A Conspiracy of Paper (2 page)

“Is it then through your father that you learned of my services?” I asked Balfour. It was an irrelevant question—at least to Mr. Balfour’s concerns. I wished to know if my father had spoken of me—indeed if he had spoken approvingly of me—to his colleagues and business associates. Much to my own astonishment, I felt myself hoping that Balfour had knowledge that my father had, in some way, respected the life I had made for myself.

Balfour quickly disabused me of these fictions. “The recommendation comes not so directly. I had certainly heard your name in the past—in the same connotation, you understand, as one hears of ropedancers and raree-shows and that sort of thing—but recently I found myself in a coffeehouse, when I heard a gentleman mention your name. A friend of his, a Sir Owen Nettleton, had engaged you in a matter of business and believed you to be competent—a rating of sufficient merit in this age. I then conceived of the idea that your services might be of some use to me.”

I often marveled that London, for so enormous a city, is sometimes astonishingly small. Among countless thousands, these kinds of interactions occur almost daily, for men of like nature and like concerns congregated inevitably at the same clubs and taverns and coffeehouses and tea gardens. I had indeed served Sir Owen Nettleton, and his concerns very much occupied my thoughts that morning, but I shall discuss more of him below.

Balfour finished his port with a mighty gulp and looked straight into my eyes with an intensity that suggested a mustering of forces. “Mr. Weaver, I shall be direct with you. My father, sir, was murdered. I believe by the same person or persons who murdered your father.”

I could not even think how to react. My father had been killed, certainly, but not murdered, some two months earlier—a drunken coachman had run him down as he crossed Threadneedle Street. The business had been shrouded with a kind of uncertainty. How reckless had the coachman been? Had my father stepped blindly in his way? Could it have been avoided? All answerless questions, the magistrate determined. The coachman, while negligent, had acted without malicious intention, and could have had no reason to want to do harm to my father. The same act perpetrated against an earl or a Parliamentarian might have earned the coachman, at the very least, seven years of transportation to the colonies, but the careless trampling of a Jewish stock-jobber was hardly a matter over which to unfurl the full majesty of the law. The magistrate released the coachman with a stern warning, and that had proved the legal end of the matter.

At that time I had not spoken to my father for close to ten years. I knew nearly nothing of his affairs, and it had hardly occurred to me that his death might have been anything as horrid as murder. This thought had, however, occurred to my father’s kinsman, my Uncle Miguel, who had written to inform me of his suspicions. I blush to own I rewarded his efforts to seek my opinion with only a formal reply in which I dismissed his ideas as nonsensical. I did so in part because I did not wish to involve myself with my family and in part because I knew that my uncle, for reasons that eluded me, had loved my father and could not accept the senselessness of so random a death. Yet now, once again, I was confronted with the suggestion that my father had been the victim of a malicious crime, and once again I found that my self-imposed exile from my family made me wish to disbelieve it.

I forced my face to conform to the rigid angles of impartiality. “My father’s death was an unfortunate accident.” Balfour knew more about my family than I knew about his, and I saw that as a disadvantage, so, already in an agitated state of mind, I proceeded at the slowest of paces. “And if I may be so indelicate, the papers reported your father’s death as something other than murder.”

Balfour held up his hand, as though the idea of self-murder might be ordered away. “I know what the papers reported,” he snapped, spittle flying from his mouth, “and I know what the coroner said, yet I promise you something is amiss here. At the time of my father’s death, his estate was revealed to be quite broken, yet only weeks before he told me himself that he had been profiting in his speculation, taking advantage of the fluctuation in the markets caused by the rivalries between the Bank of England and the South Sea Company. I had no desire to see him meddling in the affairs of ’Change Alley, buying and selling stocks in the manner of—well, in the manner of your people, Weaver—but he believed there were ample opportunities for a man who kept his wits about him. So how can it be that his finances were so”—he paused briefly to choose his terms—“ill ordered. Do you think it any coincidence that both our fathers, very rich men of acquaintance, should have died suddenly and mysteriously within the span of a single day, and my father’s holdings reveal themselves to be in chaos?”

