by Paddy Hirsch
The man in the water was Chase Beaulieu.
TWENTY-ONE
The Beaulieu mansion was an ornate pile, faced in white stone, that took up a generous length of Mill Street. Old Morgan Beaulieu, a pirate, smuggler, and fervent anti-monarchist, had built it with the money he made sailing molasses up from the French West Indies, in small, fast ships that could outrun the Royal Navy. The land on Mill Street was sunken and swampy, and had never been particularly sought after, but it plunged in value after New York’s Jewish community built their first synagogue there in 1730. Morgan Beaulieu watched the newcomers drain the land and fill it properly, and he knew a bargain when he saw it. He made sure that he built his mansion big enough to look down on his neighbors.
The old pirate’s only son, Franklin, was famous on Wall Street for selling every security he owned just before the market collapsed in the Panic of 1792, and buying them all back after. It was good timing, for old man Morgan had squandered most of his wealth before he died, and Franklin had to work hard and ruthlessly to turn what was left into a meaningful investment. The windfall had refurbished the mansion, restocked Mrs. Beaulieu’s wardrobe, and sent their only son, Chase, to college.
The mansion was built right up to the pavement in the European style, with no fence or railings to keep away the passers-by. The door was lacquered continental blue and had a large knocker at chest height. Justy took a deep breath and lifted the big brass ring, but just as he was about to let it fall, the door swung open.
He found himself looking down a long corridor that appeared to go all the way through the house. There was bright light at the far end of the passage, and an impression of green, as though a door to the garden had been left open. Deep in the house, a woman was crying, the chest-racking sobs of the recently bereaved.
He had done his best to examine Chase Beaulieu’s sodden corpse on the dockside, but word had traveled fast. A constable had come hurrying down to the water, carrying an order from Jacob Hays. The body was to be delivered immediately to the Beaulieu residence. The Beaulieus were not to be disturbed.
Justy had released the corpse and gone to the Federal Hall. But Hays was nowhere to be found. So Justy had come here. He knew he was disobeying a direct order, but Beaulieu was a close friend of Piers Riker, so, in Justy’s eyes, it was unacceptable to leave this stone unturned. He had found no injuries to Chase Beaulieu’s head in his cursory examination on the dockside, and there seemed to be no blood on his clothes. The amount of water that poured out of his mouth when Justy pressed on his chest suggested Beaulieu had drowned. But had he fallen in, drunk? Had he been pushed? Or had someone drowned him? Justy had to know. And to know, he had to ask questions of the Beaulieus, and examine their son’s body.
“Hullo?” His voice echoed in the hallway, but there was no response. “Mister Beaulieu?”
Silence. The faint sound of crying had stopped.
The hallway led through the house to a small, high-walled garden. It looked a little like a piazza in a small Italian town, with large, dark gray flagstones underfoot and roses climbing the walls. A man sat alone by a fountain in the center of the garden, at a small table set with a jug and a flask of what looked like brandy. He was slumped in his chair, staring into the middle distance, a half-full glass held loose in his hands. He didn’t seem to notice Justy.
“Mister Beaulieu.”
Franklin Beaulieu was built like his son: stocky and broad in the shoulders. He had the same round face, topped with a sweep of hair, except that the older Beaulieu was now thinning and the blond had turned to steel gray. His plump cheeks and smooth complexion might have made him appear youthful, except that his skin was now pale, and his blue eyes seemed to sag in his face.
Justy felt a stab of guilt. “I’m sorry, sir. I did knock. The door was open.”
Beaulieu lifted his hand slightly in acknowledgment. “Caraway must still be upstairs with Clara. Seeing to things, I don’t doubt.” His voice was faint. He looked into his glass. “So many things to see to.”
A bird flew into the garden, twittering loudly. It circled the table twice, and then landed on the rim of the jug. It had a rust-colored breast and bright blue feathers. It looked around, taking in first Justy and then Beaulieu, and then it took off again.
Beaulieu watched it, damp eyes, a faint smile on his face. “Siala sialis. Strange to see it on its own. It’s ordinarily a very social animal.” He sounded dreamy. “Like my boy Chase.”
