It was quicker to run. Justy followed the route Colley had taken, across Bedlow Street and down the alley. There was no moon, and Justy tripped over the detritus that was strewn about the dark, narrow passage. A dog ran at him, snarling, and Justy slipped again. Lights burst behind his eyes as the back of his head collided with the brick of the alley wall. He lay for a moment, wedged against the stone, his head ringing, blood running down the back of his neck. He gritted his teeth and pushed himself up off the ground. His breeches were soaked.
He forced himself on. Down the alley, left on Cherry Street and hard down the sidewalk, his breath loud in his ears, ignoring the looks on the faces of the few passersby on the street. He was vaguely aware of the sound of a carriage hammering past him, but he drove himself on until he reached Colley’s house.
It was an ordinary London-style town house, three stories high with a narrow frontage. But it had the same high railings as the house on Bedlow Street. Justy leaned against the iron bars, his legs weak and his chest heaving. The cuts on his scalp burned like fire. The carriage that had passed him was drawn up outside. One of the Bull’s men held the reins.
Justy closed his eyes. He felt a hand on his shoulder. The Bull’s face floated in front of him.
“There’s no one here, lad.”
God damn Colley. But at least Kerry and Lars were safe. Justy grabbed the railings and hauled himself to his feet.
The Bull surveyed him, hands on his hips. “You look like a bucket of afterbirth.”
“Thanks.”
“Don’t worry. We’ll hunt the dog down. Like I say, I’ll have every Irishman in the city on him. And when he’s in the bag…”
Justy waved his hand. “I don’t want to know.”
They stood awkwardly for a moment. There was a rushing sound as the wind suddenly picked up, and the light from the streetlamp above them flickered.
The Bull made a fist and punched Justy gently in the chest. “I can see now my money was well spent. I’ve never seen a man so mad for the truth. Your father would have been proud.”
Justy felt his breath catch, as the anger surged in him. “My father was a cheat and a thief. That’s the truth for you.”
The Bull frowned. “There was no law against what he did.”
“Jesus! How many times am I going to hear that? It doesn’t mean what he did wasn’t wrong!”
He stared into his uncle’s eyes. It was a moment before the Bull looked away. “We need to get you cleaned up.”
“No. We need to get Lars and Kerry.”
The Bull paused. Then nodded. “Right you are. You can go in the carriage. I’ll have a few of the lads go with you, just in case. Where are they?”
“Lew Owens’ place.”
The Bull blinked. “Owens? You’re codding me.”
Justy felt something twist inside him. “What’s wrong?”
The Bull coughed out a dry, mirthless laugh. “Owens is a partner, Justice. He’s one of them.” His jaw tightened. “One of us.”
Justy reached behind him for the railings. “But Owens is … he’s…”
“He’s a Negro? You think that means he’s not a slaver? By all that’s holy, lad, are you that much of a gull? Owens is the biggest beard splitter in New York. It’s not much of a step from pimping black girls to slaving them, now is it?”
The Bull grabbed him by the front of his coat. “Get in the rattler. We’ll drive over and see what’s what. Maybe Kerry was fox enough to stay clear of her cousin’s.”
But Justy knew better.
* * *
It was a short ride to Owens’ house on Leonard Street, but long enough for Justy to recover his wits. The Bull had sent one of his men to raid Colley’s scullery, and Justy had just enough time to fill his belly with cold chicken and a half-pint of weak white wine. The Bull insisted on trying to clean out the cuts on his head, but he didn’t have Sarah Boswell’s finesse, and by the time the carriage pulled up at the Owens house Justy’s scalp felt as though it were on fire.
But his head was clear enough.
The Bull stepped down first. “Look who’s here.”
The moonlight glittered on the black paintwork and brass fittings of Colley’s coach. Fraser was perched on the running board, watching them, and Campbell stood in the road, swinging his knotted blackthorn. He grinned, showing his rotten teeth. “I heard we missed all the fun.”
The Bull nodded to his men, who had hitched a ride on the roof and sides of his carriage. They jumped off, one by one, and arranged themselves in a half circle around Colley’s coach. The Bull looked at Campbell. “There’s still plenty of fun to be had, if you fancy.”
Campbell glowered and said nothing.
The Bull sneered. “I didn’t think so, you cowardly northern cunt.”
He stepped to the door of the house and hammered on it with his fist. After a few moments it swung open.