As he spoke, Balfour’s face revealed no small number of passions: indignity, disgust, discomfort, even, I believe, shame. I thought it passing strange that a man out to expose so terrible a crime displayed no attitudes of outrage.

The claims he made, however, sparked within me an agitation, which I sought to contain by setting my mind to the facts before me. “What you present does not offer any kind of evidence of murder,” I said after a moment. “I cannot see how you have reached this conclusion.”

“My father’s death was made to look like self-murder so that a villain or villains could take his money with impunity,” he pronounced, as though he unveiled a discovery of natural philosophy.

“You believe his estate to have been robbed, and your father to have been murdered to hide this robbery?”

“In a word, sir, yes. That is what I believe.” Balfour’s features settled, for a brief moment, into a look of languid contentment. Then he eyed his empty wineglass with nervous longing. I obliged him by refilling.

I paced about the room, despite the distracting ache of an old wound in my leg—a wound that had ended my days as a pugilist. “What is the connection between these deaths, then, sir? My father’s estate is solvent.”

“But is anything missing? Do you even know, sir?”

I did not, so I ignored what I considered a presumptuous question. “It is in your best interest that I be blunt. Your father has died recently, under terrible conditions, and unable to leave a legacy. You have grown up with the expectation of wealth and privilege, with every reason to believe you would live a gentleman’s life of ease. Now you find your dreams dashed, and you look for ways to believe it is not so.”

Balfour reddened dramatically. I suspect he was unused to challenges, particularly challenges from men such as myself. “I resent your words, Weaver. My family may be under disabilities at this moment, but you would do well to remember that I am a gentleman born.”

“As I am,” I said, looking directly into his reddish eyes. It was a harsh blow. His family was an upstart, and he knew it. He had earned that most ambiguous title of
gentleman
through his father’s aggressive dealings as a tobacco merchant, not through the majesty of his bloodlines. Indeed, I recalled that old Balfour had made a bit of a stir among the more established tobacco merchants by angering the men he hired to unload his vessels. Dock laborers have, by custom, always been given scant wages, and they have evened out their earnings through a kind of quiet redistribution of the goods they handle. For vessels carrying tobacco, the process is known as “socking”; the laborers merely plunge their hands into the bales of tobacco, sock away as much as they can hold and then resell it on their own. True enough it was a kind of sanctioned theft, but years ago tobacco merchants had realized that their porters were helping themselves to the cargo despite any measures meant to prevent them, so they simply cut the wages and looked the other way.

Old Balfour, however, had taken the unhappy step of hiring men to inspect the workers and make sure no one socked his goods, but he refused to raise wages proportionately. The laborers had grown violent—smashing open several bales of sot weed and boldly liberating their contents. Old Balfour only relented once his brother merchants convinced him that to pursue this mad course was to risk riot and destruction of all their trades.

That this merchant’s son should assert that his was an old family was patently absurd—it was not even an old
trading
family. And while in those days there was, as there is now, something decidedly English about a wealthy merchant, it was a relatively new and uncertain assertion that the son of such a man could claim the status of
gentleman
. My declaration that our families were of a piece sent him into a kind of fit. He blinked as though trying to dispel a vision, and twitched irritably until he regained himself.

“I think it no coincidence that my father’s killers made his death appear self-murder, for it makes all ashamed to discuss it. But I am not ashamed. You think me now penniless, and you think I come to you begging for your help like a pauper, but you know nothing of me. I shall pay you twenty pounds to look into this matter for one week.” He paused so I might have time to reflect on so large a sum. “That I should have to pay you anything to uncover the truth behind your own father’s murder is the more shame for you, but I cannot answer for your sentiments.”

