by Paddy Hirsch
“I’m very sorry, Eliza. There was an emergency. A young woman…”
“Oh, another woman?” She pouted. “Was she as exquisitely dressed as I?”
She twirled. The sheath of silk clung tight to her belly and thighs. Justy thought of the girl, lying in the mud, the gaping wound in her abdomen.
Eliza smirked. “You’re just like Daddy. He thinks it’s scandalous. But it’s the latest thing. And I like it. Nathaniel likes it too, don’t you, Nathaniel?”
“Yes, Miss Elizabeth,” the footman said.
“Good.” Eliza linked her arm through Justy’s, and pulled him down the hall.
“His name is Nicholas,” Justy whispered.
“Who?”
“Your footman.”
She tossed her head. “Oh, Nathaniel, Nicholas, it doesn’t matter. They’re all Ns.”
“What do you mean?”
“Daddy’s slaves. They’re all named N. The male ones, anyway. After Narcissus. He was the Emperor Caligula’s secretary or something.”
Justy felt cold. “Claudius.”
“What?”
“Claudius. Narcissus was Claudius’ secretary.” He stopped. “Eliza, I didn’t know your father had slaves.”
“Well, of course he does, silly. He does have a thousand acres to farm.”
“But he’s a member of the Manumission Society, isn’t he?”
“Oh, darling. Half the members still have slaves. You can’t free them all at once, you know. Daddy says it would ruin the economy.” She patted his arm. “Now come on and have a drink.”
* * *
The Cruikshanks’ withdrawing room was high-ceilinged, fifty feet square, carpeted by a thick rug of a gold and red design, and lit by a single enormous chandelier. The ladies were gathered around the fireplace, perched on armchairs and chaises, cooing over a baby in a bassinet. The gentlemen stood in a half circle beside the window, glasses in hand, arguing about whether the plans for the development of New York should be published or drawn up in secret. The third group, and the loudest, was a mix of men and women, all of whom were in various states of drunkenness. Two men were singing as a tall woman with a long nose danced in a circle, her arms in the air. Another man was asleep on a chaise longue, a half-full wineglass balanced precariously on his chest. The others were either watching or playing a rowdy game of cards on a small table piled with banknotes.
Justy stopped in the doorway. “Eliza, I thought it was just dinner.”
“Oh, it was, darling, but then Piers and Sophie and the others popped in and now we’re playing cards.” She pulled him towards the group of young people. “You know everyone, don’t you?”
Her entourage. She had introduced them to Justy at the City Ball, when they were in somewhat better repair. The dancing girl was Sally Olivetti. The singers were Jean Moulin and Michael Hogg. Constance Burr, Trudi Wolff, Piers Riker, and Chase Beaulieu were playing cards. The man asleep on the chaise was Peter Romanoff. They were the idle offspring of the richest families in New York.
Chase Beaulieu was a fair, stocky man of about twenty. He had the bleary look of a hardened rake coming to the end of a three-day drunk. He made a disgusted sound and threw down his cards. “The Devil has stolen my luck. Again.”
The singing stopped and the ladies squealed as Piers Riker leaned forward to gather up his winnings. He was in his midtwenties, with long, dark hair pulled back from his head to show a high forehead with a sharp widow’s peak. His face was narrow and his features were severe: a long nose and pointed chin, with a tiny rosebud of a mouth in between.
Justy watched him rake in the notes and coins. His father was Tobias Riker, a Wall Street merchant of Dutch origin who owned the Millennium Bank and sat on the boards of the most powerful institutions in New York. That included the Tontine Coffee House on Wall Street and the Common Council, which controlled so many aspects of life in the city, including policing.
Piers Riker did not work. He was content to ride his father’s coattails, drinking, whoring, and gambling the money his father made. He finished scraping his winnings into an untidy pile and smiled at Beaulieu. “Perhaps you should have a leprechaun sit beside you, Chase, to bring you better fortune.” He looked up at Justy. His eyes were small and quick, like a bird’s.
Eliza’s hand tightened on Justy’s arm. “A glass of wine, darling?”
