A Conspiracy of Paper (45 page)

Her words left me as though frozen. I felt such a torrent of emotions I could not sort one out from another.

“I wish us to be friends, Benjamin,” she said after a moment, perhaps weary of my silence. “Do you understand that?”

I nodded dumbly.

“Then tomorrow we may speak as we used to.” She smiled so sweetly, so shyly, I thought my heart should burst. And then she climbed up the stairs and left me in the hall, where I remained until I heard a clock chime below, and then I staggered to my room like a drunkard.

I
T WAS JUST AFTER
one in the afternoon when I reached Sir Owen’s house, and I was pleasantly surprised to find that he was awake, fully dressed, and ready to see me within a quarter hour of my arrival. Far from the harsh man I had encountered the last time I had seen him, he now appeared for all the world his old self.

“Weaver,” he shouted with some pleasure as he walked into his drawing room. “So good to see you. What can I do for you? A glass of something?”

“No, thank you, Sir Owen,” I said as he poured himself a port. I was too agitated, too confused, I thought, even to swallow.

“I have learned that Scottish surgeon of yours, Gordon, is to dazzle the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane, with a new comedy. I never miss a new comedy, you know—and if it is written by a man who has cured me of the clap, so much the better. Please tell him that I shall be there for the first night.”

“I think he should like it better if you were there for the author’s benefit night,” I said with reflexive warmth. If I was to gain anything with Sir Owen, he could not know my state of mind.

He laughed. “Well, if it is a worthwhile endeavor, I shall return for the third night. I always believe in supporting the authors’ benefits, you know. It is the least one can do for a good play.”

“He will be gratified to hear that.” I was quiet for a moment, and Sir Owen joined in the silence and contented himself with twirling his morning port about his glass. “I have come with some news that I thought you should know of,” I continued. “It would appear that Kate Cole has been murdered.”

“Murdered!” He nearly dropped his wineglass. “Gad, sir, I have heard she hanged herself.” He began to set his port down and then changed his mind and took a long drink.

That he had heard anything at all astonished me. “Then you know of it?”

“Oh yes, oh yes,” he said. He finished his glass and poured himself another. “You are sure, now? No? Well, you see, the matter of her trial was something that touched on me very nearly, and, as you know, I am not without some connections. I received a message from a friend I know not unconnected with the governor of Newgate prison; he told me of her death. He clearly indicated that the woman had hanged herself. I am astonished to hear you speak of murder.”

“In truth, I but suspect she was murdered,” I admitted, “because of another matter that concerns me.”

“What is this other matter?” he asked. “This business with your father? How should it involve this woman?”

“It is hard to say,” I said. “I can hardly piece it together, for there are so many players.”

Sir Owen squinted. “Is there any way I can assist you? You know I am not without connections, and if I can provide you with any service at all, you need but ask me.”

I could not help but be disgusted with such a friend as Sir Owen, who had been pleased to sacrifice me when there was some small danger to his reputation, but now that he had nothing to lose, he was eager to show his influence. “You are certainly kind.” I thought on this for a moment. That Sir Owen’s character was flawed was perhaps not sufficient reason not to take advantage of his connections. “I do not wish to involve you, for I have come to learn that it is a dangerous matter, but there is one thing you might be able to help me with, and indeed, it would be an enormous help. Have you ever heard the name of Martin Rochester?”

“Rochester,” he repeated. He took a moment to think on the name. “I have heard of him, I believe, but I know not who he is. Perhaps a name I have heard in the gambling houses?” He screwed up his eyes and then took a drink. “Is he connected with this whore’s death?”

“Yes,” I said. “I believe Rochester had her killed because she could identify him. You see, I have come to learn that Rochester is but a pseudonym, and that he is behind some shocking acts. If I can find out who he is, then I can discover the truth behind the crimes into which I inquire.”

Sir Owen sipped his port. “Should that be so very difficult?”

“Rochester is clever, and he has both friends and enemies who cover his tracks for him. It is one thing to use a false name as a matter of convenience, but with Rochester it seems something else entirely. He has created a false self,” I said, reasoning this matter out as I spoke, “a representation of a jobber, much like paper money is a representation of silver.”

“Sounds a rather tricky business,” he said cheerfully. “I cannot tell you how relieved I am to have this unpleasantness with the whore behind me, Weaver, and I wish I could show you my appreciation. Perhaps if you told me more of what you know about this Rochester, it might help. One meets and hears of so many men, it is hard to keep them all clear in one’s mind.”

I wasn’t sure how much I wanted to tell Sir Owen. “I cannot imagine what kind of contact you could have had with him,” I said at last. “He is a corrupt jobber who has probably had some dealings with the South Sea Company.”

