A Conspiracy of Paper (16 page)

“There you have the problem,” my uncle said. “For money in England is being replaced with the promise of money. We in business have long valued banknotes and paper money, because they allow for large sums to be conveyed with ease and relative safety. They have allowed for the flourishing of international commerce we see today. Yet for many men, there is something most unsettling about the replacement of value with the promise of value.”

“I do not see why this causes unease. If I am the merchant and can buy what I will with this banknote, or if I can easily convert it to gold, where is the harm?”

“The harm,” my uncle said, “is in whom this system makes powerful. If value is no longer vested in gold, but in the promise of gold, then the men who make the promises hold ultimate power, no? If money and gold are one and the same, then gold defines value, but if money and paper are the same, then value is based upon nothing at all.”

“Yet if we value paper and it buys us what we need, it becomes as good as silver.”

“But can you not imagine, Benjamin, how these changes frighten men? They no longer know where value lies or how to conceive of their own worth when it changes from hour to hour. To hide your gold plate under your floorboards is lunacy in this age, for to let metal molder when it could be breeding more metal is to lose money. Yet to play the funds is to risk it as well, and many fortunes have been made and lost in speculating upon the funds. Speculation could not take place, you understand, without stock-jobbers such as your father was, but even those who have grown vastly rich upon the market turn and look at men like your father with hatred and disdain—for jobbers like Samuel have become emblems of these changes that make men so uneasy. Those who have lost money, you might imagine, hate jobbers even more. There is a sense, you see, that finance is but a game, the rules and the outcome of which have been preset by men operating in secret. These men profit from the fortunes and misfortunes of others—and they cannot lose because they themselves dictate the values of the market. That, at any rate, is what is believed.”

“Absurd,” I said. “How can those who buy and sell stocks dictate their values?”

“First you must understand that in order for stock-jobbers to make money, the prices of the funds must fluctuate. Otherwise there can be no buying and selling at a profit.”

“If the prices of government issues are fixed,” I inquired, “why do the prices fluctuate?”

My uncle smiled. “Because the price is fixed with money, and money is worth more at some times than at others. If there is a bad harvest and food is scarce, then one shilling buys less than if food is plentiful. Similarly, if there is war, and trade is inhibited, then many goods are scarce and more expensive, so money is worth less. The threat of war or famine, or the promise of bounty or peace, all affect the prices of the funds.”

I nodded, pleased with myself for understanding this concept.

“Now, let us say that I am a corrupt stock-jobber,” my uncle mused, delighted with this game, “and I have a government fund that I want to sell that is valued at one twenty-five—that is, 125 percent of its original value. Let us further say that there are rumors of a conflict between Prussia and France. The outcome of such a conflict will almost certainly affect prices here, for a victory on the part of Prussia defeats a mutual enemy, while a victory on the part of France strengthens our enemy and makes war more likely—and if there is war, then money buys less.”

“I understand,” I said.

“Our corrupt jobber believes that France will win and that the prices of government issues will fall, so he wishes to sell. What does he do? He plants false rumors that the Prussians cannot but win—that is, he convinces others of the opposite of what he believes to be true. He has writings to this effect appear in the newspapers. Suddenly ’Change Alley is full of bulls who wish to buy all they can. Our friend sells at one thirty-five, and when the Prussians actually lose the battle, the price of the issue drops, the jobber has sold at an unreasonable rate, those who purchased when the price was elevated now suffer a great loss.”

“Surely you do not suggest that men truly practice such schemes, or that my father did?”

“Bah.” He waved his hand. “Do jobbers manipulate rumors to alter stock prices in their favor? Some do and some don’t. If so, it is the province of well-placed men who have the ear of governments. Directors at the Bank of England and so forth. These men do have control over what is valuable and what is not, and that is indeed a great deal of power.”

“But did my father resort to such deceptions?” I asked pointedly.

He showed his palms to the ceiling. “I never meddled with his business. He managed his affairs as he thought best.”

I ignored the fact that my uncle had maneuvered out of answering a question. It was no matter; I knew the answer but too well—that is, I knew of at least one incident, from when I was a boy, when my father had cheated another man. When I had learned of that cheat, though I was but a child, I could not understand how he might have deceived other men—he had no ability to charm or cajole as my uncle did. Perhaps his bland impatience had been misunderstood as earnestness.

“Even if he did not engage in any manipulations,” I continued, “he would sell when he suspected prices would soon fall. Is that not deceitful?”

“He never
knew
that prices would fall, and assuredly he was wrong many times, though never so often as he was right. If I buy something of you, there is much uncertainty on my end, but one thing I may be sure of is that you are willing to part with what you sell. When your father sold he took a chance, much like the men to whom he sold.”

