Hudson's Kill

by Paddy Hirsch

  “The filthy murdering bastard didn’t deserve a day in court.” Kerry’s voice was low. The half smile was gone. “He didn’t deserve another breath. Not after taking two lives like that. If that hackum hadn’t of plugged him, I’d have gut him myself, neck to nuts.”

  A veil seemed to fall over her eyes. He wanted to reach out and take her hand, but his arms felt as weak as a child’s. She seemed to sense it, and she pushed her hands deeper into her lap.

  “That’s not you, Kerry.” The words stuck in his throat like bits of dry bread.

  “Is it not? You of all people know full well what I am.”

  “I know what you tell yourself. But what you might have been forced to do once, doesn’t make you who you are now.”

  She was quiet for a moment.

  “I killed Playfair,” she said.

  Justy felt the sweat start on his scalp. “Lars said—”

  “The big clunch was spinning a dit, and you know it. You know where the knife was. There was no way he could have got past Playfair to get it.”

  “You passed it to him.”

  “Don’t be soft. How would I have had the time to do so? And why would I, when I know rightly how to use a chive? Lars kept Playfair busy for the time I needed to get around on his blind side, and I stabbed that thing up under his arm.” She gave a half smile. Distant eyes. “You do keep that yoke sharp. It went in like silk. Near took his feckin’ fin off.”

  He tried to sit up further, gritting his teeth. “Kerry…”

  She shook her head. “Are we not the sum of our deeds?”

  “If you believe that, then look at your own deeds. Look at the work you’ve done in that school. The difference you made in those children’s lives. You’ve done more of that than you have the other.”

  “You can use the words. Killing. Whoring.”

  “You were never a whore, Kerry. You were young, and you were forced. As for any killing you’ve done, it was in self-defense. And you saved my life by doing so. Both times now.”

  She turned her face away from him and held up her hand as though pushing him away, even though he could barely lift a finger. He had a memory of her as a child, making the same gesture, closing in on herself, holding him off until she had her emotions in check and her armor on.

  “Don’t do that, Kerry. Not to me.”

  She turned back to him. Her eyes were full of tears, magnified and luminous. He had once gone swimming in an old copper mine. He had the same feeling now as he had then, leaping off a high cliff, plunging into the cool, turquoise water.

  “Would you prefer this?” She blinked, and the tears plunged down her face, and she trembled, still holding herself, her knuckles white in her lap, her eyes like two great lakes of pain.

  “I love you,” he said, the words tumbling out before he could stop them. And he lay there, aghast, his heart hammering in his throat.

  Her fingers were cool on his cheek. She leaned close and kissed him, gently, and then pressed her cheek to his.

  “And I love you,” she whispered, and stayed for a moment. And then she was gone.

  FORTY-SEVEN

  Monday

  It was another week before he could walk more than the length of the ward. Lars had gone back to sea. Kerry had gone back to the school. Teasman had been inclined to fire her for skipping out on her duties, but Justy had spoken to Hays, who had spoken to the Mayor, who had told John Teasman that he was looking forward to inspecting the African Free School and had heard great things about his female teaching assistant.

  Shard had died. The doctor said the injury he had sustained in the riot on Laycock Lane had caused a brain hemorrhage, small enough to go undetected initially, but serious enough that it continued to bleed, and eventually killed him.

  Riker was safe.

  Justy walked slowly down the steps of the Almshouse, matching his pace to the slow toll of the nine o’clock bell at Trinity Church. Kerry had brought him his boots, fresh from the cobbler, and they fit like a new pair of kidskin gloves. But they couldn’t stop the twin aches in his knee and his side, and he had to lean on an old, twisted blackthorn stick lent him by one of the nuns. Sister Marie-Therese watched from the top step, her hands tucked into the sleeves of her pristine surplice, like a seagull perched on a roof.

