A Conspiracy of Paper (33 page)

TWENTY-FOUR

I
SAT IN MY
uncle’s study staring at the mug of mulled wine that stood steaming on the table beside me. I had already moved most of my things to the room that I had been given on the second floor. I had already thought about my location strategically; Miriam’s room was located on the third floor, so while I had no cause to walk by her door, she had cause to walk by mine. I had only to wonder precisely how aggressive a widow she was.

In the meantime, my mind focused more upon the events of the day. Isaac had made the wine too hot, and in his efforts to handle the hot pewter, my uncle had already spilled a healthy amount on his austere brown coat. He hardly seemed to care, however, just as he hardly seemed to care that I had lost our only copy of
A Conspiracy of Paper.
“It would be better if we still had it,” he had said with a shrug, “but these men, they killed your father to keep him silent. If you escape with only having it stolen, perhaps that is not so very terrible.”

It had taken a great deal of courage, and two glasses of scalding wine, for me to confess the loss to my uncle. It was a confession that had hurt, for I felt that I had failed in my responsibility to my family, and this failure tasted far too much like the time I had run away from my father. But Uncle Miguel had only clucked in concern, asked me about my injuries, and uttered a blessing to thank God that I had not been further injured. I tried to put myself in his place, to imagine how he should feel, and I in no way could understand why he cared not about the loss of the manuscript. I wished that I could banish the suspicions conjured by his composed spirits, but I could only think that it no longer mattered to him if I found my father’s killer—if it had ever mattered.

He sat across from me, eyeing me with concern as his fingers cautiously probed the hot silver handle of his mug. “I fear,” he said, “that this inquiry of yours grows too dangerous.”

The pain throughout my body had begun to subside into a dull ache. My legs and my neck were both stiff, and my head pounded horribly. “I can hardly stop now,” I said, hoping to draw him out. “Does not this violence confirm our suspicions?”

“This family has suffered too many losses,” he said as he shook his head. “I cannot look quietly on while you are threatened as well.”

“I don’t understand. You wanted this inquiry. Has something happened to make you change your mind? Has Mr. Adelman convinced you?”

He laughed. “Adelman,” he said, as though the name were enough to explain his mirth. “You think me so easily persuaded by Adelman?”

“I could not say,” I mumbled. I thought about what Sarmento had told me—that my father hated Adelman. And I thought about how my uncle welcomed him at his table for Sabbath dinner. “We cannot just walk away from something because it is dangerous, Uncle.”

“That is precisely why we should walk away. Because it is dangerous. But”—he held a hand in the air—“you know your business more than I. I would not presume to tell you how to proceed or how to take care for your own safety. I merely wished to say, Benjamin, that I will not have you press on, put yourself in harm’s way, on my account.”

I could longer remain silent. “Why do you maintain a friendship with Adelman, a man who was my father’s enemy?”

He thought to laugh, but held his laughter back, as though it would offend me. Perhaps it would have. “Who told you he and your father were enemies?” He did not pause for an answer. “Mr. Adelman and I have had dealings since he arrived on this island. Your father cared not much for his involvement with the Company, it is true, and he was a man who could little trouble himself to conceal his feelings, but they were not enemies. Merely cool acquaintances.”

Perhaps I had misunderstood my uncle. Perhaps he did only wish to see me stay clear of danger. My uncle, unlike my father, was not a coward, but I knew him to be cautious, to guard his position in the community with care, to wish always to say the right thing before the watchful eyes of our Christian neighbors. His concern made me feel ungenerous for doubting him.

Intending to change the topic, I cleared my throat and took a gulp of wine, which had cooled enough that it was pleasingly hot. “Would you object if I wished to escort Miriam to the theatre?”

He shifted uneasily in his chair. “I am not certain that the theatre is the best place for a woman such as Miriam. Perhaps some other social event,” he suggested.

“You are very protective of her,” I observed.

“She has grown up in this house since she was hardly more than a child, and she married my own son. I feel I have a great responsibility toward her.”

“A responsibility to keep her from the theatre?”