Justy’s guts twisted with the full insult of his intrusion. He made a small bow. “I’m truly sorry for your loss, sir. My deepest condolences.”
“What’s your name?”
“Justice Flanagan.”
The name seemed to mean nothing. “Have we met?”
“No.”
Beaulieu tossed back his drink. His watery blue eyes took in Justy’s clothes, the weathered topcoat, the tailored but worn breeches, the old, comfortable boots. “You’re one of the surveying chaps he was working with, I suppose.”
“No. We had a friend in common. Elizabeth Cruikshank. I…”
“Would you mind…?” Beaulieu interrupted, waving his empty glass in the air.
Justy walked to the table. He could see now that Beaulieu was quite drunk.
“Thank you.” Beaulieu watched with fierce concentration as Justy filled his glass. “I shall have Caraway bring you a cup.”
“Not for me, thank you.”
Beaulieu grunted. “Unusual for one of Chase’s friends to refuse a drink.”
“As I say. We didn’t know each other very well.”
The financier squinted blearily. “So what do you surveyors do? Just walk about, measuring things, I suppose.”
Justy wasn’t sure whether it was the brandy erasing Beaulieu’s memory, or simply that he wasn’t listening. He wanted to move on quickly, to get down to the nasty business of asking a man if he could examine the body of his son for foul play, but his instinct told him to wait.
“Chase never talked about it,” Beaulieu went on. “Said he was sworn not to, or some nonsense. I don’t think he enjoyed it, not one bit. Started drinking again. Staying out late. We didn’t talk, of course, but a father knows when something’s ailing his son. Can’t think why Tobias thought he’d be interested in that kind of work.”
Justy’s pulse jumped. “Tobias Riker?”
“Yes. You know him?”
“I know his son.”
“Ah, yes. Piers. A good friend to Chase. Told his father Chase needed a job, and Tobias got him a position. Very generous. But surveying? Requires a knowledge of mathematics, I’d have thought. Not Chase’s strong suit, by any means.” He peered into his glass.
“Sir?”
A large man in a long frock coat stood in the doorway, a frown on his face.
“Ah, Caraway.” Beaulieu waved his glass in the air. “This is Mister … um…”
The man’s frown deepened. “I know who he is, sir. Flanagan.”
“You know each other?” Beaulieu’s tone suggested that he was shocked that his butler knew anyone outside of his household.
“He’s a Marshal, sir.” Justy caught the slight burr of a Donegal accent in the butler’s voice.
“A Marshal? I thought you said you were a surveyor.”
“No, Mister Beaulieu. I’m a friend of Eliza Cruikshank.”
The financier looked confused. “Then why are you standing here, prattling on about surveying?”
“And how did you get in?” Caraway approached slowly. He had the lumpy features and scarring around his eyes that spoke of bare-knuckle fights, either for fun or for money.
“You left the door open.”
“And you just walked in like you’d been given an invitation?”
“I called out. No one responded.”
“Well, we’ve been busy. As you might imagine.” He looked older in the sunlight. Still strong enough to carry a grown man up several flights of stairs, and doubtless still fast enough to take care of himself in a c
lutch.
Justy turned to face Beaulieu, keeping one eye on the butler, just in case. “I meant no disrespect, Mister Beaulieu. I came to offer my condolences. I should not have come unannounced. I apologize.”
Beaulieu sighed. “Did you have questions?”
“Do you know what your son was doing last night?”
“I knew very little about his comings and goings, Marshal. We did not speak, as I have said.”
Justy braced himself. “Could your son swim?”
Beaulieu stared. And then he folded forward in his chair, his head lolling. His glass shattered. The butler bent over his master, and Beaulieu reared back, moaning, his eyes half-shut, like a man overcome with drink. But then his hands went to his face, and his shoulders shook.
Justy turned away. He was already way out of bounds just being here. Push the man too far, and he would complain to Federal Hall, and that would be the end of it. Hays would put him into the street without a word. He would have to find another way. He walked towards the door.