“Yet when he was right, and prices fell, men cried dishonesty.”

“Inevitably. It is the way of things when one loses, is it not?”

“Then,” I said with some agitation, “you think every man my father ever did business with should be suspected? That seems like a great number of men. Is there perhaps a record of some of the men with whom he dealt most recently?”

My uncle shook his head. “Not that I have been able to discover.”

“And can you think of no one in particular—a great enemy who might have delighted in the destruction of my father?”

My uncle shook his head vigorously, as though trying to dispel an unpleasant thought. “I cannot. As I say, your father was hated by many men, men who feared the new financial mechanisms. But a great enemy? I think not. It is Herbert Fenn, this coachman, who ran him down. That is where your inquiry must begin.” He slammed his fist into his palm.

Sensing that my uncle had no more to tell me, I rose and thanked him for his assistance. “I shall, naturally, keep you informed of my progress.”

“And I shall continue to look for anything that may be of use.”

My uncle and I shook hands warmly, perhaps a bit too warmly for my comfort, for he looked at me with something like paternal affection, and I could only choke back the urge to tell him that I was not his son, and his son was most certainly not to be found within me.

After a formal farewell to my aunt and to Miriam, I left the house and made my way to the High Street, where I procured a hackney to take me to my home.

I was pleased that I had acquired so much information, even if I was not sure how I would now proceed. One thing was certain, however. In the time since I had first spoken to Mr. Balfour, I had come around to his way of thinking. Perhaps it was the conversation I had had in Adelman’s coach, or perhaps it was my understanding of the depth of confusion produced by the financial markets that my father had understood so well. I could not say why precisely it had happened, but I realized that I now acted with the belief that my father’s death had been a murder.

There remained in my mind, however, one question that I could not set aside. It was on the matter of my father’s enemies. I could not understand why my uncle had lied to me so boldly.

ELEVEN

I
RETURNED TO
my rooms in Mrs. Garrison’s house, and after pouring myself a glass of port, I sat in the dim light of a cheap tallow candle and wondered if my uncle and I had simply misunderstood each other. I had asked him if my father had any great enemies, and my uncle had said no. Could it be that he had no wish to bring up an unpleasantness from the past? That he believed an enemy whose hatred had been born so many years ago could be no true foe today? Or was it that in the ten years since I had left Dukes Place my father had achieved some kind of peace with a man who had sworn to undo him?

I had thought to clarify the question—to ask my uncle if there had
never
been any such enemy, but I feared that if I forced the issue, he would answer with the name I had in mind, and I was far too curious of his silence to force him to speak. Had he withheld that information because he believed that I never knew of this enemy? That my father had never bothered to speak of him to me, the disobedient son? Or had my uncle hoped that my recollection of this enemy had slipped through the fissures of a memory made unreliable by intemperate living and misadventure?

Whatever the reason my uncle might have had to withhold this name, I could never hope to forget Perceval Bloathwait.

I never entirely knew the nature of my father’s conflict with Bloathwait, for it had happened when I was perhaps eight years old, but I knew enough to understand that either my father had cheated Bloathwait out of a sum of money, or Bloathwait believed he had. All I knew as a child, and all I knew that night, as I sat in my room, was that Bloathwait had come to my father on a matter of business—either to buy or to sell, I know not which. I understood this much when, one cold evening in midwinter, snow pushing up toward the windows on the ground floor of our house, Mr. Bloathwait had arrived in the middle of our dinner and demanded to speak with my father. We sat about the table, my brother José and myself, while my father, looking stern in his white wig and drab, slightly soiled clothes, told his servant to refuse the man. The servant disappeared with a bow, but only seconds later, it seemed to me, a fat, sturdy man in a black, flowing full-bottom wig and a scarlet coat, burst into the room, snow still dripping from his outer garments. He seemed a giant of a man, made huge by indignation—a massive bulk of animated contempt for my father.

“Lienzo,” he hissed like a cat. “You have ruined me!”

We were all silent. I waited for my father to rise up with outrage at this rudeness, but he only sat motionless, staring at his plate, avoiding eye contact with the man as though to look at him would be to invite some kind of violence. “You may speak to me in my place of business on the morrow, Mr. Bloathwait,” he said at last. His voice was subdued and tremulous. Perspiration, reflected in the orange light of the fireplace, glistened upon his face.

Bloathwait spread his legs a bit as though to steady himself against an assault. “I fail to understand why I should not destroy your domestic quiet when you have utterly ruined mine. You are a scoundrel and a thief, Lienzo. I demand restitution.”