“Come now, Eliza.” Riker’s eyes were bright. “We mustn’t force our pretentious tastes on Mister Flanagan. Surely you have a good common ale to offer him? A bumper of Switchback, or Pharaoh, perhaps?”
“A flicker of diddle!” Beaulieu laughed, his face flushed. “That’s what a doxy had me buy her at the Shipmates last week. It’s gin, I believe. Or geneva.” He frowned. “Not sure, actually.”
“Nobody cares what you ordered, or for whom you ordered it, Chase.” Eliza’s voice was cold.
“Sorry, Eliza.” Beaulieu’s eyes were glassy.
The baby began to wail. A nurse in a long white apron started across the room, but a tall, bony woman waved her back. She had lank blonde hair and skin that looked as pale as vellum against the purple silk of her dress. She looked into the bassinet, an uncertain look on her face, and the child’s wail turned into a full-throated shriek.
Eliza whispered in Justy’s ear, “Mindy Shotwell. Do you know her?”
Justy shook his head.
“From Albany. Her husband is Charles Shotwell, the one by the window in the awful yellow coat. He’s a banker of some kind. English. No money of his own, which is why he married her. She came with a considerable dowry, which she needed because she was over thirty when they wed. And that was a few years ago. It’s a miracle she was able to have a child. Here, I’ll introduce you.”
She pulled him by the arm. The infant was squalling now. Mindy Shotwell lifted it out and rested it gingerly on her shoulder. It had a shock of red hair that made it look as though its head had caught fire. It wriggled and fussed for a moment, and then let out a long, wet fart.
The room fell silent.
“Good God, Charles,” one of the men by the window said. “What on earth have you spawned?”
The men brayed. The ladies tittered and waved their handkerchiefs. Mindy Shotwell’s face was crimson. The nurse took the child and hurried away, its head like a rust stain on her crisp, white apron.
Eliza plastered a smile on her face, and led Justy to the group of men by the window.
“Gentlemen, may I present Marshal Justice Flanagan.”
The men nodded and hummed and hah-ed, giving polite grins as Eliza introduced them by turn. Charles Shotwell was the last. He appeared unaffected by his son’s outburst, or the ridicule it had inspired. He was a balding, pug-faced man of about forty, whose belly was barely confined by a yellow-and-black-striped waistcoat. He wore a single watch chain, stretched so tight it looked as though the timepiece attached to it might pop out at any moment. He was a little drunk, and sweating, so the hair around his balding crown looked like a slick of black paint. He hooked a thumb into his empty fob pocket and beamed a smile at Justy. “Never met a policeman before,” he said.
“It that because you’ve done nothing wrong, or because there’s not enough of us to go around?”
Shotwell honked. “The latter, more than likely.”
Justy found himself grinning back. “I suppose I’ll have to keep an eye on you.”
“Let me make it easy and have you to lunch sometime.”
“I’d like that.”
“Hark at you, Charles,” one of the other men said. “Always trying to sell someone something.”
They all laughed, Shotwell loudest of all. His face flushed, revealing a long, straight cut on his left cheek, from his ear to the corner of his mouth.
“That’s a nasty slice you’ve got there,” Justy said.
Shotwell flashed his grin and touched the wound. “Here’s a tip for you. Never shave yourself. Especially in the aftermath of a brisk evening. If your valet happens to be out of commission
with the colic, go to a barber. Or wear stubble for a day.”
His fellows chortled at the idea of going to work unshaven. Somewhere in the house, the baby was shrieking. Shotwell’s wife was seated on a divan, looking stricken. Shotwell pulled the watch out of his pocket, looked at it blankly, and tucked it away again.
“What time is it, old man?” he asked one of his fellows.
The man’s watch chains looked like they’d been detached from a ship’s anchor and gilded. He hauled on one of them and produced something the size of a small apple. “A quarter of eleven, Charles. Past your boy’s bedtime, I’d say.”
“Past my bloody bedtime, too,” Shotwell said. He tossed back his glass, turned to Justy, and stuck out his hand. “Damned good to meet you, sir.”
“And you, Mister Shotwell. Good night.”
Eliza led Justy back to the card table. Chase Beaulieu and Piers Riker were still playing. Chase Beaulieu let out a large belch.
Eliza grimaced. “Oh God, Chase.”
