“Do you know anything of a Mr. Martin Rochester?” I demanded.
His face now turned bright red. “I told you, sir, that I would not discuss the matter.”
I rejoiced inwardly, for Cowper had just inadvertently given me far more information than I could have hoped for: in his mind, it seemed, forged stock and Martin Rochester were related concerns. “What amount could entice you to change your mind?”
“Not any amount.” He stood up and made his way from the coffeehouse.
I sat there for some moments, staring at the pulse of the crowd around me, uncertain of how to proceed. Could the South Sea Company have killed old Balfour to regain its twenty thousand pounds? Clearly not, for I now had learned that he had sold the stock back to the Company itself. More than that, if their dealings were as massive as my uncle suggested, measured in the millions, then twenty thousand pounds were as nothing to so grand an institution. Could it be that there was something else here—something I had overlooked? What if their motivation was not the money, but the ruin itself? I had assumed all along that old Balfour had been killed for money while my father had been killed for another reason—a reason related to the theft of old Balfour’s estate. Now it appeared that those assumptions were wrong—or at the very least dubious.
My thoughts were then interrupted by one of the house boys who came through crying out the name of a gentleman for whom he had a message. I bethought myself of a wonderful idea, and immediately called for a paper and pen and wrote out a brief note. I then summoned the boy over and slipped a few pence into his hand.
“Call out for this in a quarter of an hour,” I told him. “If no one claims it, tear it up.”
“Certainly, Mr. Weaver.” He flashed a silly grin and began to trot off.
I grabbed his arm. Not hard, but just enough to make him stop. “How do you know my name?” I asked, freeing him from my grip. I had no wish to make him feel threatened.
“You’re a famous person, sir,” he announced, pleased with his knowledge. “A boxer, sir.”
“Are you not a little young to have seen me fight?” I inquired, half to myself.
“I never saw you fight, but I heard about you. And then you was pointed out to me.”
My face betrayed nothing. “Who pointed me out?”
“Mr. Nathan Adelman, sir. He asked me to let him know if I saw you. Though he had no message for you.” His voice trailed off, for the first time, I think, suspecting that Adelman might not have wished him to say anything to me. He covered up the damage he had done by showing me another grin.
I gave him a few more pence. “For your trouble,” I said, hoping my money would dissuade him from thinking too hard on his blunder.
The boy ran off, giving me some time to think of what he had said. Adelman wished to know if I made my way to Jonathan’s. I could not suppose there was anything too sinister in that. One thing I had come to believe was that Adelman told the truth when he said that even men who had nothing to hide would wish to impede my inquiry. I knew not if Bloathwait’s suspicions, like my father’s, of false South Sea stock were true or not, but I did know that even the rumor of it would be horribly damaging to the Company—so much so that Virgil Cowper had been afraid even to listen to talk of such a thing.
In a quarter of an hour, as promised, the boy reappeared, ringing his bell loudly. “Mr. Martin Rochester,” he bellowed. “Message for Mr. Martin Rochester.”
I thought it something of a stroke of brilliance on my part. I had no expectation that Rochester would be here, that he would reveal himself so easily—he had done far too much to keep himself hidden for that, but I thought this display might shake something loose. And I was correct.
I cannot say that all conversation stopped. Indeed, many conversations continued oblivious to the boy’s cry. But some stopped. I watched as men deep in argument ceased speaking in mid-sentence and looked up, mouths still open like befuddled cattle. I saw men whispering, men scratching their heads, men scanning the room, looking to see if anyone answered the call. The boy strolled through the room and could not have received more attention if he had been the finest actress of the stage, come to strut naked through a gentleman’s club.
The boy made a complete pass, and then shrugged and returned to his duties. Slowly, the jobbers who had been disturbed by my experiment returned to their other interests, but within a few minutes I saw a man stand and begin to walk after the boy.
It was Miriam’s lover, Philip Deloney.
I watched him exchange a few words with the boy and then leave. I stood up and walked over to the boy, who was busy collecting dirtied dishes from tables.
