City of Liars and Thieves (19 page)

“There's no escape,” I murmured, taking solace in the imposing fence.

A horse trader, holding a feed bag in one hand and the reins of two steeds in the other, flashed me a sideways glance. “Here for the hangings?” he asked.

I looked around, suddenly aware of a commotion beyond the auction. The common had a festive air. Beggars and performers were taking advantage of the crowd. An old woman with leathery black feet limped through the muck with her head down and her hands out. A man with a fiery-orange beard that reached past his belly juggled three, then four, eggs while holding a fifth in his mouth. One industrious merchant was selling tiny wooden replicas of the gallows, demonstrating how the trap gave way by flicking his index finger at the miniature floorboards.

“Some say it's a merciful end,” the horse trader said. One of the animals, a hulking chestnut with a white blaze, nuzzled the feed, and the trader pushed his nose away. “It beats starving or freezing to death in Bridy, and it's better than the Hangman's Elm.” Taking my cringe as interest, he continued. “It's the tall elm up by General Washington's old parade ground. They hanged plenty there, but lots of times they got the rope all wrong, snapped heads right off. You'd better hurry or you won't be able to see.”

In the center of the common, people had begun gathering around the gallows. Some stood with hunched shoulders, as if bracing for pain; others pushed eagerly forward. There was a macabre energy in the air. Small children climbed atop the whipping post to get a better view.

“Why are the gallows painted red?” I asked. I had passed them many times without giving it much thought. It had never been relevant to my world. Until now.

“It's meant to look like a pagoda,” the horse trader said. He elaborated, “An Oriental temple.” This time he chuckled. “Hell must be ruled by heathens.”

A man walked with a small boy perched on his shoulders. “Two burglars and an arsonist,” he said.

“No murderers?” the boy asked. He sounded disappointed.

“Soon enough,” the father said. “That wretch who murdered the girl will swing for sure.”

A foul taste collected in my mouth.

There were jeers in the prison yard as the condemned men climbed into a cart to be taken to the executioner's platform. From a distance I watched their lips move and thought I could hear them pleading innocence. I looked up at the windows again and imagined Levi, bones protruding, body riddled with lice, watching the ghastly scene and dreading his turn in the shadow of the gallows' crossbeams. It did nothing to relieve my sorrow, but I did feel a hint of retribution.

The crowd grew thicker. One voice rang out.

“Come shake Colonel Burr's hand,” a barker called. “Meet the war hero and statesman who will save our city.”

It was the second time I had set eyes on the man. Impeccably dressed, wearing high-heeled shoes with brass buckles polished to a shine despite the slush, Burr stood out in the shabby throng.

Echoing my thought, a man to my left said, “Look there: the emperor mingling with his subjects. A Bonaparte in the making.”

“He's short enough,” another joked.

Burr held his hat in one hand and greeted men with the other.

“Why's he out here in the cold?” I asked the man next to me.

“Burr's campaigning night and day for Jefferson. Opened his own house to anyone working for the Republicans. He feeds them, even brought in mattresses.”

“If Burr can turn a water company into a bank, he'll make Jefferson president and himself vice president,” someone added.

“They make an unlikely team,” said another.

“Burr's a crooked gun,” the first man said. “You can never be sure of his aim.”

Off in the distance, there was a loud bang and cheers as the first criminal fell through the trap. I had another vision of Levi, this time on the hangman's scaffold, standing ten feet above the same bloodthirsty crowd, confessing his guilt, begging for mercy. A blindfold covering his eyes; a thick noose circling his neck. I heard the lever bang and the trap give way.

A somber set of eyes met mine, then shot away. “Anthony Lispenard?” Although I had not thought about him since Elma was found, it suddenly seemed essential that we speak. “I'm Catherine Ring. It was my cousin, Elma Sands, who…” I lowered my voice to a whisper. “My cousin was found in thy well.”

Lispenard appeared to know exactly who I was, and his reply was slow and deliberate. “The land is mine. The well belongs to the Manhattan Company.” He nodded toward Aaron Burr.