“I’m merely communing with the infant,” he slurred.
“You’re disgusting.”
“Yes. Awfully sorry.”
Riker played a card, and Beaulieu groaned. He threw his cards down.
“That’s it. You’ve cleaned me out. Again.”
Riker glanced at Justy. The tip of his tongue appeared, like a worm wriggling between two stones. “Join us, Flanagan, do. We’re playing primero.”
“No, thank you.”
“Really? You might win some money. Something to supplement your policeman’s salary. Not that we should be paying you anything at all, of course. Father says the very notion of a standing army in the city is an abomination.”
“Father might change his mind if he was robbed at knifepoint or had his house burgled.”
Riker smirked. “One has people to protect oneself from that sort of thing.”
“And if one isn’t wealthy enough to have people?”
“Well then, it’s every man for himself. The very principles this fine republic was built on. We certainly don’t need to pay vast sums of money to a bunch of … what’s the phrase the guttersnipes use? Cossacks. Or is it crushers? I suppose you’d know better than I, given your provenance.”
Justy smiled. “Both terms would do very well. All the time and money you’ve been spending in Dover Street brothels appears to have paid off.”
Chase Beaulieu scoffed. “Oh, not Dover Street, old man. Piers has gone to the dark side.” He held his hands up in the air, like a half-bit magician, and declaimed in a loud voice, “To Canvas Town!”
Everyone laughed, except Riker, whose face had turned as white as card.
Beaulieu appeared not to notice. “We went up there earlier. I’m damned glad I wasn’t on my own. The place is all dark alleys and crooked lanes. Like a damned labyrinth. And I forgot to bring my ball of string!” He hiccupped and slapped the arm of the divan. “Ball of string!”
“Shut up, Chase!” Riker’s voice was a lash.
There was silence in the room.
“Sorry,” Beaulieu mumbled. He pushed himself to his feet. “Excuse me.”
He took three careful steps away from the card table. He stumbled against Justy. He sniggered. “Sorry, old fellow. Would you mind helping me to the door?”
Justy had the impression of a man who had once been strong as an ox, but had let himself turn to fat. He steered Beaulieu away from the table.
Beaulieu muttered something.
“What was that?”
Beaulieu’s head twitched, like a dog threatened by a stick. “I must speak to you,” he whispered. “But not here.”
Justy could feel eyes on his back. Riker and the others, watching him from the card table. He glanced at Beaulieu, saw the sweaty skin, the clear, darting eyes. Beaulieu was not drunk. He was scared.
“Hughson’s?” Justy murmured.
“No. Piers’ father goes there sometimes.”
“The Merchant’s, then. Tomorrow?”
“No. Monday. At six o’clock. And mind you are not followed.”
They had reached the door. Beaulieu made a show of fumbling with the handle. “Thanks awfully, old fellow.” His voice was a loud slur. He pushed out into the darkness of the corridor.
Justy walked slowly back towards the card table. Riker watched him.
Justy met his gaze. “So much for Princeton men being able to hold their liquor.”
Riker smiled slightly. “Chase went to Columbia, with all the other shopkeepers’ sons. Speaking of which, I saw your High Constable today, at the Tontine. Stuck out a mile, of course, in that awful red coat of his. Very gauche.”
“I wonder if you’d have the courage to tell him so to his face.
“I don’t see why not. The way he was groveling to my father, I shouldn’t think he’d be much trouble at all in a contest between gentlemen. Perhaps you’d like to place a wager on that.”
“You against Jake Hays? It sounds like quite an entertainment, but I’d rather not see the Bowling Green sullied by what little you have in the way of brains.” He turned to Eliza. “I think I should go.”
“Coward.”
Justy stopped, his skin bumping all the way up his spine to the nape of his neck.
Riker’s voice: “I’m calling you a coward, Flanagan. Didn’t you hear?”
“Oh, I heard.”
Riker lolled back in his chair. “Then you are not a gentleman. A gentleman would not allow himself to be so insulted. A gentleman would call me out.”
Justy was aware that the entire room had gone quiet. “I would call you out, Riker, but in case you hadn’t noticed, it’s raining outside.” He turned to look the foppish young man in the eye. “And if you had any experience of firearms, you’d know that pistols don’t work particularly well in wet weather.”
