Hudson's Kill

by Paddy Hirsch

  Only when Justy had handed back the glass did she speak. “Your friend is here.”

  “Friend?”

  “The big sailor. Hockson, or whatever. I put him in the parlor and gave him some tea.”

  Lars was sitting in one of a pair of uncomfortable chairs in the formal front room, sipping from a blue-and-white cup that looked like a thimble in his fist. He had shaved his scalp and his chin, and his skin looked soft and vulnerable. He toasted Justy. “Lovely cup of chatter broth your Mrs. Chow makes. Very tasty. I might have to pop by more often.”

  “You’ll do no such thing. She’s my landlady, and that means she’s off limits.”

  The big man simply smiled and took another sip.

  “You look a sight,” Justy said.

  Lars looked gaunt and hollow-cheeked without his beard. There were dark circles under his eyes, and bluish patches on the bony parts of his face. He wore his captain’s coat, but his right arm was supported by a sling and bound against his body to stop him from moving it and opening the wound in his side. But his eyes were as bright and quick as ever.

  He smirked at Justy. “Maybe you should have a peep in a shiner at yourself.”

  Justy looked down at his filthy clothes. He had taken off his boots and hose at the door, to prevent him tracking mud into the house, but his feet were streaked with dirt. “Shouldn’t you be in your scratcher, still?”

  Lars sniffed. “Maybe so, but I heard a few things last night you might want to know about.”

  “You can tell me while I change.”

  In his room, Justy stripped and scrubbed the dirt from his hands and feet. The cut on his forearm was bloody and painful but once cleaned, he saw it was little more than a deep scratch. His knee looked more serious, swollen and bruised, but not broken, as far as he could tell.

  “So what’s the chat?” he asked, pulling on a clean pair of drawers.

  Lars sat on the bed, nursing his arm. “I heard the Lane near went up in flames last night.”

  “Did you, indeed?”

  “Surely. Your boy Liam was full of the tale.”

  “Liam Corrigan?” Justy frowned. “The nuns told me he was half-dead.”

  “Not at all. His hands got burned a bit, but he’s fine otherwise. The nose gents only stopped you coming in to be sure he got some rest. You know what cluckety old hens they are. The way you looked didn’t help, by the way, with your face black and your clothes still smoking. You looked like the Devil himself.”

  “You saw me?”

  “No, no. I was in me scratcher. One of the novices told me. Jenny O’Neill. A sweet girl. You scared the life out of her, poor lass.” Lars grinned. “I had to comfort her, of course.”

  “Of course.” Justy jerked the drawstring of his drawers tight. “Is that it?”

  “It is not. The boy’s father was in to see him first thing this morning. There’s a nasty piece of work, by the way. He was giving the lad a quare hard time, saying that’s what happens to young men who go chasing African girls, they get burned alive. Then he told him not to say anything to the law, if they should come by. I put two and two together and figured it all had something to do with that wee girl they have down in the cellar.”

  “How did you do that, exactly?”

  Lars smirked. “Well, it wasn’t too hard, even for a dumb tar like myself. Young Jenny had told me about how a young black girl was brought in to the morgue a few days ago, cut open something terrible, and that you were chasing the doer. Then there’s you banging on the door, half-burnt to a cinder, demanding to question a young lad who’s in trouble with his dad for chasing after a Negro lass. Chance it’s the same girl, I thought, and had a whid with young Liam after his father had left. And the boy spilled the whole damned thing.”

  Justy laughed. “I should put you on the payroll, Lars. What did he say?”

  “Well, first I asked him if she was a Mohammedan. Jenny told me one of the sisters reckoned she was, from the ink on her arms. The boy said she was indeed, and some kind of princess, too. And all shut up in a castle! You’ll have to tell me what the hell he was blabbing on about.”

  “There’s a compound up in the north end of Canvas Town. High walls. Like a bloody fortress. Built by a cove name of Umar, an escaped slave from the Carolinas. Seems like an intelligent man, although he built his fortress right by a marsh, which doesn’t seem so smart.”

