A Conspiracy of Paper (23 page)

I nodded. “I wonder if we might not consider publishing it.”

“No one knows we have this pamphlet. Keeping it a secret may protect us.”

I agreed, but I thought we might look into the matter just the same. I asked whom my father had sought out as a publisher in the past, and my uncle gave me the name of Nahum Bryce of Moor Lane, whose imprint, I recalled, I had seen on the pamphlet I’d been reading at Jonathan’s.

“I must go,” my uncle said. He stood slowly and cast a glance at my father’s pamphlet, as though afraid to leave it with me.

I stood as well. “I shall take good care of it.”

“These are your father’s words from beyond the grave, and I believe they will tell us, however cryptically, who did this thing.”

And then, to my surprise, my uncle embraced me. He wrapped me in his arms and pulled me close, and I felt the surprising damp of his tears press against my cheek. He broke the embrace just as I moved to return it. “You are a good man, Benjamin. I am glad you have come back.” With that, he opened the door and hurried with surprising agility down the precipitous stairway.

I closed the door to my rooms and poured myself another glass of claret. Feeling that I had much business yet before me, I lit a tallow upon my desk and settled down to look at my father’s pamphlet, but I could not retain the words. And I could not let the emotion of my uncle’s departure entirely eclipse my feeling that he wished to avoid my seeking out Perceval Bloathwait, a man who had made himself my father’s great enemy. Maybe my uncle truly believed that the enmity between these men had been long forgotten, and maybe it was only the mythic proportions that children give to conflicts that made me doubt that such a hostility could ever dissipate.

It would be pleasant if we could take comfort in these firm resolutions of ours, but that is rarely the case. I was uncertain of how to deal with this man. I had interacted with men as powerful as Bloathwait in the past, but always because they had called upon me. I had never had to knock on a gentleman’s door to demand answers before. My inquiries always moved downward in status. Now I found myself below, looking upward, wondering what means I had to obtain the information I required. Perhaps a member of the Court of the Directors of the Bank of England would find my calling upon him presumptuous. But if social rank, as Elias claimed, was another value undone by the new finance, then my presumption served as a pretty piece of irony.

SIXTEEN

I
SPENT THAT NIGHT
visiting a few taverns and alehouses, hoping to learn something about Bertie Fenn, the driver who had run down my father. No one I knew could provide me with what I needed to know. Most had not heard of him, a few had, and an even smaller number knew of his association with a shadowy figure called Rochester. I could find no one who knew where he was, but I let it be known that I would pay handsomely for the information. I knew that by being so bold there was a chance that the man I pursued might learn of my search. This knowledge might entice him further into hiding, or he might come looking for me himself.

Having given up hope of learning anything more that night, I settled myself with a comforting ale at the Bedford Arms tavern upon the Little Plaza in Covent Garden. This tiny, dank stewpot attracted the regular jades and ruffians of the neighborhood, most of whom earned their keep through thieving and thus kept a cautious eye upon me as I sat at my corner table and drank my mug in silence. Sometimes, in such places, an acquaintance or two would stumble upon me and most times I would welcome the company, but I had no wish to drink with friends that night. I had too many puzzles through which to sort.

Chief among these was my father’s pamphlet and its implications. Could Elias’s philosophical musings have proved true? Could a chartered company like the South Sea truly turn to murder to further its business? I continued to find the idea fantastical, but I could not shake Elias’s conviction in light of the claims put forth in
A Conspiracy of Paper
. This pamphlet, however, ultimately explained little and raised many questions. Even if my father had made a deadly enemy at the South Sea Company, I still needed to learn how old Balfour became involved. For that matter, I needed to understand the connection with Bertie Fenn, who had run down my father, and Fenn’s new master, Martin Rochester.

The other principal concern upon my mind was the dark-eyed beauty who had just walked into the tavern with the clear intent of finding a man who would buy her a mug of wine. I do not wish for my readers to think that while I considered this lass I had lost all regard for Miriam; nothing could be more false. Indeed, I considered the pleasures of this accessible creature precisely because I believed Miriam’s charms to be forbidden. The twenty-five pounds I had sent to my cousin-in-law might purchase on my behalf some small measure of gratitude, but the matter of a few shillings here could have provided me with a much more intimate gratitude in a much more immediate way.

As I moved to raise my mug to this charmer, the door of the tavern burst open and a half-dozen men, most with pistols drawn, marched into the room. I instinctively reached for my hangar, but I saw at once that their business would not concern me, for at the head of this crowd stood none other than Jonathan Wild. His lieutenant, Abraham Mendes, scanned the room and then pointed to a scurvy-looking cove sitting with a pair of doxies at the far end of the tavern. If Mendes saw me, he made no sign of it. He shoved a few chairs out of his path and marched toward his prey.

