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  EIGHT

  Sister Claire looked as though she had been pulled off a potato field in County Kerry and stuffed into a nun’s habit that very morning. Her forehead, cheeks, and nose were scarlet red and peeling, and her hands were as wrinkled and brown as a worn pair of shoes. She had the patient, ageless air of a woman who has spent her life helping others, without expecting anything in return.

  She sat straight-backed in an upright wooden chair, feet crossed at the ankle, the toes of her heavy shoes suspended an inch from the stone floor. She raised her face to the afternoon sun that lit the small space, with its two chairs and long, wooden table.

  The girl’s body was laid out on the oak. It was covered from toes to neck by a white sheet, which made her skin look much darker. The removal of her organs and the cool air of the cellar had forestalled corruption of the body, but there was still a distinct smell in the small room. Justy found himself breathing though his mouth.

  The sister seemed unaffected. “I thought it might be easier to see her here, rather than down in that terrible place.” Her accent was soft and educated.

  “I’m surprised Sister Marie-Therese allowed it.”

  “Sometimes it’s better to beg forgiveness than ask permission.”

  “Speaking of which, I have a man coming later to sketch a picture of the girl. It may help us identify her. I haven’t told the vestal.”

  “What she doesn’t know won’t hurt her.” The nun’s blue eyes were bright with mischief.

  The girl’s cheeks were gray and slack. They pulled the corners of her mouth so that the purple lips were dragged slightly open over her even teeth. Her eyes were half-open. The nun had tried to smooth them closed, but they seemed fixed in place, and the whites were like two empty slits in her dark skin.

  “She has gone to God,” Sister Claire said.

  “That’s not what Sister Marie-Therese thinks.”

  “Indeed.” The nun smiled faintly.

  “She told me you spent some time among Mohammedan people.”

  “Ten years in Araby and another seven along the Slave Coast. In that time I came to learn that we are all very much the same. We all share the same essential beliefs.”

  “So why the objection to having a Mohammedan in the Almshouse?”

  Sister Claire shrugged. “Partly because of partisanship. If someone’s on their side, it means they’re not on ours. And partly because people only see the differences between peoples, not the similarities. Look at us and the Protestants. There is nothing to tell between us, and yet there’s so much hatred.”

  Justy looked at the girl. “So what can you tell me about her? Is she Mohammedan?”

  “Almost certainly.” The sister hopped off the chair. She barely went as high as Justy’s chest, but she was tall enough to reach over the body and take hold of the top of the sheet. She flicked it back, and Justy felt his stomach lurch. The edges of the cut sagged into the cavity of the girl’s body, making it look as though someone had taken a spade to her torso and dug a long furrow there. The skin was gray, and mottled black and purple along the length of the gash.

  The sister took one of the girl’s hands and rotated the arm so that the sunlight fell across it. “Do you see these marks?”

  An intricate wreath of markings spread across the back of the girl’s hand. The tattoos were faint, like pencil marks on a gray wall, climbing like tendrils up each finger and past her wrist.

  “She has more on her other hand, and her feet. They are not permanent, as you see. But they are not easily washed out. I would say they were done several weeks ago. A month, perhaps.”

  “What do they mean?”

  “They can mean a number of things, depending on who wears them, and where. In some places women wear these designs all the time. In others, they only decorate themselves so on special occasions. Like a religious festival, or a coming of age. Or a wedding.”

  “She seems too young for either.”

  “She does. And yet…” Sister Claire leaned over the table, lifting the dead girl’s elbow so that she could rest the girl’s hand on her body, the limp fingers settling just below the cut, on a slight curve in her belly.

  Justy felt sweat break out on the back of his neck. “She was pregnant?”

  The sister nodded. “I would say three months gone. Perhaps more. Young girls can often hide the signs for longer.”

  “My God.” Justy leaned on the table. There was a sharp taste in his mouth.