Burr was shaking hands and warmly clasping forearms as if reeling men in. The man who moments earlier had referred to him as an emperor stood by his side, laughing collegially. The colonel chuckled and offered up a cigar. I watched with grim fascination. It seemed Burr could win anyone over.

I turned back to Lispenard. “Why did the Manhattan Company dig a well on thy property?”

Lispenard eyed the crowd warily, refusing to meet my gaze. “I'm not sure I understand the question.”

“I—my husband attended the water meetings. I recall him naming several men who were opposed to Burr's plan. Thy name was among them.”

“Opinions change.”

“Thou spoke so eloquently about the injustice of Burr's plan, how the Manhattan Company would not benefit anyone except Burr and his wealthy investors.”

“When did you hear me speak?”

“The point is that thy concerns are valid. Burr's company is not providing water. The rich are getting richer while others grow sick and die. Thy son and my cousin…”

Lispenard shifted his weight. He seemed as uncomfortable as he had been the afternoon they dragged Elma's body from the frozen well. “Mrs. Ring, my son died of yellow fever. The circumstances of your cousin's death are—a mystery.”

“Elma's death is no mystery at all,” I said. “Tell me, did Levi Weeks work at the well on thy property?”

Cheers and gasps filled the common as the second condemned man was hanged. Men were dying, yet I hardly registered their suffering. My heart was filled with poison.

“Anthony Lispenard,” I said, grasping his arm. “I have reason to believe that Levi wanted my cousin dead and that he brought her to
thy
property to have his way with her, knowing it was isolated.”

He held up his hand as if to physically block my words. It was then that I noticed he was clutching a fistful of flyers. “Republicans,” one read, “Turn out and save your country from ruin! Elect Jefferson and Burr!”

“What's that?” I asked, pointing to the flyers.

He lowered his hand. “Campaign literature.”

“Supporting Jefferson—and Burr?”

Lispenard did not respond. He did not need to. If he was working for Burr, it meant he was also working with the Weeks brothers.

A roar cut through the crowd as the final criminal met his end. People jostled me, but I stood still, leery of Lispenard's change of heart. A hand thrust a flyer toward me. I looked down, expecting to see more campaign literature. I couldn't believe what I held instead.

Ghosts and Goblins at the Manhattan Well: The misty form of the raven-haired beauty, Miss Gulielma Sands, rises from the Manhattan Well at midnight. Her emerald dress is dirtied by moss. Wet weeds hang from her hair….

Indignation pulsed through me. It seemed particularly cruel that Elma's suffering, and my grief, were being exploited. I released my grasp and watched the flyer flutter to the ground.

Lispenard was tipping his hat, bidding me farewell. It was an especially fine tricorn hat with a handsome felt brim. I noticed that his ragged jacket had been replaced by a mohair overcoat with shiny brass buttons, as if his affiliation with the Weeks brothers had changed his circumstances along with his opinion. By the looks of him, he was providing a valuable service. Something far more essential than distributing flyers.

I was done mincing words. “Thy wife was quite specific about what she heard the night my cousin was dragged from thy well.”

“I told you,” he seethed, “I have nothing to do with that”—he shook his head—“with that loathsome pit.”

His anger confirmed my suspicion. “Thy wife heard a woman—Elma
—begging the Lord for mercy. Anthony Lispenard, have mercy on me now. Please, tell me what thou knows.”

Lispenard straightened his hat. “Mrs. Ring,” he said. Though he addressed me by name, he took care to avoid my eyes. “I'm afraid I must be on my way.”

The word
afraid
hung in the air between us like a swaying corpse. Lispenard was pale and he appeared frightened. All at once, I understood his urgency. He was not simply running from me, he was fleeing the hangman's scaffold. Lorena Forrest had said she saw a woman riding in a sleigh with two men on the night Elma disappeared. The woman was Elma. One of the men had been Levi. As for the other—they were going to Lispenard's Meadows. Who better to drive them there than Anthony Lispenard?

A third day passed while we waited for permission to bury Elma.