“Did that man say what he wanted?”
“He wanted to know who sent that message, Mr. Weaver.”
“And what did you tell him?”
“I told him you did, sir.”
I laughed softly. Why not tell him? “What did he say?”
“He asked to see it, but I told him I’d already torn it to bits, just like you said.”
I could not fault the boy his honesty. I thanked him and made my way out of Jonathan’s.
A strong wind struck me as I opened the door and headed into the Alley. What interest could Deloney have with Martin Rochester? Was it simply coincidence that he had an intimacy with Miriam and also involved himself with the man I believed responsible for my father’s death? I could not answer that question with any certainty. But I knew that I could no longer consider my interest in my cousin Miriam a distraction from my work. I could no longer doubt that her lover somehow had a connection to the death of my father.
I WANDERED UNTIL I was close to Grub Street, where the bookseller, Mrs. Nahum Bryce, had told me I should find the shop belonging to Christopher Hodge, who had published my father’s pamphlets. At Grub Street I stepped into a public house to inquire the location of Hodge’s business, but the tapman there only shook his head.
“Shop’s gone, it is,” he said. “An’ Hodge went with it. Fire, it was—terrible one what killed him and pretty badly scorched a couple of ’prentice boys with ’im. Coulda been much worse, I reckon, but at least it happened when he’d given most everyone a night off.”
“A fire,” I repeated. “When?”
The tapman looked up, trying to recall. “I’m thinking three, four months now,” he speculated.
I thanked him and made my way to Moor Lane, where I once again called upon Mr. Bryce’s widow. She emerged from the back of his shop, a quiver in the corners of her mouth betraying some small amusement upon seeing me again. I requested a private audience, and she escorted me through the back to a small parlor of sorts, where I sat upon an aging and somewhat threadbare settee. She took an armchair across from me and instructed one of the apprentices to bring us tea.
“How may I be of service to you, sir?” Mrs. Bryce asked me.
“I wish to inquire of some information you gave me that I found most odd. You see, I find it very strange that you would advise me to seek out a Mr. Christopher Hodge of Grub Street when Mr. Hodge’s shop, along with Mr. Hodge, appears to have burned down some months ago.”
Mrs. Bryce’s mouth opened and closed several times, as she attempted to form some thought. “You astonish me,” she began at last. “And it pains me, sir, for you to believe that I should in some way deceive you. Were I a man, I might call you out for such an error; as I am a woman, I must understand that you do not know me, and any insult you offer me is an insult to a person you think me to be—a person who does not exist.”
“I stand ready to offer you my apology if I have in some way misjudged you.”
“I never seek an apology, I assure you. Only that you should not be convinced of a falsehood. As I recall, sir, when you inquired of the publisher of Mr. Lienzo’s pamphlets, I mentioned Christopher Hodge, for he had, indeed, sent to press some writings of Mr. Lienzo’s. I know much about Mr. Hodge’s doings, for he was a great friend of my husband’s and of mine. Indeed, after Mr. Bryce’s death, Mr. Hodge provided
me with a great deal of assistance in running this business. I was not ignorant of his death, for it touched upon me very deeply. But as to my failing to inform you of Kit Hodge’s passing, I need only remind you that you interrupted my narrative to ask me about Mr. Deloney, and you then abruptly rushed off. If I omitted any details you may have sought, you must consider that the fault rests with you, sir, for having departed in such a haste.”
I stood and bowed. “You are just in your censure, Mrs. Bryce. I have been hasty.” I returned to my seat.
“It is no matter. As I say, I only wished for matters to be clear in your mind. Although,” she said, and I could see from the grin she attempted to suppress, that she was perhaps about to say something that might amuse her, “I find this accusation of deception most interesting. For it occurs to me that Mr. Deloney returned to my store just yesterday, and I asked him if he had been contacted by you, sir. When I told him your name, he assured me that he had never gone to school with you, and he then abused you with some names I shall never repeat. So, you see, sir, from my point of view, it appears very much as though you have been deceiving me.”
