A Conspiracy of Paper

  He showed me another grin. “There is nothing to shame you in your past. I heard that once, when a fellow-adventurer threatened to become too rough with a lady whose wealth you desired, you turned and fired your pistol directly into his face, killing him on the spot.”

  I felt at least some relief in his repetition of this rumor that had followed me for some years—not because I was pleased that these stories were assigned to me, but it proved that Wild heard only the same false stories that had circulated for years. His information had limitations. “The pistol misfired,” I said slowly. “No one was hurt, and the man you speak of later hanged at Tyburn for his crimes.”

  “I only hope you turned him in yourself—procured a nice reward. I think it a shame to see enemies hang and receive no other compensation than the satisfaction of watching them dangle.”

  I studied his face, hoping for some sign of what he was about. But I could read nothing into his unctuous smile. “I fear the crux of your discourse eludes me, sir.”

  “Ah, my point. My point, sir, is that I wish to discuss the matter of this inquiry into your father’s death.”

  “Shall I guess?” I asked tartly. “You wish to see me discontinue the inquiry.”

  Wild laughed, as a benevolent patron laughs at the foolishness of his charges. “No, Mr. Weaver. Just the opposite, in fact. I wish to make certain you proceed apace.”

  I sat patiently to await his explanation.

  “I wish to keep you out of a business that I claim for myself,” Wild continued. “The public approves of me heartily, and I have no desire to compete with you for the trade. Since thief-taking is so unpleasant a business I am sure you wish to find other avenues of employment. Thus I am to see that your investigation into the matter of these deaths is successful, for I believe that such a conclusion would open new opportunities for you, and we would no longer find ourselves competitors.” He looked at me in the most challenging manner imaginable. “You will note that I have not let this unfortunate business with Kate Cole trouble me.”

  I took a drink of wine. “So much the better,” I said, affecting indifference. In truth, his oily speech only exacerbated the pain in my head, and I wished to say nothing that might extend our conversation.

  “Yes, it is too bad about Jemmy,” Wild continued cheerfully. “Not too bad that he’s dead, for I could not trust the fellow and would have ’peached him myself soon enough. It is a shame that I shall receive no money for his death, but I shall see money of Kate, and that’s all one to me. You might have wondered if I would feel ill will toward you for stepping into my business as you did, but I can assure you that I hold no grudge. I promise that your name will never be raised at Kate’s trial.”

  “I am pleased to hear that,” I muttered. I cannot say that I was surprised by Wild’s intention to let Kate swing, but the coldness of his resolve unsettled me. Did he believe himself to be charming or terrifying?

  “Yes, I thought you might be pleased,” he continued. “Now, shall we return to your more pressing problem? I do want to be of service.”

  “I shall not stop you.” Wild surely could not believe that I should be fooled by his bombastic claims of fellowship—I saw not what I had to gain by pretending to be more foolish than he might hope. “Frankly, Mr. Wild, I don’t believe you, and I should be utterly astonished if you expected me to believe you. Perhaps you can simply tell me what it is you want, and then I may return to my lodgings to heal myself of this meeting.”

  He placed a hand upon his breast. “You wound me, sir.” He froze in this position, and then appeared to change his mind. “No, you do not. Of course you do not wound me; when I have been telling you of my plans to let Kate swing, there is no reason for you to see me as anything but a schemer—which I am, and a devilish good one, too. The truth is that I have reasons of my own for wishing to see you succeed in your inquiry—for uncovering the truth behind these murders. My business thrives upon the plague of thieves in this city, but murder is another matter altogether. A murder is something I never condone. It is quite bad for my business. If a man finds his watch missing, that is one thing, but when wealthy merchants are plotted against, it is something else.”

  “Then why did you wait for me to begin an inquiry? If these murders distressed you so, why not manage the affair yourself?”

  “Because until you began your inquiry, no one believed they were murders. As long as the public is content, I am content. But I assure you, Weaver, that having stirred up public sentiment about these deaths, if you now fail to resolve the matter, it is bad for both of us.”