“Wait.” Caraway loped towards him. “You’re the Bull’s lad.”
“His nephew. But that’s the extent of our relationship.”
Caraway nodded. “I heard you were at odds.”
“I wouldn’t say we cared enough about each other to be so.”
The big butler was silent for a moment. Then he seemed to come to a decision. “Mister Chase was out with Mister Piers yesterday.”
Justy’s scalp prickled. “Do you know where they went?”
“He didn’t say. Just told me he was waiting on Mister Piers. When the carriage pulled up, he went straight out.” The big man frowned. “That was the last time I saw him. Alive.”
Justy gave him a moment. “Is there anything else you can tell me, Mister Caraway?”
The butler blinked. “You asked about Mister Chase being a swimmer…”
“Yes?”
“Well, he could swim just fine. His mother’s from Nantucket, so he was half brought up on boats. And I’ve seen him in the water myself, a brace of times. Like a fish, he is. Or was.”
TWENTY-TWO
“No!” Hays meant to whisper, but his voice carried clear across the lobby of the Tontine Coffee House. Trading had concluded at five, and apart from a few clusters of gentlemen tying up business or debating where to have supper, the place was almost empty.
“You will not speak to anyone in the Riker family. Absolutely not.” He smoothed the lapels of his long red coat.
“Piers Riker was there, Jacob, and at the right time.” Justy matched his tone. “He was with Beaulieu, and now Beaulieu is dead. And Beaulieu was the only man who could have told me how Riker got blood on him.”
“Who said anything about blood?”
“His driver.”
Hays was pale. “You spoke to his driver? One of his slaves? Without his permission?”
Justy looked down at the intricate parquet flooring of the lobby. “Not quite. He’s not Riker’s driver anymore. He’s mine.”
“Yours? What the devil are you talking about? Make sense, man!”
Justy sighed. “I played cards with Riker, a few nights ago. He ran out of ready cash and bet his carriage. He lost. It wasn’t until the next day I realized the jarvie was part of the package.”
Hays was still for a moment. And then a smile spread slowly across his face. “You’re a dark horse, aren’t you, Flanagan?”
“It was just a few hands of primero.”
Hays chortled. “Well, you may have won the trick, but young Riker seems to be ahead of you in the game, wouldn’t you say? Turning you into a slaver, by God! A very pretty jig.” He glanced across the lobby towards the Club Room. “Perhaps I misunderstood the boy. He sounds as though he could be every bit as sharp as his papa, if he put his mind to it.”
“Except that he may have handed me a witness to a murder that he committed.”
“For God’s sake, Justice!” Hays seized Justy’s arm and pulled him into a corner of the lobby. “Keep your damned voice down. And do not use that word in connection with Piers Riker in this place. Or anywhere else, for that matter.”
“You don’t think I need to see how Riker responds to Hardluck’s statement?”
“Hardluck?”
“The driver.”
“Hardluck? What kind of a name is that?” Hays held up his hands. “Never mind. I don’t want to know. But the fact is the man is a slave. Is he not?”
“For now.”
“And you would challenge Piers Riker, the son of one of the most powerful men in New York, with the word of one of his former bondsmen?”
Justy felt himself flush. “Why not? The man’s a human being, with eyes and a brain, like anyone else.”
Hays sighed. “Of course, of course. But the fact remains—”
“What are you so afraid of, Jake?”
There were low, padded benches arranged around the outside of the lobby, and Hays sank onto one of these and slumped back against the wall. “What do you think I’m afraid of?”
“Tobias Riker?”
“He’s a powerful man, Justice. He leads the committee that controls the purse strings that pay for the Watch and the Constabulary and the Marshals. If he decides to choke us, he can. And then what is there to keep the city from sliding into mayhem?”
“You really think he would do that?”
“If it meant saving his son.”
“So you do think Riker might have killed the girl.”
Hays snorted. “Of course I do not. I meant save the boy from scandal, not from the gallows. There is absolutely no evidence that Piers Riker killed that girl.”