  “You saw this?” The nun pointed at the girl’s lower abdomen. She had pulled the sheet down to the girl’s upper thighs, exposing her pubis. The small, diagonal cut was obvious now, an emphatic, dark gouge under the wisps of hair.

  “Yes.”

  “I examined the wound. The knife, or whatever it was, was stabbed upwards, at an angle. Like this.” She made a fist, and demonstrated. “The blade went directly into the womb. It would have caused a massive hemorrhage.”

  Justy’s mouth was sticky. “So why cut her open?”

  “To be sure she didn’t run? The precision of the second cut suggests to me that this is a man familiar with a knife. The apparent lack of hesitation indicates he is accustomed to killing. If so, he would have known that the first wound would likely not have killed her immediately. She might have been able to get to the street first, perhaps to someone’s house. But it’s impossible to crawl too far with one’s entrails exposed.”

  “It depends,” Justy murmured. He had the sudden memory of a young English skirmisher, slashed open by a flail of canister fire, dragging himself back across the open ground towards his own gun line. The fight had stopped for a moment, an unaccountable lull, and every man on both sides had watched the trooper hauling himself across the churned grass, his guts draped like white ropes over one red-coated arm. Christ, how the man had screamed. Over and over, foot by foot, for nearly fifty yards, before an Irish marksman hushed him.

  He sat back in his chair and rubbed his face. “How is it you are so calm, Sister?”

  She smiled. “People think nuns do not live in the real world. That we shut ourselves off and stay remote from life. Many do, of course. But those of us who choose to step out of the cloisters see more of life than most. We live among the poor and the desperate. We are daily witnesses to the depravity of humankind, the way we treat each other, and ourselves.”

  “You’re saying you’ve seen worse than this?”

  “I’m saying I am no longer surprised by what human beings can do to each other. People commit far worse atrocities than this, every day. And for all sorts of reasons. For money, for country, for independence. For God.”

  “So how do you keep doing what you do?”

  She smiled, and it was like watching a flower open. Her blue eyes shimmered. “Because just as we are capable of the most depraved acts, we are also capable of the most glorious. I seek to tilt the balance. That is all.”

  NINE

  Gorton led him through a winding passageway crammed with people. The Sunday market was as busy as any other day. Hawkers shouted out the prices of their wares, and the air was thick with smoke from charcoal braziers and grilling meat. It was midafternoon, and the sun was still high in the sky. The shopkeepers had strung canopies made of sail canvas and colored silk over the passageways, so that the light was filtered into a patchwork of colors, and the market became a labyrinth. Justy’s nostrils twitched at the scent of perfumes and spices; they flared at the sharp stink of new leather. He smelled dried fish, fresh flowers, raw spirit, and wools still damp with dye. His ear caught a half-dozen languages that he knew, and several he had never heard before. He kept his eyes on the back of Gorton’s sunburned neck as the watchman led him through the press of people, wondering how a man so recently arrived in the city knew his way around Canvas Town so well.

  Gorton stopped. He shrugged his knapsack off his shoulder. “This is the place.”

  The shop was little more than a large cupboard, the doors of which had been flung wide open to display hu
ndreds of pairs of colored leather slippers. They were arranged in rows on the inside of the doors and the cupboard itself, making a kaleidoscope of color twelve feet high and ten feet wide. It was a moment before Justy noticed an old man squatting in the corner of the tiny shop. He wore a grubby white robe and a battered black hat that looked like an upside-down flowerpot perched on the back of his head. A stringy beard curled like a wisp from his chin. His gnarled brown fingers flicked at a string of beads, his watery eyes fixed on Justy’s face.

  “His name’s Khaled,” Gorton said. “I asked around earlier, and everyone says he’s the only man in the city makes stamps like these.” He rummaged in the knapsack and handed Justy a pair of small red shoes. They were well used and slightly damp, and the leather was thin on the ball and heel of the soles, but they were of high quality. The uppers were supple and the dye had not run, and the shoes were lined with soft calfskin. Justy pictured the girl’s delicate feet, and her round, manicured toenails. “So you found them in the mud in the alley after all?”

