City of Glory (61 page)

Hays’s private apartments in the New Gaol were comfortable rather than luxurious. The green-leather chairs were well worn, the seats deeply impressed by countless posteriors of various sizes, the damask at the windows faded from the sunshine of many summers.

“A good thing ye did today, Dr. Turner,” Hays said. “A mighty good thing.”

He had made the same statement at least half a dozen times in the nearly three hours he’d kept Joyful talking, making him repeat every detail of what he knew of Blakeman’s activities, occasionally dropping a remark of his own that let the younger man know that Jacob Hays was privy to most of what went on in his city. Not everything, however. Hays appeared not to know about the Great Mogul, and Joyful did not enlighten him.

Dinner was delayed by their talk, but eventually they’d been fed a stew of beef and onions provided by the housekeeper—Mrs. Hays was away seeing to the needs of a daughter who had just presented them with a grandchild—and when it was over, Hays belched loudly and offered what appeared to be his final assessment of the situation. “Money’s what Gornt Blakeman’s about, not politics. He’s no interest at all in what makes a country, or the rights o’ the folks as live in it.”

“He’s not alone in that, High Constable. Most people don’t have time to think of such things until they feel those rights threatened. Too busy earning their livings.”

“Aye. And nothing wrong with that neither. Same for the ordinary and the higher types, come to that. Course, depends on how you earn it, don’t it?”

“What depends?” Joyful’s head was wreathed in the smoke of the cigar he’d accepted after the meal.

Hays’s cigar was no longer lit, but he kept the stub between his teeth, moving it from one side of his mouth to the other while he spoke. “Depends whether a man’s on my good side or my bad. Gambling and wenching, for instance. That’s the kind o’ thing as causes no end o’ trouble for me and my men.” He looked straight at his guest when he said it.

“I can see where they might.” There was no hint of apology or excuse in Joyful’s tone. “If the enterprise is not well organized and well managed.”

“Aye, better that way, I admit. Still there’s things as are much safer, leastwise as concerns the law. For example, Dr. Turner, I hear tell there’s someone thinking o’ selling his share o’ the Tontine. Now that’s a respectable choice for a gentleman seeking to make his way. Course, t’other members get to vote on whoever wants to buy into their private arrangement. And likely, being the sort of men they are, some of ’em think Gornt Blakeman’s way.”

“I’ve no doubt some of them did think his way. But given how well the money men generally read the wind, there are probably none so inclined after today, High Constable. Half the town heard you charge Blakeman with high treason and threaten to hang him. Just now he’s a fugitive. I doubt he’ll have any allies at the Tontine.”

Hays sat back and considered Joyful for a few long moments. “Clever,” he said softly, speaking, it seemed, more to himself than to his guest. “Trouble with young men like you, they can be too clever by half. Figure Blakeman’s done with, do you?”

“Yes, Mr. Hays, I do. Don’t you think the same?”

“Maybe, maybe not. But if I were you, I’d have my eyes open for—”

The housekeeper poked her head around the door. “Gentleman to see you, sir. Says it’s urgent.” Hays stood up. “Not you, High Constable,” the woman said. “It’s your visitor is wanted. Dr. Turner.”

“How did you find me here, Cousin Andrew?”

“Young Jesse and I have been looking all over for you.” They were outside on the Common, on a path between the gaol and the almshouse, both buildings looming large in the slant of the late afternoon sun. Andrew’s trap was parked a few feet away, and Jesse Edwards had hold of the reins. “We finally came across someone who said they saw you leave Five Points with the High Constable, so we came here.”

“Hays wanted to talk to me after the riot,” Joyful said. “He wanted to know what…” He let the words trail away and took a step closer to the rig. “What happened, Jesse? You look as if you were in a fight.”

“I was up at Five Points in the riot, Dr. Turner, sir. But that’s not why we came. It’s Miss Manon, Gornt Blakeman’s got her.”

“How could I let him take her?” Maurice Vionne kept saying. “How could I?”

Joyful, Andrew, Jesse Edwards, and Adele Tremont were in the goldsmith’s front room, the small space crowded not so much by their bodies as by their anxiety. “You mustn’t blame yourself, Monsieur Vionne.” The Widow Tremont spoke while making a bad job of replacing the bloody bandage on Vionne’s arm. “You gentlemen must understand that. There was truly no way we could resist.”

“I’ve seen Mr. Vinegar Clifford at work,” Andrew said. “I’m quite sure there was nothing you could have done. Here, madam, allow me.” He took over the business of changing the bandage.

Joyful stood by the window, staring out into the street and paying little attention to what the others were saying or doing. They had gone to Hanover Street first. The countinghouse was locked up tight, and he knew for certain there was no one upstairs because he’d climbed the damned tree and broken into Blakeman’s private quarters to convince himself. So where would he take her? He turned to face the others. “Jesse says Blakeman had a couple of leather-apron boys with him. Occurs to me he might go up to the Bowery and—”

“Gornt Blakeman,” Adele Tremont said, as if it were the first time she’d heard the name. “I should have guessed.”