A tall, silent man with a long scar across his face led them through the hallway to a large room. There was a brightly colored carpet on the floor, and odd pieces of expensive-looking furniture were scattered about at random. The room was a blaze of candlelight, with a candelabra on every table and a chandelier hanging from the ceiling.
A small fire burned in the grate. Colley sat on one side of the mantelpiece in an ornately upholstered chair. There was a glass and a decanter full of a honey-colored liquor on a small table beside him. A tall man with a gleaming cannonball of a head leaned casually on the wall on the other side of the fireplace. He wore cream breeches and a linen shirt so white that it made his skin look the color of ink. The glass in his hand looked like a thimble. He nodded to the Bull. “Ignatius.”
“Lew.”
“How’s business?”
“Can’t complain. You?”
The man chuckled. He had a faint Welsh accent. “Nothing like a Manumission conference to bring in the ducats. Those coves may not like slavery, but they do enjoy their dark meat, regardless.”
His eyes swiveled in Justy’s direction, like a pair of cannon shifting aim. “This must be the nephew I’ve heard so much about. I’m Lew Owens. Kerry’s cousin.”
Justy stared back. “And where is Kerry?”
A perfect set of teeth flashed white in Owens’ face. “No idea, bach. Probably dipping her fingers into some drunk cove’s pocket up Broad Street way.”
“You haven’t seen her tonight, then?”
“I have not.” Owens looked at the Bull. “You didn’t come here to inquire after my wayward cousin, did you, Ignatius?”
“I did not.”
“So how can I be of service?”
The Bull jerked his head at Colley. “You can hand over that bastard so I can open his throat for him.”
“Can’t do that, I’m afraid, boyo.”
“The madge killed my brother, Lew.”
Owens pushed himself off the mantel and crossed the fireplace. He poured himself a glass from the decanter beside Colley and sipped delicately. He stopped, a look of concern on his face.
“Forgive my poor manners, Ignatius. Can I offer you a drink?”
“My balls in your drink, Owens. Hand him over.”
Owens sat down slowly in a small chair that looked as though it might collapse under him. “I’m sorry about your brother, Ignatius, but Jack tells me it was just business.”
“Business? He had that rat Turner strangle him and dress it up to look like self-murder. He didn’t even get a proper burial.”
“Well, that’s what you get for trying to blow up a going concern. You’d do the same thing, I daresay, if one of your schemes was about to go down with all hands.” Owens looked meaningfully at Justy.
The Bull took two long strides across the room. Colley sprang out of his chair.
The Bull barked out a laugh. “Don’t worry, Jack. You’re safe for now.” He grabbed the decanter. “Where are the glasses?”
Owens waved a hand towards a cabinet on the far side of the room. The Bull walked over, selected a large tumbler and filled it. He drank it off and belched loudly.
Owens looked offended. “That ain’t your cheap grapple, boyo. That’s Armagnac brandy. All the way from Frenchieland.”
“Pricey, I suppose.”
“By heaven, yes.”
“I’ll have another, then.” The Bull topped off his glass. He paced up and down in front of the fire.
“I know what you’re thinking, Lew.” The Bull stood in front of the grate, feet planted wide. “You don’t want a war, but it could be worth fighting me, to keep this affair up. You’ve got enough chink sunk in it, God knows. But I’ll tell you two things. First, you won’t win. I’ve got double the men you can muster, and even if you do manage to put me in the ground, my lads’ll spill so much black blood that you’ll never be able to keep your schemes running after. Second, you can’t run this racket without me. You can’t staff the house on Bedlow Street with your own folk. Your clients would run a mile. They may want black tail in their beds, but they want white faces opening the doors and guarding the gates. Last, you need access to the ports. If I’m not on board, you won’t even get your ships unloaded. They’ll sit at anchor, and your cargo will starve.”
Owens nodded his head slowly. He looked at Colley. “He makes some good points, Jack. I may have to trade you.”
The Bull swallowed a mouthful of brandy. “You don’t need this madge anyway, Lew. The supply lines are working fine. You just take ’em over. Same with the house. No one’ll miss Black Jack. And there’s plenty will thank us for hushing him.”
Owens smiled faintly. “Except Jack’s our man on Wall Street, bach. He’s a sharper, I grant you, but we need him and that fat fool Gracie to keep the ducats flowing until we get self-sufficient, don’t we? How else are we going to raise the chink to pay for product in the meantime? Not to mention bringing in the members. The quality, remember. Jack’s the only one of us who can move about in that world.”