  Hardluck met him at the bottom, and opened the door of the cab. The brass and the paintwork glowed, the leather was supple and smooth. Justy slid carefully onto the seat. He took a deep, grateful breath. “How much is a ride in this brothel chariot going to cost me?”

  Hardluck grinned. He was wearing new whipcord breeches and a long leather driver’s coat, with a waistcoat underneath, as red as a robin’s breast. He was growing out his hair, and the beginnings of a small, neat beard.

  “Your money’s no good here, Marshal,” he said, and before Justy could respond, he was on top of the cab, and clicking his tongue at the twin mares in the traps.

  * * *

  It was slow going. An oxcart had shed a load of apples on the Broad Way, and the carter was desperately trying to control the frightened animal as it lumbered back and forth, roaring and trampling the bright green fruit under its hooves. Both pigs and people fought over the loose apples as they rolled into the gutters and down the hill, and it was a few minutes before Hardluck was able to open a gap in the traffic and make a hard turn west.

  Beekman Street was a quiet road, well kept by the residents, with none of the dead dogs and other rubbish that cluttered so many of the side streets in the quarter. At the bottom of the shallow hill, at the junction with Cliff Street, there was a small chapel, and Hardluck had to slow as a black trolley pulled by an enormous Shire horse swung up to the chapel gate.

  A small procession had walked up behind the hearse. There were three men, one leading and two bringing up the rear. Between them was a group of four women who were holding on to each other, handkerchiefs pressed to their faces. As they waited for the undertakers, they clustered together. The leader was stocky and broad in the shoulders, but he was stooped over, his head bowed, so that his steel-gray hair flopped over his face. As he went to comfort the women, he glanced up, only for a moment, but long enough for Justy to recognize Franklin Beaulieu.

  * * *

  It was a Friday, so the lobby of the Federal Hall was as crowded as a carnival. Justy had to use his gnarled blackthorn more than once to reach the stairs. A tall watchman that he didn’t know stopped him, but let him through when he told him he was there to see Jacob Hays.

  The High Constable jumped up when he saw Justy, his red coat flying behind him as he hurried around the desk and ushered him to a chair. He poured a glass of something golden from an elaborate decanter and pressed it into Justy’s hand.

  Justy sipped. He grimaced. “Not your French tipple.”

  “Sherry. Birthday present from my cousin. It is a bit sweet.”

  Justy shrugged. “Forgive me for forgetting your birthday.”

  Hays smiled. He was perched on the edge of his desk. “You had other things to worry about. How are you feeling?”

  “Much improved.”

  “Ready to come back?” Hays gulped his sherry.

  “I’m not sure I should, Jake.” It was an effort to lean forward far enough to place his glass on the table beside him. “I’m not sure I have your trust.”

  Hays reddened. He put his glass down and gripped the edge of the table. “Of course you do, Justice. There’s no question.”

  “There did seem to be a question over this Jericho business.”

  “Yes.” Hays dropped his head. “That was my mistake. One that I shall not make again. If you will give me another chance.”

  The Trinity Church bell began to ring the tenth hour.

  Justy said, “I just saw Franklin Beaulieu leading a funeral procession, down at St. George’s. Have they really kept his son above ground this long?”

  “Good God, no. He was buried two days after they found him. That was the mother’s funeral you saw.”

/>   “The mother?”

  Hays’ face was grim. “She killed herself. An overdose of laudanum. She was devoted to the boy, I’m told.”

  Justy’s gut twisted, as he remembered his bizarre opium-induced dream in the Almshouse, and the black bile he had brought up after. “How did you find out?”

  “The servants. They found her with the empty laudanum bottle by her bed. Difficult to keep that sort of thing quiet when the help’s involved.”

  “Yes.” He thought back to the scene outside the chapel. He had only seen Beaulieu’s face for a moment, but he could still see the slack cheeks, the dark circles around the eyes, the way he was stooped over, as though for that moment, he was carrying all the sorrow in the world.