“He was in Canvas Town.”
“He and a thousand others.”
“What about the blood?”
“What about it? Perhaps he got into a fight. Perhaps he fell into a butcher’s shop. Perhaps he had his fortune told by some witch, who cuts the heads off chickens and sprays the blood about. There are a dozen ways to get claret on your clothes in that quarter. And you know it.”
Justy placed his hand on the wall and leaned over the High Constable.
“Chase Beaulieu was with him. At that same card game the other night, he made a point of telling a story about how he and Riker went to Canvas Town the previous evening. Then he came and whispered to me that he wanted to meet me. He was pretending to be drunk, but he was afraid. He didn’t come to our rendezvous last night, and now he’s dead. You don’t find any of that a bit suspicious?”
Hays folded his arms. “Very well. How did he die?”
“I don’t know. We hardly had him out of the water before you had the lads take him away.”
“I had to move quickly, Justice. I couldn’t dawdle while Franklin Beaulieu’s boy was stretched out there for all to see. The newspapers—”
“Oh yes, the scandal.”
Hays ignored the jibe. “I gave you plenty of time to examine him, didn’t I?”
“Only for a cursory examination. I wasn’t going to strip the corpse down right there on the timbers to get a proper look. Think what the newspapers would have done with that.”
“I’d rather not.”
Justy took a breath. “I went to the house just now to ask about a proper examination, but—”
“You went to the house?” Hays’ face was crimson. “I gave specific orders!”
“I had a few questions. Questions that needed answers.”
“Such as what?”
“Such as could Chase Beaulieu swim.”
Hays scowled. “And could he?”
“Very well, as it happens.”
“Even when he was drunk?”
“There’s nothing to say he was drunk, Jake. There wasn’t even a whiff of ale on him.”
“Nor would there be after a few hours in that water.”
“Perhaps, but even so, being soused so doesn’t remove a man’s ability to swim. What’s more, even the briefest dip in the Hudson is enough to sober up the most top-heavy lush, and
pretty sharp. So there are still plenty of questions. None of which I can hope to answer if I can’t get a look at the body. I need to find who their doctor is. Ask him to let me see if there are any injuries. Or at the very least give me a report.”
Hays grunted. “Good luck. You won’t see that particular corpse again until it’s being lowered into a hole in the ground. And you might not even see that.”
“Why not?”
“Really, Justice? Why on earth would the Beaulieus let you within a soft mile of their son? He’s a notorious drunkard. People will assume that he got soused in the most disreputable part of town, fell in the river, and drowned. That is scandal enough. And if he was murdered…” Hays checked himself.
“If there was evidence of murder, wouldn’t they want to know who killed him?”
“Not necessarily. Imagine if they found out that his killer was someone influential. Perhaps even someone they knew personally. Or, even worse, someone they did business with. On whom their very fortunes depended. What then?”
The door to the Club Room swung open, and a short, narrow-shouldered man wearing the red sash of a military officer stepped into the lobby. His coat was dark green with black facings, and there was a single silver epaulette on his left shoulder. He was stooped and white-haired, and his left foot dragged slightly, scraping on the parquet floor as he walked. As he drew closer, Justy saw the officer suffered from terrible wounds. His coat and breeches had been magnificently tailored, but the left side of his body still looked somehow shrunken, and an old burn scar spread out of his collar and over the side of his face, past his left eye. Both of his hands were scarred in the same way, ridged and white where the skin had pinched and gathered, and red and shiny between the fingers and close to the wrists.
His eyes were startlingly blue against the scar tissue. They flicked over Justy briefly, before locking onto Hays. “Are you coming back, Jacob? Fair warning: I’ll drink the rest of the bottle if you don’t.”
Hays stood up. “Forgive me, Cornelius. May I present Justice Flanagan. One of my Marshals. Justice, this is Cornelius Swift.”
“Major Swift.” Justy shook the man’s hand, conscious of the unnatural smoothness of his burned skin. “I see you wear a cavalry coat, sir. Have you ridden here with your company?”