  “What rot!” I could not help but laugh, though the motion hurt both my ribs and my head.

  Wild laughed with me. “You will have to accept it. My motives are my own. I wish you to succeed, but if you do not wish to succeed, you may ignore my advice and my assistance. There is no better-informed man in the city, and I may have knowledge that could aid you. Feel free to ask me anything, sir. Anything at all.”

  I considered this offer. “Where can I find Bertie Fenn, the man who ran down my father?”

  Wild held out his hands to signify his helplessness. “I do not know where you can find him, but I have heard that he works for a man named Martin Rochester, who is something of a criminal mind in his own right. Not a man to trifle with, from what I hear.”

  “I have heard this name of Rochester for some time. It seems the entire world knows of him, but no one knows him. It is indeed enigmatic.”

  “Yes, you are on an enigmatic course, are you not?”

  “Then if you wish to aid me, you can clear up some of the enigmas rather than add to them. Tell me everything you know about Rochester—his business, where he lives, whom else he employs.”

  Wild only shrugged. “Alas, Rochester is a very secretive man. I know not where he works nor whom he employs—other than Fenn, that is. I am simply a thief-taker, sir, and cannot begin to fathom the world of stock-jobbers such as Rochester. These stock-jobbers are the very devil. They turn everything upside down. There is no sorting out of one’s business around them.”

  I sighed. These endless railleries against stock-jobbers frustrated me—not because I wished to defend them, not because these condemnations insulted my father’s memory, but because these words were upon every man’s lips and proved worse than empty and useless.

  “You do not really have any information for me then? For a man who knows of everything, you share remarkably little.” I started to rise, and even this slight motion caused Mendes to shift the weight upon his feet.

  Wild held up a staying hand, I could not say at which of us. “Perhaps I do not have precisely the information you desire. Yet I hear things, and I should like to share with you some of the things I have heard.”

  I made no effort to disguise my skepticism. “By all means.” I settled back into my chair.

  “It is my understanding that Rochester arranged for the death of your father as well as Michael Balfour. I do not know why, but I do know that he employed Bertie Fenn. Further, sir, it is my understanding that Mr. Rochester has some connection with the South Sea Company. I believe you will have to look to the Company to find the truth behind these murders.”

  “How is it,” I asked, “that so many men point me in the direction of the South Sea Company but can then tell me no more?”

  Wild looked at me with something like surprise. “I cannot speak for other men.”

  “What is your affiliation with Perceval Bloathwait?” I demanded.

  “Bloathwait?” I had either genuinely surprised him or he was a superb actor. “The Bank of England director? What dealings should I have with him?”

  “That is precisely what I wish to determine.”

  “None. I suspect I never shall, unless he should find his pocket picked one day or the other.”

  “Then tell me how you know these things about the Company,” I said.

  “Men are undone in whispers, you know. A prig tells me a piece, a whore tells me another pi
ece. I put all these pieces together. Sometimes I can ask no more than I am told.”

  I thought hard on what else I might ask. I could not begin to guess at Wild’s motives, but if he wished to aid me, for the nonce I would take his information. “What do you know of a man named Noah Sarmento?” I asked. Wild might deny dealings with Bloathwait, but if my uncle’s clerk was a villain of some description, then Wild might know of him.

  His face was a blank. “I cannot say I know of him.”

  “Very well. You had your men beat me and drag me here in order to give me your friendly encouragement. Do I understand that correctly, Mr. Wild?”

  “Really, Weaver, I have apologized about that. I have told you all I know of Rochester and the South Sea involvement. You must do some of this work yourself.”

  “Then I shall get to it.” I began to rise. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Wild,” I said sourly, as I attempted to steady myself. I did not wish to give Wild the satisfaction of seeing me in any way incapacitated. “I cannot say how much faith I can place in your promise, but I can assure you that this meeting has been illuminating for me.”

