A Conspiracy of Paper

  I looked back to the table. There was less blood than I would have thought, for the blade itself stemmed the tide. A thick pool did begin to appear around the blade after a moment, and trickled down upon the filthy table. I shifted slightly, so the issue of Arnold’s veins would not drip upon my boots, and I pressed down hard as I moved, feeling the heat of Arnold’s gasping breath upon my hand. Grabbing his face tighter, I waved my dagger before his good eye. “You are in pain, and I understand that, but I have no more patience for this. You will reach into your pocket with your one good hand and remove the papers we seek. This gentleman here will give you twenty pounds, just as promised. If you do anything else, if your friends make any moves, I shall not kill you, but I shall carve out your good eye and turn you to a beggar. Now you can give us what we want and receive a sizable profit for it, or you can lose everything you have in this world.”

  Arnold’s friends exchanged glances once again. They now had hope that their friend would, notwithstanding the unpleasantness of the transaction, earn his twenty pounds.

  With his good hand, Arnold tried to reach into his pocket, but he had to stretch across his body and by the way he twisted his face the pain must have been horrific. Finally, against the weight of my hand, he slammed his teeth together and grabbed a purse from his pocket, and in a jerky and agonized motion, threw it upon the table.

  I told Elias to look inside, and he did, taking out the packet of letters. They were as Sir Owen had described—a thick bundle bound with a yellow ribbon and sealed with a wax imprint. I had him hand them to me, and I quickly counted that there were four separate packets, each a half-inch or more thick. Even in the flurry of the moment, I could not but smile to think what a prolix correspondent the libertine baronet turned out to be.

  I placed the bundle in my pocket and told Elias to hold down Arnold’s hand as I pulled out my dagger. Now the blood began to flow with an unchecked burst. Arnold slipped from my grasp and dropped to the floor, uttering low, growling noises.

  “Give him the money,” I said to Elias.

  I could see the way he thought behind his shifting gray eyes. Why?

  “Give him the money,” I said again. “That was the bargain.”

  There must have been something about the way I spoke that ended the argument, for Elias sighed, agonized about letting go of the twenty pounds unnecessarily, and dropped the purse upon the table. Each of Arnold’s companions reached forward to grab it.

  Elias looked ready to make a running escape, but I shook my head at him. There was no need to run. Arnold lay defeated, and no one would trouble us. I considered drinking an ale before I left to show my contempt, but I had no one to gratify but myself, and the drink was not to my liking. Instead I smiled with grim satisfaction and held the door for Elias as we departed.

  SEVEN

  THE MORNING FOUND ME refreshingly calm. I was pleased to have retrieved Sir Owen’s documents, and I felt tolerably confident that the business of Jemmy’s death would pass without any serious harm. Hard upon noon, Mrs. Garrison announced that Sir Owen was below to see me, and when the baronet entered my rooms he could not have shown more pleasure in my success. He clutched his letters from my hand and pressed them to his bosom. He sat down and then immediately stood up again and paced about the room. He asked for a drink and then asked for another one, having forgotten about the first.

  Sir Owen insisted upon paying me a bonus, and after some formal protests, I accepted reimbursement for the expenses I had met in my dealings with Kate and Arnold. This gesture was a generous one, for it doubled his original fee and it significantly improved my little stock of money. Sir Owen then convinced me to join him for a meal that he should pay for, so he would not have to collect the letters, as he said, without having shown some measure of the fellowship his gratitude bred within him. I attended him to a local ordinary, and ate and drank heartily, and I remained with Sir Owen until near two o’clock in the afternoon, when he said he had appointments to keep. Before we parted, however, he shocked me by asking me to join him next Tuesday evening at his club.

  “It is no formal affair, I assure you,” he said, reading the astonishment on my face. “I thought it might be of some advantage to a man in your position to have occasion to introduce yourself to some gentlemen.”

  “I would be delighted to attend,” I told him in earnestness. “And I would hold myself in your debt for your generosity.”