Elias opened the windows in her bedroom, those on the second floor, then every window throughout the house. Drapes fluttered and doors slammed as icy gusts funneled through our hallways and through my veins. I scrubbed the floors with pine oil until my knuckles were raw, then doused them with too much lye, making my eyes and throat burn. Still, nothing could mask the rank, sweet odor coming from Elma's room. A relentless reminder of the violence that had been predetermined under our roof, it clung to furniture, clothing, even skin. Dry-eyed and stoic now, Charles stood shivering by the fire, his arms wrapped around his narrow body, chin in his chest. I gathered him and Patience on my lap, tied a blanket around our shoulders, and buried my nose in their hair. Charles protested that he was too big, and Patience whimpered and squirmed, but I refused to let go.

Elma smells of lavender, Elma smells of home,
I told myself, hoping that, in time, I would remember her as she was.

Friends gathered in the parlor, joined in a search for truth. “Seek and ye shall find,” a church elder counseled, but he was not able to meet my gaze, and his words were faraway and hollow. Well-intentioned visitors expressed sorrow and shock while I sat in silence. Though I knew it was expected of me, I did not have the strength for small talk, let alone prayer or even a polite smile. The tender feelings I had always reserved for faith and family had been replaced by seething hatred. All I had now were questions—
Why was an innocent life cut short? Why do good people suffer?—
and doubts—
Why was that poisonous vial in Levi's drawer? Why was it empty?
The only thing I knew with certainty was that Elma's death needed to be avenged. Levi deserved the ultimate punishment.

Four miserable days after Dr. Prince's examination, the coroner's jury announced its verdict: Elma had been “murdered by a person or persons as yet unknown.” An hour later, an indictment was issued against Levi, and it left no doubt as to the horrors Elma had suffered.

Levi Weeks, laborer, late of the seventh ward, not having the fear of God before his eyes, but being moved and seduced by the instigation of the devil, on the 22nd day of December, in the year of our Lord 1799, did make an assault on one Gulielma Sands, feloniously and willfully, and of his malice aforethought, did strike, beat, and kick, with his hands and feet, in and upon the head, breast, back, belly, sides, and other parts of the body of her, and did then and there feloniously, willfully, and of his malice aforethought, did throw the said Gulielma Sands, down unto and upon the ground, giving unto the said Gulielma Sands several mortal strokes, wounds, and bruises, in and upon the head, breast, back, belly, sides and other parts of the body of her, and did then and there, feloniously, willfully, and of his malice aforethought, cast, throw, and push Gulielma Sands, into a certain well wherein there was a great quantity of water; by means of which Gulielma Sands did then choke, suffocate, and drown; and then and there, did instantly die.

Arraigned and imprisoned, Levi was left to await trial. And at last we were allowed to bury Elma.

Word arrived saying that my aunt was too weak to attend the funeral. “Mary has not been out of bed since thy letter arrived,” Mother wrote. Normally the implication that my letter, rather than Elma's murder, had made my aunt ill would have left me feeling ashamed, but now that Levi was finally facing justice, I felt only the comforting pulse of my hatred.

Since Elma's mother was absent, Friends and neighbors assembled to perform the last sad duties. We transferred Elma to a plain pine casket. With painstaking precision, Elias hammered the lid shut. Richard Croucher and David Forrest carried the coffin downstairs and out onto the street.

“There she is,” someone called. People closed in rapidly, making it impossible to proceed.

“We demand to see Elma,” the crazed woman with unruly hair shouted, as if Elma, in all her former beauty, would appear.

“They're mad,” Elias said, visibly shaken.

As the knot of people grew tighter, Watkins directed the procession back inside. “I don't know that we can get through,” he said. “I'll get the sheriff. Perhaps he can order them to disperse.”

Watkins left while the rest of us stood restless and rattled. The clock struck ten and the pallbearers squirmed under the coffin's weight, turning their heads in a useless attempt to seek fresh air. It had been difficult getting the casket down the narrow staircase, and no one wanted to take it back up. Setting it on the floor seemed disrespectful. Finally, I suggested they rest it on the dining table. Everyone looked toward the table with distaste, but there were no other options.