I could do nothing but laugh, and heartily too. I rose again to my feet and bowed at Mrs. Bryce. “You have corrected me, madam, and I thank you.”
She only returned her charming widow’s smile. “I must say your response astonishes me. And I should very much like to hear more why you felt compelled to deceive me on the score of your relationship with Mr. Deloney.”
“Mrs. Bryce,” I began, “I shall be honest with you, but I hope you will forgive me if I am circumspect as well. I have been hired to determine if there was something other than accidental in the death of Samuel Lienzo, and I have come to suspect that there may indeed be, and that his death may be related to information he had obtained—information he wished to publish in a pamphlet. I held, and lost, a manuscript copy of the pamphlet, and I wished to know if Mr. Lienzo had attempted to publish a copy of it before his death. If I was deceptive, or if I suspected you of deception, it is only because this inquiry has imparted upon me the need to be both discreet and suspicious.”
Mrs. Bryce gasped. “Do you mean to say,” she began, “that you think Mr. Deloney is somehow involved in all of this?”
I had no desire to speak of my suspicions, so I only told the bookseller that my suspicion of Mr. Deloney had proved misguided.
“The fire that burned down Mr. Hodge’s shop,” I pressed on. “As you knew him, I cannot but wonder if you were in any way suspicious of this blaze.”
Mrs. Bryce shook her head. “I was not. As much as his death pained me, we cannot look for intent in all disasters. I thought nothing more of it than its sadness. Do you mean to suggest, sir, that you believe his shop was burned and he was murdered in order to prevent the publication of Lienzo’s pamphlet? Why, the very notion is fantastical.”
“I should have thought much the same,” I told her, “until very recently. I do not say I believe these allegations to be true, madam, but I believe them to be at least possible.”
“I suppose the first step must be to determine whether he had the pamphlet in his possession at the time the shop burned. As it happens, I took over his affairs after his death. He had stipulated as much in his will. Most of his materials were destroyed, but some of his record books remain. If you’d like, we can look through these.”
I thanked Mrs. Bryce and together we went to her study, where she presented to me a half-dozen volumes of ledger books that smelled of charring and mildew. Hodge had written in them in a dense but legible hand, and for the second time in a very short period I found myself feeling uneasy at studying the scribblings of a man whose life had been, in all probability, taken from him. Together we pored over the books for two hours, drinking tea as Mrs. Bryce explained to me notations and talked about particular works—if they had done well or poorly, if her husband had liked them or not. Finally, after we had been forced to strike several candles against the growing darkness, Mrs. Bryce found a line in one of the books: “Lienzo—conspiracy/paper.”
I stared at it. “It seems compelling evidence,” I said quietly.
Mrs. Bryce took her time responding. “It doesn’t prove anyone killed Mr. Hodge,” she said at last, “but all the same, I would appreciate it if you no longer frequented my shop.”
TWENTY-SIX
WHEN I RETURNED to my uncle’s house I found that old Isaac, the servant, awaited my return with a large package just delivered for me.
“Who is it from?” I asked Isaac.
He shook his head. “The boy who brought it wouldn’t say, sir. He gave it to me, held out his hand for a coin, and left without answering any questions.”
I hesitated for a moment, for I found something frightening in secret messages, and I did not like the idea of the players in this game seeking me out in my uncle’s home.
While I inspected the box, Miriam entered the room and greeted me casually. The look on my face gave her pause, however. “Does something trouble you?” I felt uncomfortable under the heat of her gaze upon my bruised eye, but at least she seemed to have forgotten her earlier coolness, and that was perhaps enough for me.
I showed her the bundle. She merely shrugged. “Open it,” she said.
I sucked in my breath and began to untie the packaging. Miriam looked on curiously as I opened it and found inside the most remarkable contents. It was a costume and a ticket to a masquerade ball to be held that evening at the Haymarket. A note affixed to the invitation read:
Sir,
You are encouraged to attend this ball of Mr. Heidegger’s tonight, where many of the questions you seek will be answered. In a place where all are disguised, one may feel free to speak openly. I look forward to our meeting in a place where I hope to prove myself,
A friend.