This old fellow, a skinny mass of pocked skin and wisps of gray hair, could do naught but finish his ale and await Mendes and the others. Perhaps he had withheld booty from Wild, as Kate Cole had done, or perhaps he had simply grown too old to be an effective enough thief for Wild to justify keeping him about. It made no difference—Wild would now have him carted off to be tried and inevitably convicted. The great thief-taker would earn his reward and such public nabbings as this one would only enhance his reputation as a heroic enemy of crime.

Two of the men, under the supervision of Mendes, gripped the resigned sacrifice under the arms and hoisted him to his feet. Wild held back and scanned the room, hoping perhaps to gauge the mood of the tavern, and as he looked about, his eyes met with mine. I expected him to turn away, but instead he limped forward that he might speak to me.

“Good night to you, Mr. Weaver.” He bowed deeply. His smirk suggested that he knew of something funny—almost as though we shared a joke between us.

I lifted my mug in salute, but the look on my face made it clear that I meant not to honor him.

“I trust your current inquiry proceeds apace,” he said with roguish cheer.

I did not consider but that he meant the business with Sir Owen, for he had involved himself, if only indirectly, by ’peaching poor Kate. Was that the source of his delight? That he had sent a woman almost certainly to hang that she might be punished for something I had done?

“Such a tricky business, murder,” he continued.

“Your prosecution of Kate has shown it to be the trickiest business in the world,” I countered.

He laughed softly. “You misunderstand me. I care not for that business with Kate Cole. I talk of your present inquiry. As I say, a very tricky business. There are those who believe that if the villain is not found immediately he shall never be found, but I have every faith in your skills.”

I opened my mouth to respond, but nothing came forth.

It mattered not that I had no words. Seeing that his men awaited him, Wild bowed again and turned to lead them from the tavern.

The place erupted into a buzz the moment the thief-taker departed; for most of the patrons here, this arrest was more than a matter of gossip, it was a matter of business. I could hear the speculation on why Wild had chosen this man, why this old fool had it coming, and why, ultimately, each of these men who remained believed that they would never meet such a fate.

I looked up from my drink and saw that the dark and pretty lass sat now a few tables over, and she cast her eyes in my direction, hoping to catch my attention. I turned away, for my amorous mood had departed along with Wild. It was not the tyranny with which Wild ruled his soldiers that had soured my disposition, for in truth I had grown accustomed to such scenes. Rather, I could not but wonder about the words Wild had spoken to me. How had he become familiar with my inquiry into my father’s death? And, perhaps more important, why did he feel compelled to make sure I knew he had become familiar? I tried to make myself believe that his only concern was based upon our business rivalry, but there had been too much mischief in Wild’s expression for me to accept that explanation. I did not even dare guess why, but my inquiry surely meant something to him. If I were right, if I might trust my instincts, then before I could learn who had killed my father, I should inevitably have to contend with the most dangerous man in London.

I
WASTED NO MORE
time in approaching Perceval Bloathwait at his town house in Cavendish Square. Rather than writing him a sycophantic letter in which I begged him to meet with me, I took a more direct approach—one that worked more effectively than I had reason to hope. I simply arrived in the early afternoon and handed my card to a shabbily clad footman, who invited me to wait in a cramped parlor. The room suffered for a want of windows, and what little light it received was dampened by furnishings of dull brown and red tones and by the somber portraits of Puritans-no doubt Bloathwait’s ancestors—that hung crookedly upon the wall. I could find no books with which to pass the time, so for want of any other occupation I began to pace with slow intensity. I thought my footsteps might kick up a cloud of dust upon the old carpet, but Bloathwait’s furnishings were merely old, not dirty.

The modesty of the house surprised me, for as a member of the Court of Directors of the Bank of England, Bloathwait could only be opulently wealthy. Though he hardly lived in squalor, I had anticipated something more along the lines of splendor—large, open, sunny rooms, classical columns, splendid furnishings, and handsomely dressed servants. Perhaps, I thought, an older, unmarried man who dedicated himself to his business had no opportunity or inclination for pleasures.

I reassessed my position, however, when, after perhaps three-quarters of an hour, the entrance of a pretty servant girl interrupted my pacing. This lass was slightly plump, but pleasing in a dress whose neck was cut low to delight what I supposed to be the lascivious oglings of her master. She had pale yellow hair, delicious hazel eyes, and milky skin bespotted with freckles. At first oblivious to my presence, she stopped halfway through the room and yelped when she abruptly noticed me.

“Bless me,” she said as she pressed one hand to her breast. “I beg your pardon, sir. I didn’t see you there, nor knew you was there at all, or I wouldn’t have come passing through, with a visitor here and such. But it’s a long way to go ’round, and when there’s no one in here, I don’t see that there’s a harm in it, though Mr. Bloathwait, he’d have my hide if he knew I’d done it.”

I smiled at her and bowed. “Benjamin Weaver, at your service.”