  Sir Owen cleared his throat and shifted in his seat. “You, shall we say, understand that I am in no way proposing you for membership.” His voice trailed off.

  “I quite understand,” I cut in quickly, wishing to defuse his embarrassment. “I am, as you have surely surmised, anxious to meet gentlemen who may someday have need of a man such as myself. And a recommendation from you is a powerful thing.”

  Pleased with my understanding, Sir Owen gave me a friendly clap upon the back and thanked me again for my effort to retrieve his papers. Then, after a protracted farewell, he made his retreat.

  With a satisfied stomach and a head full of good wine, I thought to myself that it was time to discharge my duties. I therefore took a hackney to Mr. Balfour’s lodgings off Bishopsgate to see what, if anything, he had learned from his inquiries into what his father’s family knew of that death. I hoped he would have learned nothing. I hoped he would have concluded the fruitlessness of his search and discharged me from this affair with an unblemished conscience.

  I found Balfour in a respectable set of rooms in a respectable home, but he sat in his parlor as though it fit too snug upon him. He held himself unnaturally erect in his chair, as if afraid to recline. He wore almost precisely the same suit of clothing that I had seen upon him the previous day, though he had made some effort to clean the cloth of some lint and remove the more conspicuous stains.

  I stood before him, my hat tucked under my arm. He stared at me. He crossed his legs. I expected him to offer me a chair, but he studied me with an expression that could have been either anxiety or boredom. “Next time you wish to speak to me,” he said with a slow and deliberate tone, “please inform me in advance. We shall establish a meeting place more appropriate than my own residence.”

  “As you wish,” I replied with a broad smile, meant to irritate him, for I found Balfour’s penniless superiority filled me with both anger and contempt. “But as I am here, I shall make myself comfortable.” I noticed a decanter of wine on the mantel, and still warm from my luncheon with Sir Owen, I thought a bit of wine was just the thing. “Would you care for some?” I asked, as I poured for myself.

  “You are insufferable,” he snapped. “This is my home, sir!” His hands clutched at a newspaper that rested in his lap.

  I took a seat and slowly sipped the wine, an inferior claret. It was not undrinkable but it tasted sour in comparison with the fine drink Sir Owen had provided. I suspect that my host saw the signs of my displeasure, for he moved to open his mouth. I thought it best to avoid what I was sure would be an expression of his ungrounded pomposity, so I began rapidly. “Mr. Balfour, you have hired my services, but I am not a servant. After all, we have a mutual interest in the inquiry you wish to set me upon. Now, shall we discuss the particulars of this situation?”

  Balfour glowered at me for a moment and decided that impassivity was his best option. “Very well. I am afraid you will have to do the work yourself, which is, I expect, why I am paying you. I have spoken to my father’s chief clerk, and he has informed me that my suspicions are not unfounded. He claims the estate was much poorer at my father’s death than he, the clerk, had any reason to suspect.”

  “Indeed,” I noted coolly.

  “As I believe I mentioned, my father had profited somewhat from the late rivalry between the Bank of England and the South Sea Company—all that fluctuation of stock prices. He spent his time down in ’Change Alley, with the Jews and other foreigners, buying this stock and selling that.”

  “And some of these stocks are missing?”

  He s
hrugged as though I had just rudely changed the subject. “I know nothing of the details. I have no head for things such as finance, but in light of the profits he made from these dealings, his accounts are inexplicable. According to the clerk, you understand.”

  “I see. Can you tell me what else you learned?”

  “Is that not enough? What I have learned is that a financial person believes my father’s death suspicious. What more do you require?”

  “Nothing,” I said, “to make me wish to look into this matter further.” I had spoken this before I had realized it to be true. Now, as I sat across from Balfour, sipping his poor wine, I realized the course upon which I found myself. I would certainly have to learn more of my own father’s dealings, and to do so I would need to talk with my uncle. After my years of wandering, this jackanapes Balfour would be the man to send me home.