I studied his face, looking for signs of I’m not sure what—deceit, self-doubt, fear? I saw only an anxious determination. I no longer questioned that he was who he claimed to be. He was an unpleasant man; I knew that I disliked him immensely, and I was certain that he felt no love for me, yet I could not deny my interest in what he claimed about my father’s death. “Mr. Balfour, did anyone see what you claim to be this falsification of self-murder?”

He waved his hands in the air to demonstrate the foolishness of my question. “I do not know that anyone did.”

I pressed on. “Have you heard talk, sir?”

He stared at me in astonishment, as though I had spoken gibberish. “From whom would I? Do you think me the sort to correspond with men who would talk of such things?”

I sighed. “Then I am confused. How can I find the man who committed a crime if you have no witnesses and no contacts? Into what, precisely, am I to look?”

“I do not know your business, Weaver. It seems to me that you are being damnably obtuse. You have brought men to justice before—how you have done it then, you are to do it now.”

I attempted a polite, and I admit, condescending smile. “When I have brought men to justice in the past, sir, it has been in instances wherein someone knew the villain’s identity, and the task lay before me to locate him. Or perhaps there has been a crime in which the scoundrel is unknown, but witnesses saw that he had some very distinctive features—let us say a scar above his right eye and a missing thumb. With information of this nature, I can ask questions of the sort of people who might know this man and thus learn his name, his habits, and finally his whereabouts. But if the first step is your belief, what is the second step? Who are the right people to inquire of next?”

“I am shocked to hear of your methods, Weaver.” He paused for a moment, perhaps to drive home his distaste. “I cannot tell you of second steps nor of which rascals are appropriate for you to speak with regarding my father’s murder. Your business is your own, but I should think you would consider the matter of sufficient interest to take of me twenty pounds.”

I was silent for some time. I wanted nothing so much as to send the man away, for I had always been willing to go considerable lengths to avoid contact with my family. Yet twenty pounds was no small amount to me, and while I dreaded the terrible day of reckoning, I knew I needed some external force to push me toward reestablishing contact with those whom I had long neglected. And there was more: though I could not then have explained why, the idea of looking into a matter so opaque intrigued me, for it occurred to me that Balfour, despite the bluster with which he presented his notions, was right. Had there been a crime committed, it seemed only reasonable that it could be uncovered, and I liked the thought of what a success in an inquiry of this nature could do for my reputation.

“I expect soon another visitor,” I said at last. “And I am very busy.” He started to speak, but I would not let him. “I shall look into this matter, Mr. Balfour. How could I not? But I have not the time to look into this matter right away. If your father has been killed, then there must be some reason why. If it is theft, we must know more details of the theft. I wish you to go inquire as nearly as you can into his matters. Speak to his friends, relatives, employees, and whomever else you think might perhaps harbor some of the same suspicions. Let me know where I can find you, and in a few days’ time I shall call on you.”

“For what shall I pay you, Weaver, if I am to do your work for you?”

My smile this time was less benign. “You are, of course, right. When I am at liberty, I shall speak to your father’s family, friends, and employees. That they do not dismiss me, I shall be certain to tell them that you have sent me to ask questions of them. You might wish to inform them in advance to expect a Jew by the name of Weaver to inquire closely into family matters.”

“I cannot have you bothering these people,” he stammered. “Gad, to have you asking questions of my mother . . .”

“Then perhaps, as I suggested, you would like to look into this yourself.”

Balfour stood up, performing gentlemanly composure. “I see you are a clever maneuverer. I shall make some discreet inquiries. But I expect to hear from you shortly.”

I neither spoke nor moved, but Balfour took no notice, and within an instant he was gone from my rooms. For some time I remained motionless. I thought on what had transpired and what it might mean, and then I reached for the bottle of port.

