Securities law was every bit as dull as Colley had promised. Even Cantillon seemed only able to bear it for a few hours, and at half past four he packed up his papers and asked Justy to escort him home.
Once the lawyer was safely in his house, with the bolts on his door in place, Justy went back up to the debtors’ prison. He found a shadowy alleyway on Chatham Row that gave him a good view of the prison door. He waited.
People came and went. Most of them were women who went in with their heads held high and came out with handkerchiefs pressed to their faces. It was nearly six o’clock when Drummond left. In the softening light, the jailer looked older and shabbier than he had inside the prison. He walked slowly down the Row, his shoulders hunched and his head down. Justy followed on the other side of the street until he was certain which way Drummond was going, and then he quickened his pace. He turned up a lane that ran parallel to the street Drummond had taken, then down another that would put him ahead of the jailer. He leaned on the wall, his nose full of the reek of stale piss, listening for the sound of footsteps on the cobbles.
Too late, he sensed someone behind him. Before he could turn, he felt the sting of a knife point below his ear.
“Thought you could get one over on me, did you?” Drummond’s voice sounded clotted. “Well, I didn’t come up the Clyde on a fucking banana boat.”
Justy held his hands up. “My name is Justice Flanagan, Mr. Drummond. We met yesterday. I came to the jail. I just wanted to talk to you.”
Justy could feel the jailer hesitate. Then the knife jabbed again. “Aye, it would be just like a fucking Flanagan to start a conversation with an ambush.”
Before he even knew what he was doing, Justy had doubled forward, stamping down hard. Drummond howled as the heel of Justy’s boot raked down his shin and hammered his foot. Justy spun to the right in a tight circle, smashing his right elbow into Drummond’s solar plexus so that the jailer jackknifed forward. He kicked Drummond’s hand and the knife skittered across the alley.
“How’s that for a fucking Flanagan, you bastard?” he shouted.
Drummond dropped to his knees, an old man, wheezing and retching. Justy felt shame flood through him. He waited until his hands had stopped shaking, then knelt and put his arms around Drummond’s shoulders. “Come on, now.”
He helped the jailer to his feet. “I’m sorry, Mr. Drummond. I didn’t mean to hurt you.”
Drummond coughed. “So why sneak up on a man?”
“Because I knew if you saw me following you, you’d run.”
Drummond doubled over again. Justy went to pick up the knife and waited until the jailer had caught his breath. “Let’s find somewhere to sit.”
He took Drummond’s elbow, and they walked back down to the Row to one of the benches scattered in the small park north of the jail.
It was a few minutes before Drummond stopped wheezing. He pulled a grubby handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his face.
Justy handed him his knife. Drummond glared at him. “How is it you know my name?”
“The Bull told me.”
“And how does he know?”
Justy shrugged. “He makes it his business.”
Drummond’s eyes flickered. “So what do you want with me?”
“The Bull told me you’ve worked in the prison a long time. He said you would have known William Duer.”
“And if I did?”
“Then maybe you can tell me a few things.”
Drummond rubbed his thumb on the blade of his knife. He unbuttoned his coat and slid the knife into an inside pocket. “So you’re the Bull’s nephew. Francie Flanagan’s lad.”
“How do you figure?”
“I know Francie had a son who was raised by the Bull after he died. I know that boy went away to college a few years ago. You’d be about his age. And you’ve the hack of a man who’s studied the law.”
“Did you know my father?”
“A little.” He gave Justy a steady look. “I’d say you’ve more of your uncle’s air about you than your old man’s.”
“Is that so?”
Drummond held up his hands. “Easy now. I’m only saying, you’ve the look of a man who’ll do what needs to be done, and not turn a hair about it.”
Justy felt the warmth in his face. “You have me wrong, Mr. Drummond.”
The jailer’s eyes flicked down to the bulge in Justy’s boot. “If you say so.”
A sharp whistle made them both look up at the street. A drover was standing on a cart pulled by a pair of oxen that had veered into the center of the street. The man whistled again, hauling hard on the hemp ropes attached to the animals’ yoke.
“So did you know Duer?” Justy asked.
“I did. I was a constable when they put Duer in here, back in ’92. I was a guard up on the third floor where he had his rooms. I heard every word spoken up there until ’98, when I moved up front. Duer talking to his lawyer. His lawyer talking to other lawyers. They do love to conjobble, God knows.”
“Anything about my father?”
The scarring on Drummond’s face turned his smile into a leer. “Maybe. What’s it worth to you?”
“I suppose that depends, doesn’t it? But why should I believe you know anything? You might just spin me some ditty.”
“So test me.” Drummond sat back and folded his arms.
Justy thought for a moment. “All right then. The partnership my father had with Duer. Who else was invested?”
The jailer cracked his lopsided grin. “I’ll tell you what. You give me some names, and I’ll say whether they were or weren’t a party to it.”
Justy gave a wry smile. “Fair enough. William Constable.”
“Aye. He was one. Duer was forever sending him letters. He lives in London now.”
Justy thought of one of his classmates in Maynooth. “Henry McLaughlin.”
“Never heard the name.”
“How about Isaac Whippo?”
“Oh aye. Izzy the Whip. A sharp one, for sure.”
“I was told he died in Hispaniola.”
“I heard Ohio.”