  Pushing this idea from my mind, I pressed on with Balfour. “I fear I require much more if I am to unearth anything that might help you to recover your estate. Your mother is still living, is she not? I believe you mentioned her last time we spoke.”

  Balfour reddened, I thought inexplicably. “I say, sir! You ask unaccountably impertinent questions. What is my mother to you?”

  “I suspect your mother may know something that could be of use. I really do not understand why you must make everything difficult. Do you wish my help or no?”

  “Certainly I wish your . . . services. That is why I have put you in my employ. That does not give you license to go about asking me questions about my mother, who would be utterly horrified to learn that men such as you even exist, let alone that you speak of her. My mother, sir, knows nothing of these matters. There is no point in talking to her.”

  “Did your father have any other relatives—a brother perhaps, an uncle—with whom he dealt in business?”

  Balfour continued to sigh with exasperation, but he answered the question. “No. No one.”

  “And you can think of nothing else that might be of use to me? Something to help me find how to begin my inquiry?”

  “If I could think of anything, would I not tell you? You drive me to distraction with your endless questions.”

  “Very well. Then you only need let me know the name of your father’s clerk and where I might find him.”

  Balfour’s jaw went slack. He knew something that he refused to tell me. No, he knew many things that he refused to tell me. And I suspect he knew I saw through the façade of family pride and detected his screen of blustering. But he did not back down from it. “I have told you what he knows,” Balfour said stiffly. “You have no need to talk with him.”

  “Mr. Balfour, you are being difficult. Where may I find this clerk?”

  “You may not. You see, he is now employed in my mother’s service, and my mother and I, since you insist upon knowing, are not upon the best of terms. She would not appreciate my meddling in her business.”

  “But surely she has much to gain from these inquiries.”

  “No, she has not. My mother had a jointure of separate property settled upon her. She was to inherit none of my father’s wealth, and his death has not affected her at all, except to free her from a marriage that was broken in all but law. She and I had been upon poor terms for a very long time, for in the matters of my parents’ disagreements, I took my father’s side. Now I wish to arrange a . . . rapprochement with her, and I do not choose to antagonize her by looking into this business. I handled this clerk so that he would not know the nature of my inquiries. I do not believe you could do the same.”

  “I assure you I can. Give me his name, sir. I shall in return promise you that I shall not approach him at your mother’s home.”

  Balfour screwed up his face to launch another protest, but he soon thought better of it. “Oh, very well. His name is Reginald d’Arblay, and if you really must speak to him you will find him, sooner or later, at Jonathan’s Coffeehouse in ’Change Alley. He wishes to become a stock-jobber in his own right, so he spends his time in a stock-jobbing coffeehouse—I suppose in the hopes of having his foreskin removed. It is not all he will have removed, I should wager.”

  I sat silent for a few minutes, taking all of this in. “Very well, sir.” I stood up and finished my wine in a long swallow. “I shall let you know when I have anything to report.”

  “Do not forget what I told you about calling on me here,” he said. “I have a reputation to uphold, you know.”

  I COULD SEE THAT Balfour’s mother would be of no use to me, but I wondered for how long I would respect Balfour’s desire for me to avoid his father’s clerk, d’Arblay. Not long, but I did not wish to call upon such a man unprepared. It was time, I knew, to do what I should have done years before, what I had so often both wished for and dreaded. This matter gave me the excuse I had long required, and the wine I had drunk gave me the courage I had long wanted. So I found myself walking briskly toward Wapping, where my uncle Miguel kept his warehouse.