“To keep her from harm,” he corrected. “You know the sort of elements that haunt the theatre, Benjamin. And you know what a delicate thing a lady’s reputation is. To be seen simply talking with the wrong man can ruin her forever. You would not want that, I’m sure.”

“Of course not,” I said nervously. Uncle Miguel’s eyes hung upon every change in my face.

“I shall be direct with you, Benjamin. I notice that you have developed a certain fondness for Miriam. I have not inquired of the matter with her, but I believe she may have it within her to feel the same. You know that she has other suitors, but I do not believe she cares for any of them, and as I say, I wish for her happiness. But I am not such a fool as to send her off in a love match with a man who cannot do her justice.”

“I see.” I nodded, wishing nothing so much as that this conversation had never happened.

“It would be inappropriate to consider you as a suitor in your current state, but there are always options. You may know that I still have need of an agent in the Levant, and since Aaron’s death, I have not found a suitable substitute. You would have to travel a great deal, but there are many opportunities to earn a substantial fortune for both yourself and your family. And, as I’m sure you know, Miriam has one hundred a year settled on her, which should provide an initial level of comfort in establishing a household.”

“Miriam has a hundred a year?” I nearly blurted out. While it might be difficult to maintain a luxurious household upon such an amount, for a woman who had no concerns of food or rent, it was an enormous sum. I could not think why Miriam had needed to borrow money, nor why she had tried to deny that she ever made the request. “Does she receive this money now?” I asked.

“Of course. She receives quarterly payments. She received the last one only a few weeks ago. Why do you ask?”

Why did I ask, indeed. “Your offer is very generous, Uncle.” I took another drink of my wine and pushed myself to my feet, feeling the ache as I did so. “I do not wish you to think me insensible to what you propose. But I know that I am not the right man to be your Turkey merchant. And though the prize you offer is an estimable one, it shall do me little good if I am so far away.”

My uncle stood as well, and placed a hand gently upon my shoulder. “I am perhaps not the most observant man, Benjamin, but I do notice some things. Miriam chose not to travel with Aaron for certain reasons. I am not sure she would feel the same way about you. In any case, I hope you will consider what I offer you. It stands whether you marry or no. I should very much like to see you within the family trade.”

I bowed at my uncle, even as I condemned myself for the formal politeness I offered in return for his generous warmth. But I had no wish to live and trade amongst a pack of turbaned Turks, and I had less of a desire to slip so easily into the role of my dead cousin.

T
HE NEXT DAY
I awoke to find myself stiff from the beating I had taken of Wild’s men, and the area around my right eye was purple and swollen. My uncle had already left for the warehouse by the time I came downstairs, so I sat at the breakfast table with the two ladies of the house. My aunt inquired if I had taken to fighting in the ring again. Miriam stared at me with a kind of horror.

After breakfast I followed Miriam to the parlor, where she had begun leafing through the newspapers. I could not but feel that there was a coolness in her demeanor, and I suppose there was in mine. I knew that I had no right to resent her for having a lover, but I resented her all the same. I think I wanted her to behave somehow to make my resentment disappear or to make it grow. I knew only that I cared for her and that her intrigue with a man I knew to be a rascal tormented me.

“You are to be part of the family in earnest now,” she said to me.

“My uncle has graciously permitted me to stay here during a difficult period.”

She turned a page. “He is a generous man, then.”

I stared at her. “Have I somehow offended you, Miriam?”

She looked up at me. “You know something of the social politenesses. Have you?”

Had she somehow learned about my following Deloney? If she had, would she dare confront me? I could hardly think so. “I cannot think that I have, madam.”

“Then,” she said, “it is likely you have not.”

I had no mind to play these games with her. “If you decide otherwise,” I said, “I can only hope that you will inform me of my transgression so that I may make amends.”

“You are too good,” she said, and looked back at her paper.

I had too much to do to press on, so I simply bowed and departed. I believed the hour was sufficiently seasonable, so I quit the house and made my way to Balfour’s lodgings, but I was told by his landlady that he no longer resided there. “The gentleman is now lodged with his mother,” she said. “I thought I knew his type, and I was sure I would have to call the bailiff were I ever to see the rent from the likes of him. But he gives me all what he owes me not three days ago and bids me pack up his things and send them to his mother, he says. And that’s what I done.”