  “Oh, I don’t know. Sounds smart enough, if he’s a rice man.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Well, if he’s a Carolina fella, he likely piked off from one of the rice plantations on the coast down there. Men who’ve farmed rice know all about how to flood and drain land.”

  Justy stared at Lars.

  “What?”

  “You’re a bloody genius is what.” Justy grinned. “Hand me those breeches.”

  It was slow work lacing the drawstring.

  “So, did young Liam tell you any more about his princess?”

  “Not his princess. A princess. She told him she was some kind of royalty.”

  “How does a butcher’s boy meet a Mussulman princess?”

  “She was a wild one, it seems. Liked to sneak out of the place and go a-roving.”

  “Risky.”

  “Aye, well, that’s the point, isn’t it? Anyway, she came by his stall one day about a half year ago. She caught his eye, and nature took its course.”

  Justy stopped fiddling with the laces. “You mean…”

  Lars smirked. “He’s a handsome lad, if a bit wan around the gills. You should see the younger nuns buzzing about him.”

  “Good God. Where did they go?”

  “Down the alley near his cart, he said. His mammy often shabs off for one reason or another and leaves him minding the stall, so it was as simple as that.”

  “Good God,” Justy said again. He sat on the bed beside Lars. “And that was where they met every time afterwards, I suppose.”

  “So he said. But after the first time they only met in the evening. She said it was too risky going out in the day. So he’d find an excuse to go by the compound each morning. On the days she could get away, she’d leave a sign. At the end of the day, he’d take the cart home, then go back again to Chapel Street. She’d be there, waiting for him. They’d nug it up for an hour or so, and then she’d sneak home.”

  “How often did this happen?”

  “Once or twice a month.”

  Justy finished lacing his breeches and examined the cut on his arm. It had stopped bleeding. He took out a clean shirt and eased it on. “Did he know she was pregnant?”

  “Oh, I’d say so.” Lars’ face was serious. “Jenny had told me as much, so I asked the lad.”

  “And?”

  “And he folded up like a reefed sail. Turned away and faced the wall. And not another word out of him.”

  Justy pulled on his coat. Mrs. Chow had sponged the soot off it, but it was still damp. It would have to do. “Did the lad say what kind of sign she left? Or where?”

  “No.”

  “Never mind. I’ll get it out of him.”

  Lars sat up, cradling his arm. “Go easy on the lad. He’s had a bad shock.”

  “I’m sure he has, Lars.” Justy pulled his good shoes from under the bed and eased them on. “But I need to know what he knows.”

  * * *

  Liam Corrigan’s thin face was topped with the same slick of black hair as his father’s. His skin was so pale it looked almost blue against the stark white of the sheet that the nuns had tucked around him, up to his neck. The burns on his arms were painful, but not severe. They had sponged them carefully, spread them with salve, and wrapped him in bandages.

  Justy sat on one side of the narrow cot. Lars the other. The boy’s eyes snapped wide open, flicking left and right between them.

  “It looks like you know who I am,” Justy said.

  Liam said nothing. He stared hate at Lars.

  “Don’t look at him,” Justy snapped. “Tell me about the g
irl. What was her name?”

  The boy said nothing.

  Justy leaned close. “If you stay silent, son, if you don’t talk to me, she’ll never be claimed. Her mother will never see her again. She’ll be thrown into a pit with the dead dogs and the rubbish.” Justy paused for a beat. “She won’t even have a name.”

  He let the sounds of the ward fill in between them, the shuffling of the nuns as they walked up and down between the beds, the soft words.

  “What was her name, Liam?”

  Liam Corrigan’s eyes were as green as a sunlit meadow, but they darkened then, as though a storm cloud had suddenly built up and blocked out all the light in the sky. He closed his eyes, long lashes wet on his cheeks, and when he opened them again, they were filled with pain.

  “Rumi.”

  “Rumi. And where did she come from?”

  “Jericho.”

  “You said she was a princess. What did you mean?”

  “It’s what she said.” The tears were running freely down his cheeks now. “It’s how she was able to get out. Her father was a top man, so she had the run of the place.”

  “A top man, or the top man?”