  “I am delighted to hear that. You know, Mr. Weaver, my offer still stands—if you wish to find employment with me, there is always room for a man of your stripe.”

  “Your offer is as tempting to me today as the day you first made it, sir.”

  “Ah, then. One more thing I wish to bring up. It’s about this Kate Cole matter. I could not but detect some squeamishness on your part when I mentioned her hanging day. I suppose you are one of those unfortunates crippled with sentiment—such a nasty condition. It occurs to me that if the idea of her hanging distresses you, I might choose to spare her the rope.”

  “And in exchange?” I asked.

  “In exchange,” he said, “you will owe me a favor. One of my choice, that I may call upon when I choose.”

  I believed that he could arrange to spare her life. A man like Wild would have precisely the influence to abort the trial, just as he would have the power to see her hang should he choose to do so. Yet I wondered what price he would extract for clearing my conscience. What would it mean to be in Wild’s debt—to have no say in how that debt might be paid? I thought about this offer in terms of probability, in terms of risk and reward, in terms of Wild’s efforts to speculate on lives as though he jobbed people themselves upon some felonious exchange. In the end, and it is a decision I have come to regret in many ways, I placed my fear of Wild’s power over my concern for Kate’s life. I said nothing and watched the images of a hanged Kate play themselves out before my mind’s eye and told myself that, should Kate’s life end in this way, I could endure the guilt.

  I chose not to honor Wild with a response to his offer, so he continued speaking. “Very well, then. Shall I have Mr. Mendes return you to your lodgings?”

  I glanced at my old acquaintance, who had hardly moved since his arrival in the room. “Yes,” I said, making sure to betray nothing of my feelings. “I think I’d like that.”

  · · ·

  MENDES AND I SAT in the coach in silence for a few moments. Finally he turned to me. “You will understand if I do not return your arms until we reach your home.”

  “If I wished to harm you, Mr. Mendes, I would not require weaponry. Tell me,” I said, changing my tone dramatically, “do you enjoy working for Wild, being treated like his mameluke?”

  Mendes laughed. “My employment with Mr. Wild has served me well.”

  I thought on this for a moment, attempting to concentrate, though the jarring movements of the hackney aggravated my too-recent wounds. “Come now, Mendes. Let us be honest with each other. It may well be that Wild is an easy master, but he is a master all the same. No matter the trust he may put in you, you must remain for him always a Hebrew, and nothing more.”

  “I hardly know what you mean,” Mendes said. “For Wild, any man is but the sum of what he does. I am no different. While I serve him well, he treats me well.”

  “We, however, are of the same neighborhood,” I continued. “I ask you now to think of that commonality and tell me the truth of these matters.”

  “The truth?” Mendes stared.

  “Yes. I know you and I have never been great friends, but we have a common bond. You continue to associate yourself with the Jews of Dukes Place—more than I do. You attend services at the synagogue, and I admire your desire to maintain a connection with our people. Can you not look at that commonality and find it within you to be honest with me?”

  “Perhaps it is you who should be honest with me, sir. What is it that motivates you?”

  “Me? Why, I wish to find the man who killed my father. No difficult motivation, that.”

  “Except you never cared a fig for your father while he was alive. I, however, saw him quite regularly about the neighborhood, while you feared to set foot within our quarter.”

  I could hardly answer these charges, which I knew were only too just. I told myself that his words meant nothing, that Mendes knew nothing of how my father treated me, that a man of his spirit could have taken it no more than I. But I could not quite believe my own thoughts, perhaps because when I left, I left not out of anger or indignation or the justice of my cause—I left with my father’s stolen money in my pocket.

  We rode in silence until the hackney now stumbled to a halt. “We are arrived, Mr. Weaver.” He handed me my daggers, hangar, and pistol, and wished that I might use them in the best of health. “I hope you meet great success in your inquiry,” Mendes said as I stepped out of the hackney. “Mr. Wild does as well. That may be difficult for you to believe just now, but I promise you it is so.”