TWO

M
Y BUSINESS IN
those days was new—I had not quite two years’ experience and I still struggled to learn the secrets of my trade. I had fought my last pitched battle as a pugilist some five years earlier, when I was not more than three-and-twenty. After that line of work had come to so violent a conclusion, I had found various means of maintaining a livelihood, or perhaps I should say of surviving. Of most of these vocations I am not proud, but they taught me much that later proved useful. I was some time employed upon a cutter making the run between the south of England and France, but this ship, as my perceptive readers will guess, was not of His Majesty’s navy. After our captain’s arrest on charges of smuggling, I drifted from place to place, and even, I blush to own, took up the life of a housebreaker, and then a gentleman of the highway. Pursuits of this nature, while exciting, are rarely profitable, and one grows weary of seeing a friend with the noose around his neck. So I made vows and promises, and I returned to London to seek some sort of honest living.

It is a shame that I did not anticipate the pugilists of today who, like the famous Jack Broughton, in their retirement open fighting academies to train the young bucks that would take their place. Broughton has indeed been ingenious enough to construct a piece of apparel he calls mufflers—a kind of voluptuous padding for the fist. I have seen these things, and I suspect to be hit by a man wearing these gloves is quite like not being hit at all.

I was much less clever than Broughton, and had no ideas of such ambitions, but I did have a few ill-gotten pounds in my pocket, and I besought a partner with whom to open an alehouse or some business of that nature. It was at this time, walking to my lodgings late in the night, that I had the good fortune to offer assistance to an old fellow besieged by a band of wealthy young bucks. These aristocratic ruffians, known as they were in those days as Mohocks—a name that gave insult to the honorable savages of the Americas—loved nothing more than to roam the London streets, tormenting those poorer than themselves by hacking away at their limbs, cutting off ears or noses, rolling old ladies down hills, and even, if rarely, reveling in the most permanent crime of murder.

I had read of these arrogant puppies and had longed for an opportunity to inflict some of their violence back upon them, so I know not if it was my hatred for the privilege these men thought belonged to them, or the kindly concern I felt for an old victim, that brought me into the fray. I can only say that when I saw the scene before me, I acted without hesitation.

Four Mohocks, dressed in satin and lace finery, and wearing the masks of Italian revelers, gathered around an elderly fellow who had crumpled upon the street and sat like a grotesque sort of child with his legs folded. His wig had been removed and cast aside, and a thin stream of blood trickled down from a gash upon his head. The Mohocks tittered, and one made a slurred joke in Latin, which brought the others to uproarious hilarity.

“Now,” one of them said to the old man, “you must make the choice yourself.” He drew his hangar and sliced through the air with the practiced ease of a sword-master before thrusting the point of the weapon in the man’s face. “Do you wish to lose an ear or the tip of your nose? Make up your mind soon, or you’ll get both prizes for your efforts.”

For a moment there was no sound but this besieged man’s gasping breaths and the trickle of city filth running down the kennel ditch in the center of the street.

The break in my leg that ended my career in the ring left me without the endurance of a pugilist, but I was still more than equal to the task of a short-lived street brawl. The Mohocks were too drunk with cruelty, and wine as well, to notice my presence, so I rushed to the victim’s assistance, immediately dispatching one of the bucks with a fierce blow to the back of his neck. Before his companions even knew that I had entered the fray, I had grabbed a second villain and thrown him headfirst against the wall—a maneuver that left him unfit for further mischief.

The old man, whom I had believed to be as helpless as a woman, saw the odds suddenly evened, and roused himself to a more manful posture, taking a sharp swing at the assailant who had threatened him with the hangar, knocking the long and elegant blade from his hand and sending it clattering into the darkness. I now matched fists with one of the two men who remained in the battle, while my companion, who must have drawn power from his indignation, took a few mighty blows upon his face but bravely withstood the pain. Blood flowed freely from a fresh cut above his left eye, yet he proved a spirited warrior and remained in the game long enough that a parish watchman, lantern raised, appeared at the end of the street. The Mohocks, spotting this guardian, chose to discontinue their sport, and the two upright villains gathered their fallen comrades and hobbled off to tend their wounds and invent stories that might account for their bruises.