  I last had seen my uncle at my father’s funeral, when I had stood, with a few dozen others, representing the family and members of the Dukes Place enclave, staring mutely beside the open grave, my coat offering little protection from the unexpected cold and wind and ceaseless drizzle of rain. My uncle, my father’s only brother, had done little to make me feel welcome in my return. He acknowledged me only now and again, when he looked up from the prayer book that he hunched over to keep dry, in order to cast suspicious glances in my direction, as though I might, if given the opportunity, pick the other mourners’ pockets and disappear into the fog. I could not help but wonder if my uncle resented that I had not returned home three years earlier, upon the death of his son, my cousin Aaron. I had been at that time still riding upon the highway, as the saying goes, and had not even learned of Aaron’s death until some many months later. In all candor, I am not sure I would have returned even if I had heard; Aaron and I had not much liked each other as boys, for he had been a weak, timid, and sneaking sort, and I admit I had been little able to resist bullying him. He had always hated me for a monster while I hated him for a coward. When we grew older and I recognized that it was time to manage my rougher tendencies more carefully, I had made the effort to mend our friendship, but Aaron only walked away from me when I spoke to him in private, or mocked me for my lack of learning when we spoke in public. When I learned that he had been sent away to the East to become a trader in the Levant, I was glad to be rid of him. I could, nevertheless, feel sorrow for my uncle, who lost his only son when a trading vessel capsized in a storm and Aaron was swallowed by the ocean forever.

  If my uncle treated me as an unavoidable interloper at my father’s funeral, I must confess that I did little to convince him to see me otherwise. I found myself angry then at having to spend time with these people; I resented my father for having died, as his death had placed me in an uncomfortable state. It came as no surprise to me that my father left his estate to my older brother, José, and I was not disappointed he chose to do so, yet the knowledge that everyone at the funeral believed me bitter vexed me. I cast my eyes about me nervously as the mourners prayed dutifully in Hebrew and conversed in Portuguese, both of which I pretended to have forgotten, though I was alarmed to realize how much I had forgotten indeed; these languages sounded often like alien tongues made familiar but not intelligible through frequent exposure.

  Now, as I went to see my uncle, I again felt like an interloper who should be stared at with suspicion and unease. All my efforts to calm my spirits—my pronouncements to myself that I went to visit Miguel Lienzo upon business, that I, as the initiator of this exchange, held the power to terminate it at will—failed to make me forget how little I welcomed this visit.

  I had not been to the warehouse in many years—not since I was a young man running errands for the family. It was a largish affair—a storing house near the river, used both for the Portuguese wine that my uncle imported and the British woolens that he exported. He also maintained a less legal trade in French cambrics an
d other textiles, goods that had become the victims of the mutual embargoes with our enemies across the Channel; for there has ever been a great gulf between the hatred of the French engendered by politics and the desire for French goods inspired by fashion. Let the papers and Parliamentarians decry the dangers of the French military; ladies and gentlemen still clamored to buy French attire.

  When I entered my uncle’s warehouse, I was overwhelmed by the rich smell of wool, which made me feel damp and tight in the chest. This was an enormous, high-ceilinged place, alive with activity, for I had the ill fortune to arrive while a customs inspector went about his business. Brawny laborers hauled boxes or piled them up, packed or unpacked at the inspector’s pleasure. Clerks ran about with ledgers in hand, attempting to keep a record of what was moved and to where.

  I tensed with a boxer’s preparedness when I saw my uncle at the other end of the room, metal bar in hand, ripping open crates for a fat, misshapen, pockmarked toady whose income depended upon finding violations and accepting bribes from violators. The look on his face told me that he had encountered neither. My uncle had always been a cautious man. Like my father, he believed that it would not take much for the Jews to be expelled from England as they had been from so many other countries—indeed, as they had been from England long ago. He therefore obeyed laws where he could and disobeyed carefully when he could not. It took no ordinary inspector to locate his contraband.

  I stood watching him, admiring his poise and the respect he commanded. At my father’s funeral, Uncle Miguel had looked not much older than I remembered. His hair had begun to turn a speckled color, his closecut beard had grayed almost entirely, and the lines upon his face bespoke his near fifty years, but there was still youth in his eye and an energy in his motions. He had hardly taken his turn in the ring, but he was a fit man of sinewy muscle, and he indulged himself in well-tailored clothing that showed his shape to advantage. He shied away from the French fashions he surreptitiously imported, but his clothes were of the finest cloth, immaculately clean, and dark in color so as to recall the sober fashions of the Amsterdam business world in which he had come of age.