  My legs shook a bit as I touched the cobbled street, and the daylight in my eyes, after the dark of the hackney, made me feel like a drunkard just roused from last night’s stupor. As I limped toward Mrs. Garrison’s front door I thought of all the information I had obtained that day, and wondered why I felt no closer to knowing anything at all.

  TWENTY-THREE

  I FOUND WILD’S MANEUVERINGS rough and barbaric, but for all his clumsiness, I could not see his game. There was no shortage of men pushing me toward the South Sea Company, and to suspect that they all conspired in this together was to say that my uncle was part of this conspiracy. That possibility filled me with dread, but in light of the information I had obtained, it was one I could not entirely dismiss. Why had my uncle wished to keep me clear of Bloathwait, whose involvement in these matters grew evident? Did Sarmento deal with Bloathwait with or without my uncle’s knowledge? And why did my uncle maintain a friendship with Adelman, a man so important to the South Sea Company, if it appeared that the Company’s hand in my father’s death was undeniable?

  For the nonce, no question plagued me more than Wild’s interest. I could not imagine how a dandified pickpocket like Wild stood to gain from exposing the Company. Despite his claims about the importance of punishing murder, my success in these matters would perhaps be the greatest threat to Wild’s concerns, for many a man in London, as Sir Owen had shown by example, would pay more to have an honest man return his goods than pay a more moderate fee to the thief that took them in the first place. I could only conclude two probable explanations for Wild’s behavior: either he aimed somehow, through all his maneuverings, to remove me from his way; or, for reasons I could not yet guess, the South Sea Company was so dangerous to him that he would risk my injuring him in the future in order to expose the Company now. I could not even speculate on what the Company could have to do with an oily fiend like Wild, but if he did fear the South Sea, why did he not give me more information with which to do the Company harm?

  Quite exhausted and hurting from the blows I’d taken of Wild’s men, I entered Mrs. Garrison’s house, now prepared at last to sleep. I could not say with any truthfulness that the pain had subsided much; if anything, it ached more acutely, though the sting of it had passed. I believed that I could tell from past experience when an injury was serious or no, and while I knew
I should be in discomfort for some days ahead, I did not believe myself in any danger. I would think through these matters properly once I had rested, but rest was not to prove so easy to obtain. Mrs. Garrison awaited me in the hall, her hands red from her incessant wringing.

  “Mr. Weaver, sir, are you unharmed?” She appeared something like concerned, even, I would venture, glad to see me, but I knew too well the meaning of her clucking her tongue. I had heard it many a time and often when my rent was past due.

  “Yes, Mrs. Garrison,” I said with a soft voice, doing my best to put her at ease. She would not soon forget the horror of having those villainous men in her home. “There was no cause for alarm. These were some foolish men, but utterly harmless.”

  “I am glad you are well,” she said. “I thought they had hurt you quite grievously.” There was a pause.

  “You wish to add something, madam?”

  “Mr. Weaver, I cannot have ruffians coming into my home. This is a respectable house I run, sir. I have looked the other way, with your being a Hebrew and such, sir. Many’s the folk who would not do so,” she added hastily. “But I can’t have these ruffians, armed with swords and guns and the Lord only knows what manner of weapons, come into my house and threaten me and frighten me and the servants, sir.”

  “I quite understand, Mrs. Garrison,” I said soothingly. “It shan’t happen again. It was all an unfortunate misunderstanding that could have happened to any gentleman.”

  “Any gentleman?” she asked. “Begging your pardon, sir, I am afraid I misbelieve you.” She paused. “Mr. Weaver, I must ask you to leave. I must. I cannot have such men in here to frighten me like to death and to do what mischief I know not to me and to my tenants. I’ll need you gone before sundown, Mr. Weaver.”

  “Before sundown?” I almost shouted. “I quite understand your concern, Mrs. Garrison, and I do not resent it, but before sundown is hardly reasonable. I shall not have time to search for other lodgings. I might remind you that I am paid through the end of the quarter.”