I retrieved Balfour’s new address and thanked her for her time. I then hired a chair to his mother’s town house on the Tottenham Court Road. The footman had me cool my heels for well over an hour in a neatly decorated parlor before Balfour whirled into the room, looking about for something or another, which at last he placed in his pocket before turning to address me. He had, I noted, already made an appointment with a tailor, for he had traded his fine but worn suit of clothes for something much finer and newer. He wore a brownish outer coat with a burgundy waistcoat beneath, lined about the sleeve with ample gold stuff. His shirt was of the finest and cleanest white silk, and even his wig—much in the style of his old wig—was quite full, well proportioned, and properly groomed. Balfour was a new man, and he had the clothing to bespeak his newness.

“What do you want?” he asked, as though he had not known I was there and had not noticed me until that moment. He proceeded to a bookshelf, where he pretended to busy himself by searching out a volume. “And how dare you come here with that mark upon your face, looking like a brawling street ruffian.”

I thought I should like to show him how a brawling street ruffian behaved, but I concentrated on the matter at hand. “I am come to report on my progress.”

He tapped his foot, but did not turn to face me. “How dreadfully dull. Did I not ask you to stay away from here?”

“If you would prefer, we may retire to a coffeehouse to continue our business.”

“
Business,
is it?” He turned around to look at me, his face screwed into an expression of superior scorn—practiced for many hours before the mirror, no doubt. “That is unaccountably presumptuous, don’t you think? And why should we have
business
together, may I ask?”

“You did engage my services, Mr. Balfour,” I said, careful to keep my tone even.

Balfour snorted. “I suppose I did such a preposterous thing, didn’t I? Well, I repent of it now. Mother and I have mended our rift, and I need no longer trouble myself with sordid matters of stock-jobbers and Jews.”

He looked about quickly, anxious to find a definitive word to end our conversation, but I was not willing to let him go so easily. I could not say why he wished to dispose of the matter, or even that I cared, but I did think that he might have information I could use. “Tell me,” I began, as though we had been having a pleasant conversation all along, “do you know if your father had any dealings with the South Sea Company?”

“I cannot say I know or care,” he told me impatiently. “I really must demand—”

I chose not to let him demand. “Mr. Balfour, I am now absolutely convinced that my father was murdered, but I have found no evidence connecting his death to your father’s. If you wish to uncover the truth of this matter, then I shall need your cooperation at the very least.”

“My father was a silly sod,” he said. “An overreaching merchant, and nothing more. No one would bother himself to kill him. It’s time for you to depart, Weaver.”

I rose slowly. “You are no longer interested in recovering the funds you believe stolen of your father?”

“It always comes down to money with your people, does it not, Weaver? Tell me, have you heard about the little Jew fellow who tumbled to his death from the balcony of the theatre at Drury Lane? The manager kindly presented the poor, grieving mother with a bag of silver to show his regret. ‘But, sir,’ the Jewess said, ‘you must also give me a half shilling, for little Isaac saw only half the show, so he should have half the price of his ticket refunded.’ ” He burst out laughing, but it was a forced laugh. I stood impassive.

Balfour studied me for a moment and then walked to the door. “Like any other tradesman, you may submit your bill for the work you have performed. Now, I am sure you will excuse me, as I have an appointment to keep.”

I wondered how far I could push Balfour and what I would gain should I choose to continue pushing him. His rapprochement with his mother had clearly terminated any desire he had to learn of his father’s death. Was I now but an embarrassment to him? A reminder of a few dreadful months when his future was in the balance? Or had he learned something he did not wish me to know? Perhaps the connection between his father and mine was not as friendly as I had once suspected. Balfour was weak; his independence was gone, and his wealth rested in the hands of a mother for whom he cared little—a mother, I could only assume, who would torture Balfour as the price for his regained wealth. I saw I had little to lose by attempting to make him yield.