“If you believe you have been wronged, you may take your concerns to court,” my father replied with uncharacteristic fortitude. A crack in his voice betrayed his fear, but he responded to the desperation of the moment with a kind of noble resignation. “Otherwise, you must consider yourself a victim of the changeable nature of the funds. We all suffer from time to time, at the whim of Lady Fortune: there is no avoiding it. I believe a man should always invest no more than he can afford to lose.”

“My enemy was not Fortune. It was
you,
sir.” He pointed at my father with a great walking stick. “It was you who encouraged me to invest my fortune in those funds.”

“Mr. Bloathwait, if you wish to discuss this matter, you may come see me upon the ’Change, but I wish to spare you the indignity of being escorted out by my servants.”

Bloathwait twisted his mouth as if to speak, but it suddenly grew slack—like a wine bladder gone empty. He lowered his walking stick and tapped it once upon our floor. He then stretched out his shockingly small mouth to show us a grin. I say
us,
for he flashed it at me and José as much as at my father. “I think, Mr. Lienzo, that I shall wait for you to seek me out.” He offered a short and formal bow, and then departed.

Had that been the end of the affair, I suppose I might have forgotten it. But it did not end there. Only a few days later, as I returned home from my school, I spotted Mr. Bloathwait upon the street. At first I did not recognize him, and walked on, noticing an enormous figure directly before me who stood shin-deep in snow, trailed by the flapping of a great black overcoat. He stared hard upon me, and his black eyes sunk into a face that appeared to me an enormous expanse of skin peppered with tiny eyes, a bud of a nose, and a mere slash of a mouth. The harsh gusts of wind had turned his skin red and sent his dark wig upon the air like a military banner. He wore somber clothes—for Bloathwait was a Dissenter—and those of his sect had learned from their ancestors, the Puritans, to use their attire to signify a disregard of vanity. On Bloathwait, however, these dark colors held more of menace than of abnegation.

I moved to step out to the street, to cross and thereby avoid him, but a hackney barreled down, and I had no opportunity. So I walked on, even then foolishly thinking bravado should serve me where luck might not. Perhaps if I only walked by him, ignored him, the incident would pass.

It was not to be so. Bloathwait reached out and grabbed my wrist. It was a firm grab, but not a strategic one. I understood that, as an adult, he was not in the custom of grabbing people by the wrist, and as a boy with an older brother, I knew well how to break such a sloppy hold. For the moment I held my ground, unsure if I should break free and run or listen to what this man, who was, after all, an adult, had to say. He frightened me, yes, but I recognized in his anger with my father some commonality with him—as though he had found a way to give voice to my own ideas and experiences. For this reason, I wished to know more of him, but because he made me recognize my father in a way I never had before, I wished to flee.

“Let go of me,” I said, trying to sound nothing so much as irritated.

“I’ll let go of you, sure,” he said. “But I want you to tell your father something for me.”

I said nothing, and he took that as acquiescence. “Tell your father I want my money returned, or sure as I stand here I shall let you and your brother know my outrage.”

I would not show him that I was frightened, though there was much in his look to frighten a boy my age. “I understand you,” I said, raising my chin. “Let go of me now.”

The wind blew fresh snow in his face, and I believed there to be something villainous about even the uncaring gesture that wiped it aside. “You’ve more courage than your father, boy,” he said with a grin that spread out his tiny mouth.

He released my wrist and stared at me. I, refusing to run, turned my back to him and walked slowly home, where I waited in silence until my father returned from ’Change Alley. It was not until late, well after dark, that I saw him, and I sent one of the servants to request an audience with him. He refused until I sent the servant back, telling him that it was of the greatest importance. I think my father must have recognized that I rarely requested time with him, and never before had asked again when first refused.

Once he admitted me to his closet, I told him with a steady voice of my encounter with Bloathwait. He listened, attempting to show no emotion upon his face, but what I saw there frightened me more than the vague threats of a fat and pompous man like Bloathwait. My father was frightened, but he was frightened because he knew not what to do, not because he feared for my safety.

I wanted to keep this encounter a secret, even from José, but at last, later that night, I told him, and to my horror he revealed that he had had a nearly identical encounter. From that moment on, Bloathwait became to us more horrific than any goblin or witch used to frighten a child. We saw him regularly, as we came out of school, upon the street, in the marketplace. Grinning at us, sometimes hungrily, as though we were no more than morsels he might devour, and sometimes with a kind of inclusive amusement, as though we were all victims of the same ironic twist of fate—that we were somehow comrades and partners in this ordeal.

I once believed that these encounters went on for months, maybe years, though when I was older, José insisted it had only been for a week or two. I suppose he must be right, for a grown man cannot spend too large a part of his life following children around in order to frighten their father, and I had no memories of Bloathwait in which he was not surrounded by snow or red-faced from the cold. Even now, when I have seen far more of Bloathwait to frighten me as an adult than I had as a child, when I think of him I see him in his great coat, a mass of black in the white of winter.