  “Got lucky.”

  “They seem very clean.”

  “Gave ’em a quick bougie. Reckoned Mister Khaled here might not recognize them, else.”

  Justy let it go. He knelt and held out the slippers to the old man. “Did you make these?”

  The shopkeeper sniffed them, and ran his finger along the inseams of the heel and the sole. He twisted the top of the upper inside out and showed a blue smudge on the leather. Then he did the same with a shoe plucked from the display. It showed a small blue K. He nodded and grinned, stubs of stained teeth like a shipwreck.

  Justy showed Gorton. “What do you think? Is it the same mark?”

  Gorton peered at the smudge, then looked at the new shoe.

  “I wouldn’t stake my cockles on it, but the workmanship’s comparable.”

  Justy turned back to the old man. “Who did you make these for?”

  The shopkeeper shrugged. He made a wide gesture with his hand.

  “Do you understand me?” Justy asked.

  The shopkeeper shook his head. Gorton snorted. “He kens well enough, I think.”

  “Perhaps. Do you have the sketch with you?”

  Gorton dug in his knapsack and took out a leather tube. He tapped out a sheet of vellum from it, unrolled it, and handed it to Justy.

  It was no death mask. The artist had worked quickly and taken some license, shading the sketch here and there to give the impression of life and health. The girl’s eyes were closed, but her lashes seemed to quiver on the page. Her cheeks were full, and her lips were slightly parted, as though she was sleeping, and had just taken a breath.

  “Do you know her?” Justy showed the shopkeeper the picture. The change in him was slight, but Justy caught the hesitation, the way he shrank into himself, as though Justy had pulled a knife.

  “You know who she is, don’t you?” Justy said.

  The old man shook his head. He began flicking through the string of beads.

  “Stop that,” Gorton barked. “The Marshal asked you a question.”

  “That’s all right, Mister Gorton.” Justy squatted. He held the sketch closer. “Can you tell me her name?”

  The shopkeeper shook his head for a third time. He opened his mouth, showing them the wreckage of his teeth. It was a moment before Justy realized what the old man was telling him. He could not speak English. He could not speak at all. It had happened some time ago, judging by the appalling scarring, but someone had cut out his tongue.

  * * *

  “He is a Sufi. A mystic.”

  The man’s voice had the bass rumble of a distant landslide. He was a black wedge in the slot of blue sky between the awnings. Justy squinted and saw a dark-skinned, dark-eyed man in homespun, mud-colored breeches and a cheap linen shirt, sleeves rolled up to reveal a scrawl of runic tattoos. His face was covered in a wild thicket of hair. Two other men stood behind him, tall, loose-limbed, and scrawny, with the still patience and blank eyes of former slaves. One’s face was scarred with tribal tattoos. The other looked as though someone had torn at his mouth and his forehead with a fork. Their shirts were smeared with blood.

  Justy stood up. “I thought mystics were supposed to dwell in caves and live on charity.”

  A wall of strong, white teeth appeared in the tangle of the man’s beard. “Charity? In this town?” He laughed. His men stared.

  The shopkeeper sat cross-legged on the floor of his tiny shop, wedged into the corner, his blank, rheumy eyes watching and not watching at the same time.

  “How did he lose his tongue?” Justy asked.

  “Who knows? Perhaps he cut it out himself.” The man took a step forward. Justy forced himself to stay still.

  “What do you want here, Marshal Flanagan?”

  Justy felt as though he had been slapped. “You’ll step back now, cully, if you don’t want me to burn that goddamned muzzle of yours to the roots.”

  Silence. The street around them had emptied. There was only the big, bearded man and his sidekicks, and the old shopkeeper with his empty eyes.

  The big man stepped back. He held his hands in the air. “Allah would not be pleased if I allowed my beard to be trimmed, whether by a knife or by fire.”

  Justy felt his stomach unwind. “And the Mayor would not be pleased if I started a blaze in the middle of Canvas Town.”