“Guessed what?” Vionne demanded.

“I suppose I knew it was him,” Madame Tremont admitted. “I simply didn’t think about it until now.”

“What didn’t you think about?”

It was wicked of Manon to have ruined her
petite marmite
with salt, but perhaps it did not warrant a fate such as this. “Madame Eugenie Fischer,” Adele said. “I sew all her dresses. She will have no one else.”

Joyful looked directly at her for the first time since they were introduced. The woman had been Manon’s nemesis these past few days, but it was possible she might be able, however unwillingly, to help her now. “What about Eugenie Fischer?” he demanded. “Do you think Blakeman may have taken her to Mistress Fischer’s house?”

Such a handsome gentleman, and a hero as well as a healer. He must be the reason Manon was uninterested in Monsieur DeFane’s nephew and refused Gornt Blakeman. Ah, if she were twenty years younger…However, she was not, and Maurice would be in her debt if she assisted in this matter in any way possible. “If Mr. Blakeman brought a young woman who looked like Mademoiselle Manon to the home of Eugenie Fischer, she would murder them both. It is not the sort of situation in which Madame Fischer would conspire, Dr. Turner, because she would not shine by comparison.”

“And she cares what Blakeman thinks of her?”

Men did not know how much they lost by not being privy to the gossip of servants. “Forgive my indelicacy, Dr. Turner, but in this situation…Mr. Blakeman is everywhere rumored to be the lover of Madame Fischer.” Adele shot a quick look at Maurice, in case he might think badly of her for making such a remark. He was instead hanging on her every word. “You must understand, normally I do not approve of gossip, but—The other night, Wednesday it was, Madame Fischer summoned me to her house in the evening. After seven. Very unusual, but she said she must be fitted for a new frock immediately. Well, I had some lovely green silk that I got at Mr. Blakeman’s sale Thursday last, and I mentioned that. I mean because I knew she and Mr. Blakeman were—”

“Yes, yes. You’ve told us. We understand.” Vionne could barely contain his impatience. “What is this to do with my Manon?”

Joyful put a restraining hand on Vionne’s shoulder. “Go on, madam. We’re listening.”

“Well, you see, I am observant. It’s simply my nature. While I was fitting Madame Fischer, I developed the impression she had not brought me to her house at such an hour because of a frock. Normally, Madame Fischer is interested only in herself. That night it seemed she was interested in everyone else. Even women with whom she would normally have no intercourse whatever. A…Forgive me, gentlemen, but I can say it no other way. A brothel keeper.”

“By the name of Delight Higgins,” Joyful said, his voice very quiet, his monumental anguish turning to a rage no less fierce because it was so carefully controlled. “A mulatto woman. Runs a place called the Dancing Knave.”

“Yes, that’s correct. I’m sure a gentleman like yourself would never frequent such an establishment. But you know how other men are, I’m sure, Dr. Turner.”

“Indeed. Tell me, Madame Tremont, exactly what did Eugenie Fischer wish to know about Miss Higgins?”

“Who sewed for her. And as it happens, I was able to tell her. Of course, I would never invite such custom myself, but there are some who are not so particular, and among us mantua makers…” She shrugged and kept talking, but Joyful had stopped listening.

Had Blakeman put Eugenie up to the business of finding out who sewed for Delight? Somehow Blakeman was seeking to use Delight to further his ends. The night they played bezique, when Delight so openly invited Joyful to her bed and he equally openly refused, Blakeman would have known about that. He’d figure Delight would go along with whatever he wanted because she was angry. But why seek out the name of the woman who sewed her gowns? What difference…Christ, it didn’t matter. All that mattered was that Blakeman was the spider at the center of the web and Manon was caught in it. Damn your soul, Gornt Blakeman. This time you’ve miscalculated. This time we fight to the death.

He’d make much better time on horseback than in Andrew’s trap. Vionne lent him a horse, taking the moment they were alone together while they saddled her to say, “You’re the gentleman my Manon has been meeting, aren’t you? Last Sunday, when she left church…”

“It was to meet me, yes. I’m sorry, sir. We never meant to deceive you. I wish to marry your daughter.” Said at last, and what a time for it.

“We will speak later, Dr. Turner. For now, only know that I am grateful.” He gave Joyful a leg up and watched while he galloped up the road.

It was not yet half seven when Joyful got to Rivington Street, still too early for custom at the Knave. There were no carriages, and his was the only horse tethered at the hitching post. He strode up the front steps, knowing the bar would not be across the front door at this hour, and used his key to let himself in, shouting Delight’s name as soon as he was inside. “I must speak with you, Delight! It’s urgent.”