As the watchman neared, I approached my fellow-battler, and held his shoulders to steady him. Through tired eyes, made hazy with blood and perspiration, he stared hard and then offered me an exuberant grin. “Benjamin Weaver,” he spouted. “The Lion of Judah! Why, I never thought I’d see you fight again. And certainly not at this proximity.”

“Nor did I plan to,” I said, catching my breath. “But I am glad to have been of some service to a man in distress.”

“Gladder than you know,” he assured me, “for I should be damned for a servant of Satan himself if I did not reward your valor as it deserves. Give me your hand, sir.” This unfortunate now introduced himself as Hosea Bohun, and begged that I come to see him the next day that he might do me some small service to show his gratitude. By that time the watchman had reached us—a scraggly fellow, hardly fit for his duties. Having lost the assailants, the watchman thought it a very fine idea to carry the victims to the Compter as punishment for being out upon the street after curfew, but Mr. Bohun made liberal application of the names of his friends, including the Lord Mayor, and sent the watchman on his way.

The next day I discovered that I had been lucky enough to give vital aid to an opulently wealthy East India merchant, and at Mr. Bohun’s splendid town house, this grateful man rewarded me with a sum no smaller than a hundred pounds, and a promise to be of service to me if he ever had occasion. And indeed he was of service to me, for the story of how he had been set upon by Mohocks, and how he had been lucky enough to battle them with Benjamin Weaver by his side, made its way into the papers. Soon thereafter I had visits from other men—some genteel, some poor, but all with offers to pay me for my skills. One gentleman planned a trip to his country estate, and he wished me to ride along to protect him and his goods from highwaymen. Another man was a shopkeeper whose premises had regularly been set upon by rascals; he wished me to spend some time in his shop and await the villains, whom I would recompense for their tricks. Yet another wished me to collect a debt of an elusive fellow who had successfully dodged the bailiffs for more than a year’s time. Perhaps the most significant request—one that again landed my name in the papers—was from an impoverished woman whose only daughter, not twelve years of age, had been attacked in the most scandalous manner by a sailor. There had been witnesses to the attack, but this woman could neither find them nor learn the whereabouts of the sailor himself. I soon discovered that it was only a small matter to ask questions, to listen to the talkative talk, and to follow trails left by unthinking culprits. This sailor, as my readers may know, was convicted of a rape, and I myself had the pleasure of seeing him hang at Tyburn.

And so began my work as protector, guardian, bailiff, constable-forhire, and thief-taker. It was this last duty that I had found most lucrative, for by bringing felons to justice I received not only the reward of my hirer but also the considerable forty-pound reward of the state as well. Three or four such bounties over the course of a year amounted to a handsome wage for a man of my station.

I say with some pride that I quickly built a reputation for honesty, for it is well known that thief-takers are in general the most wretched of villains who care not for the guilt or innocence of the poor sod they drag before the magistrate, only for the reward that comes of conviction. When I set up my trade, I let it be known that I would have nothing to do with thief-takers’ tricks, and I concerned myself only with capturing villains and with recovering lost goods. I did so not only to avoid running afoul of the law, but so there might be a man that a victim of theft could trust.

To my misfortune, employment as a thief-taker had become scarce at the time I begin my story, for a notorious villain named Jonathan Wild had begun to make a name for himself as Thief-Taker General. Wild appeared to work magic for the countless victims of robberies about London, for he could discover the whereabouts of nearly every thief in the city, and he could recover almost any stolen item. As we know now, and as many of us knew at the time, Jonathan Wild could do all of these things because there was hardly a prig in London who was not in his employ. When a man discovered an article had been stolen, he frequently found it more convenient to pay the same thieves to return the item than to hire a man such as myself who could offer no guarantees of retrieval. Wild never made guarantees, for he posed as a concerned citizen merely offering to help, but I had rarely heard that he failed to recover a stolen item. According to the custom, his victims placed notices in the
Daily Courant
announcing the items they wished recovered. It took no long amount of time for the victim to receive word of Mr. Wild, who would explain that he believed he might be of service if the good gentleman or lady would only be willing to offer the thief half or three-quarters of the value of the stolen item. It was no fair deal, but a fairer one than having to replace the property, so in this way the citizens of London retrieved their lost goods and praised the man who stole them. Wild, in turn, received far more money for his booty than he ever could have hoped for had he fenced it or attempted to resell it himself. He had grown so rich upon this scheme that it was said that he had agents in nearly every town of note in England and that he owned smuggling ships that sailed constantly from these shores to France and Holland and back again, loaded with contraband.