  “The Mayor?” The man snorted. “I think he’d be pleased to come up here and fire Canvas Town himself. I think he’d like to burn every free Negro in the city off the island of Manhattan.”

  Justy had to stop himself from nodding. Edward Livingstone was a strong supporter of immigration, but only on the condition that the immigrants were white. And Protestant.

  “What’s your name?” Justy asked.

  “I am called Zaeim.”

  “You’re a fishmonger?”

  “I am.”

  “And how long have you been in New York?”

  The man shrugged. “Years now. I have lost count.”

  Justy showed him the sketch. “Do you know her?”

  The man cocked his head on one side. “Is she dead?”

  “Why do you say that?”

  “Her eyes are closed.”

  “Perhaps she’s asleep.”

  The man’s eyes flicked up. There was a flash of anger, and then they flattened again. “A lawman does not inquire about a sleeping girl.”

  “I’ll ask you again. Do you know her?”

  The man shook his head. “I do not.”

  Justy handed the sketch to Gorton. “Zaeim. That’s an unusual name. Is it Moorish?”

  “Why do you want to know?”

  “The girl may have been Moorish. I want to speak to people in that community.”

  “Why?”

  “That’s my business. New York’s business.”

  The man laughed. “New York’s business. That’s good, Irishman. Very well. I am Moorish, but this girl is not one of us. Now you can go back to your white hall and make your report.”

  It was Justy’s turn to step forward. “Your people have lived here quietly for more than ten years, Mister Zaeim, but if I return to Federal Hall with nothing to say, that will end. Word will get out, as it always does, and the next time you come face-to-face with an Irishman, he will be at the head of a mob, howling for your blood and intent on burning your miserable tents to the ground. Now take me to someone who speaks for your people. Preferably someone who doesn’t smell quite so strongly of fish.”

  The beard bristled, and the line of even, white teeth appeared again.

  “Very well,” the man said. “Follow me.”

  * * *

  Justy prided himself on his sense of direction. As he had followed Gorton through the market, he had the general sense that he was heading slightly downhill, towards the Hudson River. But now, with Zaeim leading the way, he became almost instantly lost. The big, bearded man moved fast through the crowd, turning left and right until their way was barred by a row of canvas-d
raped shacks. They were unusually high, almost double the height of the other dwellings, but before Justy could look at them closely, Zaeim pushed through a doorway that was little more than a crude tear in a sheet of worn sailcloth.

  One moment Justy was walking through a dark, narrow tunnel, with his head bent and the musty smell of damp burlap in his nose. The next he was blinking in the sunlight. The chaos of Canvas Town was gone. In its place was a quiet, open courtyard, bordered by low, smooth-walled buildings with tiled roofs, as sturdy and well built as anything in the First Ward.

  Zaeim had disappeared. His men had not followed them. Justy and Gorton were alone.

  There was an impression of space and light. Water tinkled and gurgled in a fountain in the center of the courtyard, which was shaded by the shivering, silvery leaves of a buttonwood tree.

  For a moment, Justy relaxed. And then he saw Gorton looking up at the rooftops.

  “We’re like fish in a fucking barrel in here,” he muttered, turning in a tight circle.

  Something plucked at Justy’s insides, and he started towards the entrance they had come through. The rough hessian curtain screening the doorway was twitched aside, and one of Zaeim’s men appeared, a club in his hand. The sunlight glistened on the sweat that beaded on the ridges of the scars that ringed his mouth and made a rough curve across his forehead. Justy tried to think what might have caused that kind of scarring, and when the man scratched at his ragged beard, he remembered an illustrated pamphlet on agricultural labor that he had read in a coffee house. It had included a drawing of slaves working in a strawberry patch. To stop the slaves running away, they were chained. And to stop them eating the fruit, they were muzzled.

  Justy was suddenly very aware of the folding knife that he kept tucked in the top of his right boot. He eased himself slowly back towards Gorton until they were standing shoulder to shoulder. The man in the doorway stood still, watching them.