“Where's Elma?” the same woman shouted. Though she was outside, I had learned to recognize her high-pitched voice.

A fist banged on the window, making us all jump.

“Levi's innocent,” a man hollered. “And plenty of respectable folks say so!”

“Crock of bull,” Croucher spat.

“It's that article,” Hatfield said, “from today's
Gazette
. Said there was ‘universal testimony' in favor of Levi's character and cited a ‘respectable authority' as saying he's innocent.”

“What respectable authority?” I said. Levi had bragged about his powerful friends, and I had challenged him to summon them. I knew he would have sought aid regardless of my threats, but I still regretted my words.

Elizabeth Watkins rocked Patience in her arms. “It can't possibly be referring to Ezra Weeks. That wouldn't be fair.”

“What's not fair?” Charles asked, his young ears finely tuned to all things right and wrong in his cloistered world. “Is it about Elma?”

Without a glance at the children, me, or the coffin on the table, Elias chose this moment to flee to the store.

“Yes,” I said, turning back to Charles. Over the past weeks, he had grown stoic under our new reality. His eyes had lost their luster. “But that man is wrong. We live in a country where brave men—” My thoughts roamed to Elma's dead father. “Men sacrificed their lives so the rest of us would be treated fairly by our system of justice.”

Charles shook his head. “Negroes aren't.”

“Well,” I sighed. “Let's pray that will change soon.”

“How can I pray if we don't go to meeting?”

“Prayers are inside a person,” I told him without conviction.

Charles looked as if he might speak again, but I was in no mood to be challenged. I asked Elizabeth to watch the children and went to find Elias. Since the morning I'd seen Lispenard at the gallows, I had been trying to speak with Elias, but he had steadfastly avoided me, citing work, children, and fatigue as reasons not to talk. Now, on the cusp of burying Elma, my concerns were all the more urgent. She would not rest in peace until the mystery of her death was solved.

Inside the deserted store, Elias sat idle at the till. The cursed circumstances surrounding Elma's death had driven even our most loyal customers away, and he was struggling to salvage our dying business. A constant crowd of curiosity seekers passed our home, but not a single one approached. The shelves were fully stocked, their contents rotting.

“Elias,” I said. “It doesn't matter how much we owe Ezra Weeks or if we lose our home or even our name. Levi must be punished.”

Elias rested his head in his hands. He may have been covering his ears.

Beating, kicking, pushing, choking, suffocating, and drowning:
The indictment's violent accusations rang in my ears like a siren. How could anyone question Levi's guilt?

“Elias,” I began cautiously. “Levi killed Elma because she was carrying his child, but maybe there's something else. Another reason we haven't considered.”

Elias pulled an accounting log from the shelf, opening it to a random page that he scanned with blind eyes.

“Levi wanted to protect his inheritance,” I said, “but he didn't have to murder her. He could have denied the baby was his or simply refused to marry her.”

Elias slammed the book closed and pushed it away. “There's no proof she was even with child.”

“A woman knows these things, and I knew Elma,” I said, a bit too defensively. “That doctor seemed to think the same thing.”

“Well, then, that's why Levi killed her,” Elias said. “He had no intention of fathering a bastard.”

The insult no longer stung. “That's what I thought, but I'm starting to see things differently. Elma's word would have meant very little next to Levi's. If he said the baby wasn't his, Elma would have been just another disgraced girl. It's happened before and it will happen again.”

“No one but Levi could have fathered that child!” Elias's eyes dropped to a shelf under the till. He grabbed a half-empty bottle of whiskey, poured himself a glass, and drank it down.

I couldn't muster any outrage at the sight while Elma lay dead in the next room. “Elias, there was some other reason. Maybe Levi told her a secret of some sort. I know he told her that the Manhattan Company never intended to provide water.”

“Everyone knows that.”

“They do now, but Levi told Elma before anyone knew. If word had gotten out, if people understood that the water company was a hoax, the charter never would have passed. Which would have been a disaster for Levi.”