Colley slammed his glass down on the table. “I remind you, gentlemen. I am here in the room.”
The only sound in the room was the fire crackling in the grate. The Bull gave Colley a long, empty look. He swiveled his head to look at Owens again.
“We have my nephew.”
Justy felt the air go out of him, as though he had been punched in the chest. He wanted to shove his uncle into the fire and run out of the room.
But something stopped him. He thought about Kerry, sitting in that small, whitewashed room in the church, telling them what Colley had done. The look in her eyes, the sound of her voice. Desperate, like a trapped animal.
Everyone was looking at him: Owens, lounging in his chair, smiling slightly; the Bull, half-turned towards him, his face blank, his eyes cool. And Colley, leaning on the fireplace surround, a sneer twisting his thin lips.
A cold rage seemed to filter out of Justy’s guts and through his veins. He felt the sweat, like ice on the back of his neck. His fingers twitched. He imagined Colley underneath him, his knee in the trader’s throat, the point of his knife prizing out his eyes, the blade widening his smile. He felt his skin bump, the hair rising on his legs and his neck and the back of his arms. Black Jack would not get away with what he had done. To his father. To Kerry. To the dead girls, lying on the cold slabs in the grim morgue under the almshouse. Murderer. Rapist. Slaver. It was time to give Colley a taste of his own poison.
And there it was.
Just an idea, at first. An idea so vicious, so repellent, that his mind recoiled from it, like a man backing away from a venomous snake. But the idea would not stay away. It came back to him, like a dog with a stick, and part of his mind, the cool, objective, unfeeling part of him that knew how to threaten, where to cut and what to ask, began to explore the idea.
The idea was so simple, it was less like arranging a puzzle and more like fashioning a key. He thought the idea through, and the key turned, smoothly, the tumblers falling into place, one by one. A simple solution, pristine in its logic. Perfect. And unspeakably evil.
The breath caught in his throat. He felt like a child standing over an ants’ nest, holding a heavy stone, watching the creatures scurrying back and forth. He glanced up. The Bull was watching him, the broad slab of his face cracked by what passed for a smile.
In Justy’s mind, the stone fell. He imagined the sound of it hitting the ground, the vibration through his feet, the nest crushed, the bodies mangled. He swallowed the acid on his tongue and felt his stomach turn.
“Aye. You have me.”
The smile on Owens’ face was wider, but it still hadn’t reached his eyes. “I heard you were morally opposed to this venture of ours. Not to mention you’re a lawyer and what we’re doing likely wouldn’t sit too well with the beak, if we landed in court.”
Justy could feel Colley’s wine bubbling deep in his guts. The chicken had tasted good going down, but now he felt he was about to bring it right back up again. He thought of Kerry, her hair falling over her face, like a blackbird’s wing. He thought of his father, the way his fingers had felt when he touched them. Like a clutch of sausages pulled from an icebox: swollen, cold, obscene.
He swallowed.
“You are right on every count, Mr. Owens. I do find this venture objectionable. Deeply so. And yes, I am a lawyer. As such, I can reassure you that your scheme, as described, is legally questionable in a number of areas. Nevertheless, despite all of that, I could be persuaded to assist you, as my uncle has described. And, indeed, to put you right in the eyes of the law.”
“Really?”
“Really. And it won’t cost you a penny.”
“But it will still cost me.” Owens’ laugh was as dry as the ash in the fireplace. “So what do you want?”
Justy’s mouth was sticky. “Payment in kind. I want Colley, I want Turner and I want Kerry.”
Owens’ lips twitched. “Ah yes, sweet cousin Kerry. Of course.” He paused for a moment. “That all sounds a bit expensive to me, if you don’t mind my saying.”
“You’ll find it’s worth it. For my silence. And my skills.”
Colley laughed. “This is ridiculous. The boy has no connections in the city, none. He has no access to capital, or to the kind of clients we need. He is useless.”
Justy ignored him. He kept his eyes on Owens. “My father showed me how to raise money, and you all know how good he was. He invented this scheme of yours, remember. And you don’t need Colley to make it run now, anyway. The network is already in place. All you need is Harry Gracie to keep on fronting it, to keep it ticking over until you’re making enough capital from Bedlow Street. As for bringing in new clients, you don’t need Colley there, either. If the product’s as good as you claim, word will travel fast.”