Despite his great success, there were always those who knew Wild for what he was and would do no business with him. Sir Owen Nettleton was such a gentleman; he had come to me with a request only two days before my encounter with Mr. Balfour. Sir Owen was an engaging man, and I took an enormous liking to him immediately. He appeared in my receiving room, proud and jovial, slightly fat and slightly drunk. Some men were ashamed to come see me in my neighborhood—perhaps because Covent Garden was too unfashionable, perhaps because they did not wish publicly to enter the home of a Jew, but Sir Owen was nothing if not open and nothing if not conspicuous. With his unmistakable gold-and-turquoise coach left standing directly in front of Mrs. Garrison’s house, he walked in, boldly prepared to give his name to anyone who might request it.

He was near forty, I think, but his clothing and spirit gave him a look of a man at least ten years his junior. He was naught but gay colors and silver thread and fancy embroidery, and his jolly face looked all the more wide and ruddy under the enormous canopy of his perfectly white full-bottom wig. Sitting comfortably in the chair before me, he talked of the gossip of the town and drank the better part of a bottle of Madeira before he even hinted that he had any business with me. Finally, he set down his glass and walked over to the window just behind my chair and peered at the street below. Standing so close to me as he was, I grew lightheaded in the fog of his liberal application of civet perfume.

“It is a fine Sunday afternoon for October, do you not think so? A fine Sunday afternoon.”

“It is a fine afternoon,” I agreed, by now somewhat eager for Sir Owen to come to his point.

“So fine an afternoon it is,” he explained, “that I cannot tell you of my business indoors. We want fresh air, Mr. Weaver, and sunshine, I should think. Let us take a turn about St. James’s.”

I found his proposal perfectly agreeable, so we headed downstairs, where we subjected ourselves to the baldly curious stares of my landlady and three of her equally corpulent and bitter friends who sat hunched around a card table, playing at piquet for small stakes. Mrs. Garrison’s mouth surely dropped as she saw me enter Sir Owen’s handsome equipage.

Now, I have lived in London almost all of my life, and I have many times witnessed the spectacle of St. James’s Park on a glorious Sunday afternoon, but owing in no small part to the social estrangement that comes with being a Jew of limited means, I had never thought I should someday participate in it. Yet there I was, strolling by the side of a fashionable baronet, feeling the sun full on my face as I made my way about the park along with countless fashionable ladies and gentlemen. I flatter myself that I was not swept away by the vivacity of it all, but it was a dazzling entertainment to witness the bowing and the curtsying, the display of the latest coat styles and hair fashions, of wigs and ribbons and silks and hoops. I think that Sir Owen may have been the perfect man to initiate me into this world, for he knew a fair portion of gentlemen and ladies, and he doled out and received his share of bows, but he had not so many acquaintances as to make taking a step impossible. So we strolled among the
beau monde,
the fragile warmth of the dying summer upon us, and Sir Owen told me of his difficulties.

“Weaver,” he began as we walked along, “I am not a man to hide his feelings. I shall tell you straight away that I like your looks. You strike me as a man I can trust.”

I smiled inwardly at his manner of expressing himself. “I shall in every way attempt to be worthy of that trust.”

Sir Owen stopped and glared at my face, moving his head from side to side as he inspected my features. “Yes, I like your looks, Weaver. You dress like a man of sense, and you conduct yourself like a man of sense, too. I might not even know you to be a Jew, though I suppose your nose is perhaps a bit larger than an Englishman would strictly permit—but what of it?”