But Bloathwait’s terror did at last end. When I had not seen him for some time, I asked my father about it, but he only slammed his fist upon the table and shouted that I was never to speak that name aloud again.

I cannot say the name was never spoken of in the house, though. Sometimes, among my father’s business associates, I would hear the word
Bloathwait
mentioned in hushed whispers, and always my father looked over his shoulder to see if there was a witness, a witness who might strip away his mask of indifference and take note of the secret shame beneath.

Until the day I quit that house, I never dared utter his name to my father, but this great, sinister enemy—this man who had been my antagonist, and in a strange way an ally, exposing to me in the most irrefutable terms the failures of my father—remained firmly set in my fancy. I had no difficulty in recognizing him when I saw him next, now grown older, fatter, a lampoon of his former self. I had last looked upon his face, not as a child, but at my father’s funeral, when I had turned away from the service, and walked though the damp London afternoon, and seen him standing at a distance of perhaps fifty feet, looking at us, his little eyes fixed upon the huddle of Jewish men muttering their prayers. Strangely, I knew neither fear nor horror, though in retrospect I believe he looked a horrific figure, wrapped as I remembered him in a black outer coat, his wig, wet with rain, pressed against his face. A servant stood, ineffectually holding an umbrella above his head, and two more stood at the ready, awaiting his commands. When I noticed him, my initial thought was of recognition, as though he were a great friend and one I should be glad to see. Driven by instinct, I almost raised my hand in a wave, but in an instant I recollected his face, and froze, staring at him. He met my gaze and did not flinch. Rather, he offered me a slight smile, amused and menacing, and then turned to enter his carriage.

I devoted little attention to matters of politics and commerce, but London is a city in which great men are known to all, and I could not but be aware that this man who had once been so monstrous an enemy of my father was now a figure of some prominence—a member of the Court of Directors for the Bank of England. The Bank of England was the enemy of the South Sea Company, and the Company wished my inquiry to cease. I could not tell what it was, or how these matters fit together, but my uncle’s refusal to name Bloathwait, to allow his name to cross his lips, made plain to me that I had no choice but to talk to this enemy once more to learn if a villain from the past had returned to take my father’s life.

I
DO NOT WISH
to produce in my reader the impression that I had no pursuits but those described in these pages, nor any acquaintances than those herein detailed. I knew my nature to be a single-minded one, however, and I thought it best to clear myself of all outstanding obligations before I plunged myself further into this inquiry. In the days that followed my visit to my uncle’s house, I completed some business I had with a regular patron of mine—tailor who catered to the city’s quality and who often found his bills neglected by gentlemen whose fortunes had turned. Many such gentlemen take advantage of this country’s liberal statutes and appear in public on Sundays when they know the bailiffs cannot arrest them for their debts. Thus, their creditors suffer while debtors parade about under the denomination of
Sunday Gentlemen
. I, however, in the service of my patrons, chose to maintain a much more flexible view of the law than did the bailiffs. I had a long-standing agreement with Bawdy Moll, who allowed me to pluck debtors off the streets on Sundays and deposit them in her gin house until Monday reared its more agreeable head. Rare was the man who would not accept of Moll’s liquor once locked in her dungeon, and with our debtor disoriented and unable to produce a coherent story of his illegal arrest, I would contact a proper bailiff—unaware of the larger scheme—who would make the arrest. It was a simple operation, for which I received an amount equal to 5 percent of the outstanding debt and Moll received a one-pound gratuity.

Having secured a slippery fellow who owed my tailor friend in excess of four hundred pounds, I canvassed a few of my acquaintances to see if they knew something of the elder Balfour or his death, but that proved a fruitless venture. More successful was a visit to a young actress—whose name it would be indelicate to mention—with whom I kept some small acquaintance. She was a beautiful girl with bright blond hair and azure eyes and a sly smile that always made me believe she should play a trick upon me at any moment. I often took comfort in her idle chatter, for the world of the stage was so far from the world of my ordinary exploits, but on this occasion I could take no such refuge, for I listened to her tell me that she had learned she would play Aspasia in
The Maid’s Tragedy
only because the role had been abandoned by a woman who had fled the theatre to become Jonathan Wild’s whore. But I soon forgot the name of this enemy as I enjoyed several delicious hours in this woman’s company. It was something of a shame that she always found herself cast in tragic roles upon the stage, for she had a kind of wit about her that I found irresistible. An evening with this charmer was spent as much in laughter as it was in amorous intrigues. But I digress, for these adventures are of little relevance to this history.