Colley’s gray eyes were like flint-tipped spears. Justy smiled. “But above all of this, as I said, there’s the legal issue. And that’s something Jack here can’t help you with.”
“Go on.”
“This whole plan of yours, to smuggle women into the city and then sell them to the highest bidder? It’s madness. Not only is it against the law; it’s almost certain to be found out. A slave auction on Bedlow Street? There’s no way you’re going to be able to keep that quiet.”
“You’d be surprised what we can keep quiet, boyo,” Owens said.
“Really? You already had four women slip away. You had to kill them to shut them up. What happens when you have twenty-four? Mass murder? If you do this, word is going to come out, eventually, and when it does, the Manumission Society will be up in arms, your investors will drop you like a hot coal, your clients will run like rats and all the connections you have won’t be enough to keep you out of clink.”
He paused, and stared at Owens. “Unless you do things my way.”
“And what way is that?”
“Take Colley out of here, and I’ll tell you. Then you can bring him back and ask him what kind of a solution he’s got.”
Owens jerked his head, and the scarred bodyguard strode across towards Colley. He stood over him until Colley stood up and followed him, mutely, out of the room.
Owens waited for a moment. He walked over to where the Bull had placed the decanter. He filled his glass. “Before you write us off as a bunch of drumbelos, you should know we did think about all of this.”
“And what did you come up with?”
Owens smiled. “We were still mulling on it.” He sipped his brandy. “Go on then, boyo.”
Justy glanced at his uncle. The Bull was watching him, impassive. His glass was still half-full. Justy walked over to him, took the glass from his hand and drank a mouthful. The liquor was sweet, but it scorched the back of his throat. It was an effort to stop himself from coughing.
“Leases,” he said.
Owens frowned. “What do you mean?”
He took a deep breath. “If you sell these women to your clients or your partners or whatever you call them, you’ll be breaking the law. But if you lease them, you’re not selling them. In the eyes of the law, there is no transfer of ownership. You will still own them, but you’ll sell their labor for a certain period, and selling someone’s labor is entirely legal. The lessees, your clients, could either pay a lump sum or installments. All other parts of your contract, the fees and sharing agreements, all of that could remain the same. All it requires is some paperwork.”
“What kind of period would the lease be for?”
“Anything more than a life-span should do. Say ninety-nine years.”
Owens nodded thoughtfully. “So if the woman dies before the lease ends, we don’t have to worry about taking her back. And if the client grows tired of her, he has to pay a fee to break the lease and return her to us.” His teeth flashed in his face. “Bloody brilliant! You think this could really work?”
Justy swigged another mouthful of brandy. It burned in his guts. “It would make you safe from prosecution under the law.” He looked at the Bull. “It doesn’t remove the moral question.”
Owens made a dismissive gesture. “That’s the least of our problems.”
“The Manumission Society is strong. And getting stronger. Look at how many are in the city for this conference. From all over the country.”
Owens grinned. “As I say, don’t worry about them lot. You’d be surprised how many anti-slavery saints have shown interest in membership in our little club.”
Justy felt as though his tongue were covered in a dirty slime. He couldn’t quite believe what had just come out of his mouth. Needs must, but it didn’t take away the shame. He took another drink.
Owens’ man opened the door, and Colley strode back into the room. He looked feverish. His hair had pulled loose from the tie at the back of his head, and there were two red spots high on his cheekbones.
“So, what fantasy has Mr. Flanagan dreamed up for you?”
“Sorry, Jack. No clues.” Owens winked at Justy.
Colley scowled. “I warn you, gentlemen. Without me, this venture will sink like the Mary Rose. Those contacts in the Carolinas and the French territories are mine, carefully cultivated and dependent on a personal connection.”
“Fadge.” Owens flicked his fingers dismissively. “I’ll take a bimble below the Line myself. Then we’ll see whose contacts are better. What about our little legal problem?”
Colley’s face was tight. He was very still, but his gray eyes flicked around the room, as though he was looking for a way out.
Owens grinned. “Looks like young Justice here has the jump on you, boyo.”
Colley shuddered. “So that’s it? You’re going to cut me out?”