  Liam shrugged. “I can’t remember.”

  “We’ll come back to it. So Rumi slipped out to see you.”

  The boy nodded, the straw in his pillow crunching under his head. “Once every few weeks.”

  “And you met in the alley where your parents kept their stall?”

  “Aye.”

  “How did you know when she wanted to meet?”

  “She’d throw a red shawl over the wall near the candle-fencer’s place.”

  Behind Justy a door banged hard.

  “How dare you!” Sister Marie-Therese of the Incarnation’s cloak streamed behind her as she bore down on the ward. Her white headdress made her look like a clipper under full sail. Patients began sitting up in their beds. “This is a house of God, not a jail. You have no jurisdiction here.”

  Justy let her come. He waited until she had stopped in front of him, every inch of her five feet quivering in righteous rage. And then he leaned over her and pushed his face close, so that his nose was almost touching hers. “I am a Marshal of this city, Sister,” he said. “I have jurisdiction everywhere.”

  She hesitated. “This boy is a patient.”

  “This boy is a witness to a murder. And if you’re unhappy with me questioning him here, I’m quite happy to have him taken next door.”

  The front door banged again. The sound of Cooper Corrigan’s boot heels reverberated off the walls as he marched down the ward. His face was red, and one leg of his yellow breeches was damp. He looked as though he had been pulled out of a tavern.

  “What the fuck is going on here?” Corrigan snarled. “What are you doing talking to my son without me?”

  “Your son is a witness in a murder inquiry, Corrigan. I’ll question him any time and any place I care to.”

  Corrigan’s face turned from red to purple. “I’ll burn you down, ya madge.”

  Justy folded his arms. “Oh, aye? Pop me in one of your barrels, will you?”

  “You goddamned black-joke bastard!”

  “It’s all right, Da.”

  They turned to look at Liam. He was looking up at them, his eyes as dark green and wet as a winter sea. “It’s all right.” His voice cracked. “I have to confess.”

  “Confess? Confess what?” Corrigan’s eyes looked as though they might pop out of their sockets. “Don’t say a word, son.”

  “I have to, Da. I’m sorry. I’m sorry for all of it.” He closed his eyes, and his body shook once, and when he opened them again, he looked straight at Justy.

  “I killed her.”

  Corrigan made a sound like an animal in pain. Justy kept his eyes on the boy’s. “Tell me.”

  Liam swallowed. “Two weeks ago, she left the sign like she always did, and we met on Chapel Street. She told me she was in pig. We got into a fight. I told her we had to get buckled, but she wouldn’t have it. She slapped me, and ran off. That’s when Da saw her.”

  He glanced at his father. “I checked the wall every day after, like always, and she left the marker last week. Thursday it was. Only she never came. I was worried, like, for she never missed a meeting. So I waited all night. The next day, the marker was still there, so I knew something was queer. I stopped at our place and stayed as long as I could. But she never came. And then on Saturday, I went up in the evening.” He took a deep breath. “And she was there.”

  He closed his eyes again, the tears running down his face in a stream. Justy fought the urge to reach out and tell the boy that everything was going to be all right. He waited.

  “She was lying in the dirt, holding her belly. There was blood. A lot of it. She said she’d been chived. I tried to put my hand on her, down there, to stop the bleeding, but she pushed me away. She said it was useless, that she was done for.”

  He stopped, and the nun eased herself slowly onto the bed. She patted the sheet over his chest. “It’s all right, Liam. You don’t have to say any more. You didn’t hurt the girl. You found her. It wasn’t your fault.”

  “Aye, son.” Corrigan stepped closer, relief on his face. “You did nothing wrong. You tried to save her, right?”

  “You don’t understand.” The boy’s voice was almost a wail. “She told me I had to save the child.”

  Justy could feel a pulse in his mouth. “What do you mean, Liam?”

  “She said the baby was alive in her. That she couldn’t live, but the child had a chance. I told her I didn’t know what to do, but she said she’d show me. She told me to take out my knife.”

  There was a sharp intake of breath. The nun’s face had gone as pale as her wimple.

  “Go on, Liam,” Justy said.