“Oh,” she breathed, as though a man in a handsome coat had never before plied her with gallantries. She stared at me and then, remembering her place, perhaps, she cast her eyes downward. “I’m Bessie.” She curtsied, and I took some pleasure as her pale and freckled skin reddened. “The laundry maid.”

I knew it unusual for a bachelor like Bloathwait to employ female servants unless he required more of them than their scrubbing and their washing. If such was the case with Bessie, I thought, then her presence here suggested that she was just the sort of willing lass who could prove useful.

“Do you like working for Mr. Bloathwait, Bessie?” I strolled over toward her, that I might stand directly in front of this pretty little laundry maid.

“Oh, aye, I do.” She nodded with a little too much enthusiasm, as though I might report her should she seem unhappy.

“What kind of a man do you think him?”

Her mouth dropped a little. She knew I was probing, but she could not tell for what. “Oh, I couldn’t answer a question like that. But he’s a great man, sure.” She looked up as though she had recalled something. “I best be getting on, sir. If Mr. Stockton, Mr. Bloathwait’s butler, finds me standing here talking with a fine gentleman, there’ll be no end to his questions, for sure.”

“I certainly wouldn’t want that. But I would think it rather pleasing, Bessie, if I might see you again sometime in the future. Perhaps we might arrange a meeting during which we would have no fear of Mr. Stockton. Would you like that?”

That charming redness spread across her face and neck and bosom again. She dropped into a curtsy as low as it was quick. “Oh, yes, sir. I would, sir.”

“How much would you like it?” I asked her, as I took a shilling from my purse and placed it in her palm. I held the back of her hand with my palm while my other hand closed her fingers around the coin. I gently stroked her fleshy digits with my thumb.

“Very much,” she breathed.

“I would like it very much too.” I removed my hand from hers and gently ran the backs of my fingers along her face. “You had better run along, Bessie, lest Mr. Stockton come after you.”

She curtsied again and then ran off.

Now, I am hardly the sort of man who considers himself above using a shilling or two to conquer a gentleman’s laundry lass, but I had more than the pleasures of the flesh on my mind. It seemed to me a useful thing to have a pliable confederate inside Bloathwait’s house, and if she was a compliant beauty, so much the better.

Not more than ten minutes after Bessie’s departure the unkempt footman returned and announced that Bloathwait would see me. I followed him out of the parlor and down the hall to a closed door. He knocked once and opened it to reveal a cramped room, furnished in the same dull tones as the parlor.

The study let in more light, however, but the brightness that came through the windows did little to dispel the feel of duskiness—just as the evident neatness of these rooms did little to dissuade me that I kicked up dust as I walked. Bookshelves covered the walls, and within them volumes were arranged according to size, of all things. Upon the floor near many of the shelves, ledgers were stacked, without any apparent attention to detail, and loose sheets of paper sat upon the shelves and were wedged between volumes.

For a man whose home suggested that he gave little credit to appearances, Bloathwait had designed his study with a brilliant attention to detail. He was an enormous man, and his oversized desk prevented him from looking like a foolish adult sitting upon a chair furnished for a child. He sat with an air of dignity that suggested his enormity, this man who was, after all, among the principal figures of the world of London finance.

Bloathwait sat with a formal stiffness, his somber black wig and black suit hovering like a storm cloud about his bulk as he engaged in some business or other. His ink-stained hand sailed across paper after paper in a furious hurry, as though there could never be enough time for all the work he had yet to finish, and in his mania he seemed to me half a fool, half a villain—a man equally likely to order my death as to spill his ink upon his lap.

I suppose he looked little different from the man I remembered from my boyhood; that creature had been enormous, full of grotesquely undersized features: mouth, teeth, nose, eyes—all adrift upon a wide, fleshy face. Now there was something that seemed more unpleasant than terrible, better able to incite distaste than fear. Still, I knew that if I had just passed him upon the street, spotted him upon the peripheries of my vision, my blood should have run cold.

Casting only a momentary glance at me, Bloathwait used his forearm to wipe a space clear of papers, and then grabbed a paper to attend to. Piles upon piles covered the entire surface of his desk; some documents were entirely filled with a tiny, close hand, others with only a few words. I could not imagine that a man so important in the management of the Bank of England could thrive in this chaos.

“Mr. Weaver,” he said at last. He set his pen down and looked at me. An old clock, as wide as a man and half again as tall, began to emit a rusty chime, but Bloathwait raised his voice to speak over the contraption. “Please sit. I trust you will state your business with all possible haste.”

As I moved to seat myself in an unsteady-looking chair that faced the desk, I saw him stretch out his arm for a piece of foolscap that rested at the outermost limit of his reach. It was a subtle movement, cautious and casual at the same time, but it caught my eye, as did the piece of paper he covered. I cannot say what was there, written in a scrawling hand, but some word or idea or phrase upon the page drew me in the very moment Bloathwait hid it from my view. With his free hand he took a folio volume and set it atop the paper. He then turned to me.