One of the men beside the window barked out a laugh. “Well said, sir!”
The laughter rippled outward, and soon everyone was roaring.
Riker’s face was tight. “Filthy bog-lander. A waste of rations, like the rest of them. Lazier than Negroes and more expensive. We should burn the scum in the ships they arrive in.”
Justy felt ice cold. Eliza pulled at his arm. He patted her hand. “Is that champagne and brandy you’re drinking, Eliza? I’ll have one of those, if you don’t mind.”
Riker was shuffling the cards, his tiny mouth twisted in a smile. Justy pulled out a chair. “What did you say you were playing?”
“Primero.”
“Never heard of it.”
Riker’s eyes glittered. “I’ll teach you.”
* * *
Justy was lying. Primero was just one of the many card games he had learned to play, at university in Ireland, and on his travels throughout Europe. He was not a particularly skilled gambler, but he could read men well, and he had a strong stomach for risk. It had been years since he had played that particular game, but he found it was like slipping on an old leather glove, and once he had flexed his fingers, won a little and lost a little, he began to take his revenge. He had to start small, as he had very little money to play with, but soon the pile of notes on his side of the table grew fat. Riker drank heavily, which made it easier, and within an hour, Justy had cleaned him out.
He stood up. He knew he had gone too far. He should have allowed Riker to escape with some money, and a little face, but the cold rage inside him had made it impossible to stop.
“One more hand,” Riker slurred.
“You’re drunk, Riker. Let it end here.”
“One more hand. Give me the chance to win it back, for God’s sake.”
“You have nothing to wager.”
“My carriage. It’s worth a thousand pounds at least.”
“No carriage is worth that.”
“You haven’t seen it. Or the horses.”
Justy didn’t need a carriage. He didn’t need a horse, let alone two. He had no room to keep them, and he was well aware of the cost of maintenance and stabling. But the
vengeful part of him wanted to crush Riker.
He looked around. Eliza’s guests had left their places and were standing around them, watching. It was late, and the room was heavy with the smell of candle wax. The rain drummed on the windows. Eliza was perched on a chaise on his left, her back straight as a ramrod, her hands clenched in her lap. She shook her head slowly, her eyes bright.
He sat down.
FIVE
Sunday
New York was a big city, more than sixty thousand people, spread over two square miles. The number of people living in the spider’s web of streets at the tip of Manhattan Island grew every day, but the town itself was growing a good deal more slowly. A special survey commission was working on a plan to develop the land north of the city, but surveying took time, and no one wanted to start moving earth until the commission released its recommendations of how the city should be built and where the main roads should go. Which meant that newcomers were resigned for the time being to cramming themselves into the slums and shantytowns of the Hudson and East River waterfronts.
The crush of people made New York a dangerous place to live, and the more people that arrived in the city, the more that died there. Some died in work accidents, buried in landslides or crushed under cart wheels; others died drunk, falling into the rivers or freezing to death; many, like Justy’s mother, died in the bouts of yellow fever that tore through the city every few years.
A very few met their end at another man’s hand, but that number was growing as the torrent of newcomers turned the poorer parts of the city into a pressure cooker. The black, Irish, and nativist gangs that competed for control of New York’s underworld preferred to maim rather than kill, as murders attracted unwanted attention. When things went too far, the gangsters either disposed of the body or made it look like an accident. An obvious murder was a rare thing.
And the murder of a young woman rarer still. Justy could count on one hand the number of violent female deaths he had encountered in his four years as a Marshal. He rested a candelabra carefully on the corner of the smooth granite slab, close to the girl’s head. She was young, pretty, and dark-skinned, with a long nose, a narrow face, and a high forehead. In the soft light, her skin looked as smooth as a piece of silk. The nails on her fingers and toes were trimmed and filed. Her hands and feet had neither calluses nor bruising, none of the usual signs of hard work. She was well cared for, well nourished. The robe she had been wearing was made of fine wool, and embroidered at the edges in blue and gold thread. Even with the appalling gash in her torso, she looked like someone’s precious daughter. And yet no one had come.
