’s if he’d bought stock at all. The thing is, there’s no record of him ever buying shares in the banks, or borrowing to do so. I never found a single certificate among his things, and no one ever came and asked me for a penny. I always thought that was queer, but I told myself it was because no one fancied coming down to Dover Street to collect. Now I’m thinking it’s because there were no shares, and no loans neither.”
Colley looked down at the poker in his hand.
“Don’t even think about it,” the Bull snapped. “You might give me a wee dub o’ the hick, but then my lads would break you in half.”
Colley glanced at Duffy, blocking the door. He seemed to deflate. “He wasn’t supposed to kill him,” he said.
“Who?”
“Turner. I told him to keep your brother quiet. Intimidate him. Lock him away. Get him out of the city. Anything. I didn’t mean murder him.”
“But he did murder him.”
“I’m sorry, Ignatius. Truly. It was not my intention, but your brother was about to bring down the whole castle about our ears. Just as your nephew is about to do now.”
Justy felt numb. After eight years, he knew. He had pictured this moment, thought about how he would feel when he had proved what really happened. And now he had no idea how he felt at all.
The Bull was staring at Colley, his eyes blank. Justy knew that look. His uncle was trying to control himself, to stop himself from snatching the poker from Colley’s hand and beating him to death where he stood.
“Don’t do it, Uncle.”
“Don’t tell me what I should and shouldn’t do.”
Colley held a hand up, as though he was fending him off. “You should listen to your nephew, Ignatius. If you kill me, you’ll lose everything you’ve invested.”
“It’s a good thing I’ve not invested much then, isn’t it?”
Colley’s eyes flickered. They landed on Justy. “There’s Kerry to think of, remember. And little Daniel.”
Justy’s throat tightened. “You weren’t fast enough, Colley. I got to her first, and she told me about the child. And while we’ve been standing here, Lars has broken into your house and taken the boy back. By now the three of them will be safe, somewhere you or your dogs will never find.”
He hoped to God it was true.
There was a tap at the door. One of the bodyguards stuck his head in the gap. He was a round-faced, red-cheeked man of about twenty. He nodded at the Bull. “I’ve rounded them up, boss. Want to take a look?”
“Do you have your barker, Sean?”
“I do indeed, aye.” The red-cheeked man pulled a pistol from his waistband.
“Get in here, then, and keep it pointed at that blackhearted mackerelback there. If he moves, pop him.”
Sean pushed his hat back on his head and sauntered into the room. He cocked his pistol and aimed it at Colley’s chest.
“I’ll be back,” the Bull said.
They stood in a half circle around the fire. Ramage had sunk deep into the armchair, clutching his papers to his chest as though he were trying to disappear into the upholstery.
Sean stood on Justy’s left, his pistol arm straight and steady as a ship’s spar.
“You’ll be Justy Flanagan, then,” he said, his eyes fixed on Colley’s face.
“That’s right.”
“I’m Sean O’Faolain. You know my cousin Patrick. He said you were with him in Wicklow. Said you saved him from being tortured to death once.”
Justy frowned. “Patrick? I thought he was captured, and shot at Kilkeel.”
“He was not indeed. He scowred off and hoofed it up to Newmarket. He came over last year, to Boston. He’s working up there as a snakesman for Tip O’Riordan.” Sean glanced at Justy and grinned, and Colley saw his opening.
He struck, whip fast, lashing out with the poker at the pistol. There was a deafening crack and a cloud of smoke as Sean fired, and Colley dropped to the floor. For a moment Justy thought he was hit, but then Colley was back on his feet and running for the window. Justy followed, but his foot slipped on the polished floor and he went sprawling. There was a loud crash as Colley hurled himself through the window, and before Justy was up, Colley had crossed the narrow strip of grass in front of the building and swung himself up and over the railings. Justy watched as Colley ran hard across the road and into the same alley he and Lars had stood in, watching the house just a few days before.
“Don’t worry.” The Bull’s voice was thick with anger. “He won’t get far. We’ll have every Irishman in the town out after him.”
Justy pushed past him. “We can’t wait. He’ll go to Cherry Street first, to check on the child. We can trap him there, if we’re quick.”
A dull thud made him turn his head. Ramage was slouched in the armchair, his chin on his chest. The satchel had slid out of his hands onto the floor. His face was the gray-white color of fish guts.
“Jesus.” Sean looked at his pistol.
“Not your fault, Sean.” Justy pointed to a small, neat hole in the plaster above the fireplace. He put his hand on Ramage’s neck. He could feel no pulse. The newsletterman’s skin was clammy. His tongue had slid obscenely out of his mouth.
The Bull grunted. “What, did we frighten the poor bastard to death?”
“Looks that way.”
Ramage’s hands were folded over his potbelly. His greasy hair fell over his face. He looked just like a man taking a nap after a heavy meal. Justy looked down at him for a moment. He felt nothing.
“Let’s go.”