  Hays reached for the sherry decanter. “Now, I’ll be frank with you, Justice. We’re in a hard spot. The Mayor has taken this carry-on with Playfair and Gorton and drawn all of the wrong conclusions. And Tobias Riker has done a fine job of turning things to his advantage. There’s nothing to connect him to either man, so now he’s been raising a fine hullaballoo about corruption and the recruitment of criminals into the Watch ahead of the Council meeting today. We’re on our back foot, and no mistake.”

  “There’s a meeting today? I thought the Council only met monthly.”

  “Riker has raised a special agenda. Specifically to do with policing and the Watch. We meet after luncheon.”

  Justy sighed. “I’m sorry. I thought I had Riker trussed up.”

  Hays smiled. “It was a damned close thing. But the cards all fell his way. Playfair, Shotwell, Shard. If any one of them had lived, he’d be in the bag. He was lucky, that’s all.”

  Justy’s knee was aching. He shifted in his chair. “There may be more, you know.”

  “Like Playfair? Oh, I know.” Hays looked stern. “That’s why I need you, Justice. You’re the only man in this damned hall that I can really trust. This whole entanglement has shown me that, as clear as glass.”

  He tugged on the lapels of his red coat, as though he was pulling on some kind of armor. “The Mayor doesn’t want you, you know. He has it in his head that you’re a Fenian spy, or some such rot. But I told him what I believe, that you’re the future of this city. That you understand it better that any of the spread-bellied Wall Street men and money-grubbing politicians that circulate between here and the Tontine. New York is going to grow, Justice. I know it and he knows it, and we both know that we don’t know a damned thing about the people who are stepping off the ships in their hundreds every day, and will soon be thronging this island, from the Battery to Fort Washington. But you know them, Justice. You understand them. You are one of them, and we need you.”

  “Because I have a foot in both camps.”

  “Because you can move easily between them, yes, that’s part of it. I won’t deny that’s useful to me.”

  “And my allegiances on either side?”

  Hays laughed. “The only evidence of allegiance I’ve seen is to yourself. In another man, that might be dangerous, but in a man of your integrity and character, with your respect for the law, I consider it an asset.”

  Justy felt awkward. “You give me too much credit. I’ve done things—”

  Hays waved his hand. “We’ve all done things. The question is why we do them. You do them because you believe they are right. Not for profit, or advancement, but because it is the moral thing. It makes you a bad politician, but if you let me play the politics, then we can do good work together, you and I.” He thrust out his hand. “Will you reconsider?”

  Justy felt a wave of affection for the stubby, florid-faced man in the red coat. He smiled slightly. “I want more money.”

  “You shall have it.”

  “And a dedicated assistant.”

  “Done.”

  “And my own carriage…”

  “Oh for God’s sake, man!” Hays roared, and pulled him out of his seat and hugged him.

  The floorboards creaked behind them. Hays let Justy go.

  “A touching scene.”

  Tobias Riker stood in the doorway. He was dressed simply, in banker’s black, with the onyx pin through his white silk necktie. A thin smile had twisted his lips. “Celebrating something?”

  “The renewal of Mister Flanagan’s contract with the Marshal’s service of the city of New York.” Hays smoothed his coat.

  Riker smirked. “Much good it will do him. By the time the day is done, there won’t be a Marshal’s service for him to contract with. And you’ll be lucky if you still have a job.”

  “You overestimate yourself, Mister Riker,” Hays said. “Your supporters may be fool enough to think that a city this size can do without some body of law enforcement, but the Mayor does not, and nor do the majority of the Council. Whatever arguments you make will soon be outweighed by the sheer volume of crimes that will inevitably increase as the city grows.”

  “Crime is a civic issue. It does not justify the creation of the police force that you advocate. A force that will amount to a standing army, with a remit to inhibit the freedoms of the citizenry. There are enough members of this Council who do not wish to see a return to the days when the soldiery patrolled New York’s streets.”