  “She opened her robe.” Liam’s voice was a whisper. “She showed me where to cut. She told me to make like I was working on the stall, opening a hog…” His voice broke. “I couldn’t stand it. The blood. The sound of her crying. The smell of it.” His eyes pleaded. “She told me to reach in and take out the child. I put my hand down, but her guts came tumbling out of her. I tried to hold them in, but I couldn’t. And she was moaning something terrible. And then she went quiet.” He closed his eyes. “And then I ran away.”

  He looked up at the four faces staring down at him. “I’m sorry,” he said again. And then his eyes filled with tears and he began to cry, deep, long sobs that echoed in the long, silent candlelit room.

  Sister Marie-Therese put her hand gently on his cheek. Her eyes lifted to meet Justy’s. “Are you finished, Marshal?”

  “Yes.” It was an effort to speak. “I’m finished.”

  * * *

  It was cool on the steps of the Almshouse. The wind was in the west, a gentle breeze carrying the sounds of Canvas Town up to the Broad Way. Justy sat on the top step with Lars, trying to make sense of what he had just heard, and trying to decide what he should do now.

  The door creaked behind him. Corrigan and Sister Marie-Therese came down the steps to face him. Corrigan looked like a man with a weeklong hangover. His face was pale and sweaty, and his hair flopped wetly on his forehead.

  “He didn’t do it,” Corrigan said.

  “Do what, Cooper? Carve the titter open with one of your knives? Pretend like it’s a hog, wasn’t that what he said?”

  “He didn’t stab her, Marshal.” The nun’s voice was firm. “She had already been dealt a killing blow when he arrived. This … the rest was an error in judgment.”

  “Error in judgment? I’ll say.”

  “He’s fourteen years old, Marshal. A child. The girl too, by the look of her. They’d have no idea of how babies come into the world.”

  “Aye. We never taught him anything like that,” Corrigan insisted.

  Lars laughed. “He seems to have worked out how to make a bairn, though, doesn’t he?”

  Corrigan said nothing.

  Sister Marie-Therese sighed. “What the boy
did was horrifying, I agree. But he did it out of ignorance, not out of spite. You heard him.”

  “I heard a pretty tale, Sister,” Justy said. “How about this one: Liam meets his titter in the alley, and she tells him she’s pregnant. He loses his wits. Maybe because he doesn’t want a bairn, or maybe because he does, but she tells him she’s not going to have it with him. Either way, he stabs her. Then he cools off. He realizes that his old man’s seen him with this lass, and maybe not just him. If he’s not careful, he’ll swing for this, so he comes up with a plan. He cuts her up, the way some ignorant drumbelo that’s got no idea how a woman works might do. Then, if he does get lifted, he’s got a tearful ditty of love and despair to spin, one that’ll have us all crying in the aisles.”

  “My boy never…” Corrigan was red-faced, fighting for the right words. He fell silent.

  “You give the lad too much credit, Marshal,” the nun said. She glanced at Corrigan. “The truth is, Liam has neither the brains nor the knowledge to think up a plan like that. Even if he did, he hasn’t the cool to carry it out. The boy’s as soft as butter. Not the hard nut you imagine.”

  “Not a hard nut?” Lars’ voice was tight. “He used a butcher’s blade to split the lass open like a she was a fucking oyster!”

  The nun snapped her fingers at Corrigan. “That knife at your belt. Is it the same as the one your son has?”

  “Aye.” Corrigan tugged the blade free. It was a standard butcher’s knife. Fine at the tip, and brutal at the base: two inches wide, and heavy enough to split bone and cut sinew.

  “There’s your proof,” she said to Justy.

  “Proof of what?” he said.

  “Sister Claire showed you the wound in the girl’s abdomen. That knife could never have made a wound like that. Do you think it likely that the boy carried two blades? That he stabbed her with one and cut her open with the other?”

  Justy said nothing. The vestal was right. The knife that had stabbed the girl had gone deep. But the cut was not even a half-inch wide, meaning the killer had used a long, thin blade, and not the brutal butcher’s cleaver that Corrigan carried.