Miriam attempted to read the note, but I quickly folded it and hid it from her view.
“How intriguing,” Miriam noted. “It’s rather like a romance.”
“Rather too much like one,” I noted as I removed the costume. Perhaps this secret contact hoped to throw suspicion off me by casting me in the most obvious light, for the costume provided was that of a Tudesco peddler. The clothes were tattered robes accompanied by a floppy hat and a collection of inconsequential trinkets affixed to a tray. The mask covered the top of my face only, with eye-holes over two tiny, evil-looking eyes perched above a grotesquely huge false nose. Below and above the mask were ample quantities of false red hair to make an unruly cover over my own hair as well as to disguise the bottom of my face with an impenetrable thicket of false beard.
“Someone,” I noted, “has a grotesque sense of humor.”
“Does that help you determine who sent the costume?”
“Not particularly,” I mused, “unless it was my friend Elias.”
“Will you go?” Miriam asked me. She sounded excited, as though she found the idea of this intrigue thrilling—and like a romance, without any true risk of danger.
“Oh, I should think so,” I said.
But I did not wish to go according to the terms of my anonymous patron. I therefore sent for Elias, who was kind enough to exit himself from a rehearsal of his play to attend me at Broad Court.
Miriam and I sat in the parlor, though she hardly spoke to me. I remained in contemplation while she read a book of verse. Several times I believed she had been upon the cusp of speaking to me, but she held herself back. I wished she would tell me what was upon her mind, but my own thoughts were so occupied with the matter at hand that I could hardly think of how to frame my question. So I said nothing until Isaac brought Elias into the room. I could see from the look upon his face that he was poised to produce some quip at the expense of my people, but he held his tongue upon seeing Miriam, whose beauty stopped him in midbreath.
“Weaver,” he said, “I see you have been wise in not speaking of your cousin’s loveliness, for such treasures must be kept in secret, lest they be stolen.” He bowed deeply to Miriam. r />
“But he has not kept you a secret, sir,” Miriam replied, “for he has told me of his great and trusted friend Elias, on whom he depends more than any man alive.”
Elias bowed again, beaming with pride.
Miriam grinned with pleasure. “He has also told me that his great friend is a libertine who will tell any lie that he might undo innocence.”
“Good God, Weaver!”
She laughed. “Perhaps he said no such thing, and I merely draw my own conclusions.”
“Madam, you misunderstand me,” Elias began desperately.
“Elias,” I snapped, “we have urgent business, and time is not our ally.”
A waggish smile washed over Elias’s face. “What has developed, my less-than-jovial Jew?”
Under the circumstances I thought it best that Miriam leave the room; she knew nothing of these matters, and I had no wish to introduce her to my intrigues.
Once Miriam left, I showed Elias the note and invitation. “What know you of these balls?”
“You cannot be serious,” he said. “Heidegger’s masquerades are the very pink of the fashion. I should be ashamed of myself if I did not attend them regularly. Only the most fashionable sort can count on procuring an invitation.” With that he produced a pair of tickets from his pocketbook. “I shall attend tonight, accompanied by Miss Lucy Daston, an ambitious young lady with a small but nevertheless crucial role in a comedy soon to take Drury Lane by surprise.”
“You will indeed be there,” I said with a smile, “but instead of a beautiful actress, I think you would have a far superior time escorting a more manful companion.” I grinned at him. “And I have the very costume for you.” I showed him the disguise that came with the invitation.
Elias stared in horror. “Gad, Weaver, surely you mock me. Can you expect me to give up my evening with fair Lucy in order to wander about Heidegger’s dressed as a bearded mendicant? I shall never get this close to such a beauty again; it seems as though every time I take a liking to an actress she disappears, only to become one of Jonathan Wild’s whores. And you do not seem to understand the effect my failure to bed this wench will have on my constitution.”