  Riker spoke with an almost weary formality, as though these were well-worn arguments that he was becoming tired of repeating.

  “No one is suggesting we create an army,” Hays said. “But we need some kind of law enforcement body if we are not to become like London, where entire wards of the city are regarded as too dangerous for a gentleman or his lady to set foot. Or is that what you would prefer, Mister Riker?”

  Riker flicked his hand. “I care not if the dregs of this city feed off each other in whatever depraved manner strikes them.”

  “And what if it’s the quality indulging in the depravity?” Justy said. “Who polices them?”

  Riker swiveled his gaze to take Justy in. “You’ve been in the wars, I see.”

  “You’re only getting away with your part in all of this because Shotwell and Shard are dead.”

  “Inconvenient for you.” The thin smile was gone now, and the eyes were burning.

  “Perhaps. But not as inconvenient as having Umar’s wife and heir vanish, is it? That property deal of yours has gone up in smoke. All that chink down the drain. And you on the verge of becoming a public man.”

  Riker said nothing.

  “Oh yes,” Justy went on. “I know all about your estate in New Jersey. I expect the bank is providing you with a long line of credit to keep it from going bankrupt. But you can’t keep that going forever. You’ll be looking for a new lock to fight. And, Marshal or not, I’ll be watching and waiting for when you put a foot wrong.”

  “I’ll finish you, Flanagan!” Riker was already halfway across the room, his face as white as paper. Justy was reaching for his knife, ready to pull it free from his boot, already calculating how to turn Riker so that he could slide the blade up between his ribs and into his heart.

  But Riker stopped. Justy stood up, slowly, watching as the man forced his rage down inside and contained himself. It was a remarkable transformation, like watching a snake slide free of its sloughed-off skin. Riker took a single long, slow breath, and then he was himself again, as cool and pale and impenetrable as porcelain.

  His eyes flicked away from Justy. He nodded curtly to Hays. “I shall see you at the meeting, High Constable. Until then.”

  And he turned on his heel and left.

  Hays exhaled in a low whistle. “I’ve never seen that side of the man before. You shook him, Justice. You shook him mightily.”

  “Not enough to make him do what I wanted.”

  “And a damned good thing too. I saw you going for that knife of yours. What do you think would happen if I had to report to the Mayor that one of his councilmen was lying dead on my carpet, and one of my own Marshals the doer?”

  “I would have thought he’d be relieved.”

  Hays laughed.

  The sound of shouting came fr
om the lobby. Not the loud banter of the petitioners, but something more urgent. Hays strode out of his office, with Justy hobbling behind, and they both leaned over the mezzanine balcony to see what was causing the fuss.

  The petitioners had backed out of the center of the lobby of the Hall. Franklin Beaulieu and his manservant, Caraway, stood in the clearing. Beaulieu appeared to have come straight from the chapel, and was still dressed from head to toe in mourning black. Caraway was similarly attired, except that he had two pistols shoved into his belt. He stood like a statue, only his eyes moving as they scanned the crowd around them, while his master raged and screamed at Tobias Riker.

  “Murderer! Murderer! First my son! Now my wife! You killed them both.” Beaulieu’s heavy face was crimson, and his gray hair flopped over his forehead.

  Riker stood a few steps up the staircase. “I did no such thing!” His voice echoed around the chamber, and the Hall was silent. “Your son was a drunk who tipped himself into the river, and your wife was a sot who drugged herself to death. If any blame attaches, Beaulieu, it attaches to you.”

  Beaulieu’s breathing was ragged, his body bent. He looked as though he had run the whole way up the hill from the church. “It was your scheme, Riker. You lured my boy in. But he found you out, didn’t he? You may not have been the one who broke his head before he went into the water, but it was one of your cronies, sure as day.”

  “I warn you, Franklin.” Riker’s face was tight. “You are bringing disgrace on your house by making slanderous accusations in public. Think where this could lead in court. Think of your family.”