“Well, either way, you’re right. Whippo was a partner, but Constable wasn’t. I met him in London. He told me he tried to keep my father away from both Duer and Whippo.”
Drummond scowled. “Constable said that? Well, maybe he wasn’t their partner, but he was certainly up to his neck in their business. He was in and out of here visiting Duer all the time, the first few years. Him and two others you’ve not named yet.”
“Who?”
Drummond’s eyes were beady. “Small fry back then, but coming men in the Tontine today.”
“The Tontine?” Justy couldn’t keep the excitement out of his voice.
Drummond smirked. His eyes slid over Justy’s shoulder to look at the city skyline beyond the spread of the green that surrounded the jail. Justy’s mind was spinning. Two more partners? Constable had said nothing about two more names. But he told Justy he had been unsure of what Francis was up to. He had kept everything secret, even from his old mentor.
“What are the names?”
“You want ’em, you pay for ’em.”
A humming sound made him look up. A line of young women, all in long black dresses and matching bonnets, walked past, led by an old nun. They were humming a hymn of some kind.
Justy watched them pass. Drummond seemed plausible, but how could Justy tell if he was telling the truth? He looked at the blotch on the jailer’s cheek. It looked like a deserter’s mark, but whoever had branded him hadn’t used a regulation stamp but had simply burned the letter in with a hot knife, or a bayonet.
“How did you get your love bite?” he asked.
The pupils of Drummond’s eyes shrank into tiny points. “What kind of question is that?”
“It’s the question I’m asking. You want me to pay for information about Duer, you tell me how you got your stamp.”
Drummond closed his eyes for a moment. A breeze set the trees around them rustling. The air was warm, but the old soldier huddled in his coat. “New London. I stole an officer’s horse, and his sword. Did a runner with them the day before the attack.”
“Theft and desertion. You were lucky not to lose your ears.”
Drummond gave a short laugh. “Aye, I got off easy, I suppose. The bastards were in a hurry. They needed every man jack of us, so they couldn’t have me sick on the big day.”
“Why’d you scamp?”
Drummond looked Justy in the eye. “I fell for a local girl. She lived in the town. I was the quartermaster of the Thirty-Eighth, under Benedict Arnold, and when I heard his plan was to burn the town to the ground, I took off and warned her. Gave her the sword and the horse and told her to bolt. A good thing I did, too, after what they did to the place.”
He looked pale with the memory. “Anyway, on the way back, I ran into a patrol, and that was that. They busted me to private, gave me fifty lashes, carved my face and put me in the front rank of the assault on Fort Griswold.”
Drummond fell silent, looking into space. His blue eyes were glassy. Justy imagined the thump of the guns, the crackle of rifle fire and the screaming of wounded men. He shivered.
“What happened to the girl?”
“She made it to New York. I came and found her after the war. Sixteen years married last August.” His smile reached his eyes, but Justy sensed a sadness there.
“How much for the names?” he asked.
Drummond’s purple scar twitched. “There’s more than just the names. I’ve papers. And letters.”
Justy looked at him, his chest fluttering. “What letters?”
“All sorts. From Constable. Alexander Hamilton. Aaron Burr. And a whole clutch from Isaac Whippo.”
“How did you come by them?”
“Duer didn’t die in jail, did you know that? He was mortal sick, so the Marshal let him go home to his missus. He died a few weeks later, but he left boxes of papers behind. I was supposed to burn them, but I didnae.”
“Why not?”
Drummond leered. “Because where there’s lawyers there’s gold. And after he died there was flocks of ’em, like vultures, all going through what was left, all asking for the papers, the papers. So I tucked ’em away. But that’s not where the real gold is.”
“Oh?”
“No.” Drummond tapped his temple. “What you really want is up here. Six years of memories. Conversations had, people seen. You meet me in a quiet place and give me an eagle and I’ll answer any questions you’ve got.”
“Ten dollars? You’re cracked.”
Drummond shrugged. “Suit yourself. But I know a lot more about what went on than you’ll read in those papers. An eagle’s a fair price.”
“And how much for the papers, then?”
“Another eagle.”
Justy scoffed. “You’re just after telling me they’re not worth that much. I’ll pay you a quarter eagle.”
Drummond glowered. “All right then. Done.”
The line of black-clad nurses was disappearing into a grand building made of black stone on the north side of the street. Justy watched as the last nurse pulled the heavy glass-paneled doors closed behind her, then took up her post in the window, her face like a white smear against the darkness of the stone.
He looked at Drummond. “When can you meet me?”
“Tomorrow. Do you know the Counting House? It’s down on Gold Street.”
The Counting House was a small tavern, frequented by old soldiers. Drummond would have it packed with his pals.
“I know it.”
“We’ll meet there at ten in the evening. And bring all the money. Or I’ll make a wee fire and burn the lot in front of ye.”
Drummond stood up. It was nearly dark, and the city seemed to sparkle under the empty sky.
“Drummond,” Justy said.
“Aye?”
“I heard Duer had his own wine cellar up there. Is that true?”
The jailer thought for a moment, as though weighing the value of the information and deciding how much he should charge.
He shrugged. “Aye, it’s true. All them stories are true. Except the privy. Duer had plenty of influence and lots of rich friends, but he had to pish in a chamber pot, just like the rest of us.”