“Who told thee this?”

“Elma told me.” I spoke with conviction as if Elma had shared every secret with me, but deep inside I cringed, aware of how much she had kept to herself.

“But, Caty, the Manhattan Company charter did pass, and Levi, Ezra, and Burr got exactly what they wanted.” Elias cocked his head, studying me closely. “They got their bank, which is exactly what Burr needs to win the election. Isn't that enough?”

“Greedy men—ambitious men—always want more. What if Levi told her something else? The election is only a few months away, and Levi is privy to all his brother's business. They have already carried off one terrible fraud. Who can say what else they plan to do and what Elma may have known?”

Elias shook his head slowly, as if considering my argument, not ruling it out. “Why would Levi tell her anything so important?”

“Because he's impulsive and selfish. He doesn't think rules apply to him.” I pictured Levi and Elma sitting alone together in her room, the candlelight casting a warm glow on her face as he caressed her cheek. “Perhaps he shared something late one night when they were alone, to impress her. He told her a secret, then regretted it.”

Elias's eyes met mine and, for an instant, I felt that we were truly partners, as I had imagined we would be all those years ago in Cornwall. “What secret?” he asked.

My heart sank. “I don't know.”

“Caty.” He sighed, reaching for another drink. “No one can say what Levi may or may not have told Elma in her bedroom. Any secrets died with her.”

“But we can't let those murderers get away with it!”

“Murderers?”

“Elma was killed at the Manhattan Well for a reason. She was found on the Lispenard property. Elias, Anthony Lispenard was against Burr from the start; now he's working for him. Why did his opinion change?” I took a deep breath, recalling Lispenard's tormented expression. “Elias, I think Lispenard is guilty—guilty of something. Lorena Forrest saw two men and a woman driving up Greenwich Street in the storm.”

Elias scoffed. “Now Lispenard is the murderer? What about Levi?”

“I can't say anything for sure, but the sheriff is coming back here. Can't we ask him to question the man more thoroughly? I'm sure he's hiding something.”

“Anyone else I'm supposed to implicate baselessly, then?”

I stared at the golden liquid at the bottom of Elias's glass and expressed my deepest fear, one I had buried in my heart since the afternoon Elma was found and Elias's behavior turned so peculiar. “When the men brought Elma home, I overheard Levi say something to thee that I didn't understand. He said, ‘Croucher
saw you
.' What did he mean by that?”

The ledger fell to the floor as Elias stood. “Levi, Lispenard—and me?”

“Elma won't rest until we punish her killer.” I would not rest either.

“Now thou are trusting the words of Levi Weeks over thy own husband?”

My voice lowered to a shaky whisper. “Answer me this time and I will never ask again.”

Elias pulled me toward him so that my head rested against his shoulder. I could not remember the last time he had held me, but this was not intimacy. “I asked thee to come home from Cornwall.” His body shuddered. “Remember, Caty, I begged.”

I pulled away. “Cornwall?” The conversation's turn made my stomach drop. “That letter?”

“Yes!” he said, as if I had struck upon the most relevant of points. “I wrote thee. Caty, please try to understand. Levi was telling the truth about the laudanum: She had a vial. She refused to part with it.” Elias held his hands to his face, covering his eyes and shaking his head. “She was hysterical when I told her I'd found her clothing on the floor.” He dropped his hands. “No doubt she was ashamed. One night, after dinner, she took out the vial. She held it up for everyone to see. Levi was there, and Hatfield, and Croucher. She said she would drink it all.”

Elias was painting a picture of someone I did not recognize. “I refuse to believe it.”

“She was entirely changed.”

“What did Croucher see? What did Levi mean by that?”

“Elma was crazed. I didn't know what to do. That night I went to her room and demanded she hand over the laudanum. She started to cry and mumbled some gibberish about being useless. Then she went to the bureau, pulled off the stopper, and raised that foul thing to her lips. Caty—” He sobbed outright. “Caty, forgive me. Please forgive me. We have a life together. The children…”