Owens shrugged. “I can’t see as how I’ve much of a choice, bach. I don’t want a war, I can’t run this racket without Ignatius here, and he wants you fitted for an eternity box. As for the lad, he’s green, true enough, but he’s got more sand than the beach at Turtle Bay. And he has a solid plan to make us legal, which is more than what you’ve got.” He paused, and the corner of his mouth twitched. “I’ll not send you away empty-handed, mind. I’ll give you a fair price for your share.”
Colley turned on Justy. “You don’t chouse me for a moment, Flanagan.” The two red spots burned on his cheekbones, and his dockyard accent grated like a burr on the edge of his voice. “I ken what you are, even if these cod-headed sapsculls can’t see it. You’re a purehearted Manumission man, like that simkin Hamilton. You’ve got no stomach for any of this. Your plan to is sink the whole scrap, not save it.”
Justy stood up, his face burning. “You’re right, Colley, this scheme makes me sick to my stomach, but I’ll do what I have to do to get what I want. I’ll remove all legal impediments, and then I’ll wash my hands. By then it won’t matter who knows what kind of business it really is. It’ll be just like any one of the hundreds of brothels in this city. It’ll be turning a profit, and it won’t need any more Wall Street money. Word’ll get out, sure, but investors who don’t want to be connected to an immoral business can just sell their stakes.” He turned to Owens. “You’ll more than likely be able to buy most of them out at a steep discount.”
Owens smiled and toasted him.
Colley sneered. “So you just throw all your principles overboard? Just like that? You’re more cheaply bought than I expected.”
“Not so cheap, Jack. Unless you value your life so poorly, yours and Turner’s.”
“And the precious Kerry’s, too.” Colley’s sneer turned into a hard smile. “You have a good brain, Justice; I’ll give you that. But like most arrogant young men, you miss what’s right in front of you.”
“What are you talking about?”
“Kerry, of course. You know that whatever happens to me, she won’t be going anywhere with you.”
Justy said nothing. Colley walked back to his chair, picked up his glass and threw what was left of it into the fire. It flared, and he waited until it died down. He turned and looked at Justy, grinning like a skull. “How do you think Turner found those runaways? He didn’t do it without help, you know.”
Justy felt his mouth go dry.
Colley was almost laughing now. “You were a scout in that little conflagration over in that member mug you call a country, weren’t you? Searching out the enemy and leading your soldiers in for the kill? Well, the good Marshal had a scout of his own, looking for those girls. And it wasn’t one of those lumbering long-shank leatherheads. No, he needed someone a good deal more discreet, someone used to blending into the undergrowth of this city. And into the world of womankind, of course.”
There was a sick feeling in the pit of Justy’s stomach. His mind uncoiled to the first time he’d seen Kerry, down at the docks, looking at the dead girl who had been pulled out of the water. Turner must have sent her to check that the girl was dead. And the next night Kerry had suddenly appeared on the street, where the other girl’s throat had been cut. He remembered wondering how she had arrived so quickly, but she must have been there all along, covering for Turner while he cleaned himself up, and bandaged his cut hand. She probably helped him get the bodies out of the morgue.
It explained her reticence, her anger, her refusal to meet Justy’s eyes the last time they’d talked. She knew that she and Lars would be walking into a trap, either at Colley’s house or at Owens’. She knew, because she was the one who had set it.
Lars.
“Your sailor friend is quite safe,” Colley said, reading his mind. “Mr. Campbell and Mr. Fraser are looking after him.” He peered into his glass. “So I propose a further trade. His life for mine.”
Justy looked at the Bull. There was no question. Justy wanted to see Colley dangling from a rope, but Lars was his friend. Colley for Lars was an easy trade for him to make. But he couldn’t speak for the Bull.
His uncle looked at him for a moment and then nodded slightly. His eyes were dark, and Justy knew the Bull would hunt Colley down eventually. All Black Jack was buying was a little time.
“What about Turner?” the Bull asked.
Colley sniffed. “He’s yours, if you can find him.”
“Oh, I’ll find him.” The Bull stared at Colley. “I’ll find him, and fillet him and feed him to the gulls, piece by piece. And then I’ll come for you.”
“But what about our deal?”
The Bull’s face was hard. “You’re a trader, Jack, so you know how it works. Your deal’s with my nephew. Not with me.”
Colley gave him a sour look. “Well, I hope you’ll give me a sporting chance to flee.”
“Oh aye, Jack. I will. But only so I can enjoy the hunt.”