Sir Owen appeared to make a connection. He screwed up his face and rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. “And all of this has some relationship to that matter with Balfour and your father?”

“Yes.”

He leaned forward. “May I ask how this Rochester fits in?”

“I know not,” I said cautiously. “I can only say that his name is frequently mentioned in connection with these deaths, and until I meet him and speak to him, I shall know no more.”

“As he appears to be such a villain, I can only wish you luck. Although perhaps it is he who needs the luck, for I have come to have nothing but respect, sir, for your skills in these matters.”

“You are too kind,” I said with a formal bow.

Sir Owen then snapped his fingers and looked at me excitedly. “Gad, I just recalled something. As you know, your inquiry into these deaths is being talked about all over town. Needless to say, I was interested whenever I heard the business discussed, for our fates have been of late so nearly connected. And now that I think on it, it was in one of these conversations that I heard Rochester’s name mentioned. I cannot quite think of the context, for I am not now even certain that I had heard the name before. But some fellow I did not know was speaking of him, and the deuce if I can remember what it is he said, but he mentioned him in connection with another. It was a Jew named—oh, what was it now—Sardino? Salmono, perhaps? Something rather fishy, I believe.”

“Sarmento?” I said quietly.

He snapped his fingers. “The very name! I wish I could say more, but by Gad it is all I can recall. I hope that is of some assistance.”

“So do I,” I said, and politely made my exit.

·    ·    ·

I
T WAS NOT A
task to which I looked forward, but I knew it had to be done. So I made a trip to Sarmento’s lodgings off Thames Street, almost in the shadow of St. Paul’s. He took rooms in a pleasant enough, if plain, house an inconvenient distance from my uncle’s warehouse.

When his landlady showed me into the sitting room, I saw that there was someone already waiting—I presumed for another lodger, for it was a cleric of the Church of England. He was a youngish fellow, apparently not long out of school, for he had the enthusiastic air of a man who had recently taken orders. I had not been without some contact with churchmen in my day, though I had normally found them to be either bland, empty men or more of the wild sort who considered religion not at all except when their duties absolutely demanded it. In either case, I had often thought that the Church of England produced a system that encouraged its clerics to think of their positions much as clerks in stores thought of theirs—as a way to make money and little else.

“Good morning, sir,” he said with a wide, happy smile.

I bade him good morning and took a seat. He reached into his pocket and produced a watch, quickly noting the time. “I have been awaiting Mr. Sarmento for some time now,” he said. “I know not when he will step down.”

“You await Mr. Sarmento?” I asked with clear astonishment.

I realized that it was a rude way to speak, but it was intentional—not because I have any particular dislike of priests, but because I wished to goad the man into saying more than he might have otherwise. The cleric, however, took my rudeness in his stride. “He is a dear acquaintance of mine and a good student.” He smiled. “I have been encouraging him to write his memoirs. I find conversion stories most inspirational.”

I felt myself reeling with astonishment. “I am quite certain I do not understand you. Do you mean to say Mr. Sarmento is a convert?”

The priest reddened. “Oh, my goodness. I hope I have not spoken out of turn. I did not know that his acquaintances were unaware he had been a Jew. Please do not hold this against him.” He leaned forward and lowered his voice, as though sharing a secret. “I can assure you his conversion is entirely sincere, and it is my experience that converts are always the most devout Christians, for they must think about their religion in ways that the rest of us need not.”

I must admit I was stunned, perhaps even horrified. It was one thing to be a Jew lax in observance, such as myself, but even a man as negligent as Adelman was not bold enough to consider conversion seriously. My Christian readers will perhaps not understand that among your denominations—the Anglican and the Papist and the Presbyterian and the Dissenters—are all Britons alike, but to be a Jew is to be a member of a nation as well as a religion. To convert is to deny one’s self in a way I found utterly shocking. It was to say not
I shall be this no longer
, but rather
I have never been this
. At that moment I believed Sarmento capable of anything. “When did this conversion take place?” I asked, forcing a polite smile upon my lips.

“Not more than six months ago, I am sure,” he explained happily. “But Mr. Sarmento had been coming to me for instruction long before that. Like many of his tribe, he was hesitant to cast aside his old superstitions. These things often take a great deal of time.”

I did not know what this meant, and I had little time to think on it, for Sarmento entered the room. He stood in the door and stared at the two of us, saying nothing, attempting to assess what damage had been done. Finally he turned to me. “Weaver, what do you do here?”

“I have come to speak to you on a matter of business, sir.” I could not help taking pleasure in his confusion. “But if you wish to speak first with your confessor . . .”

Sarmento’s mouth opened, and then closed. He knew the advantage was mine, and he hated me for it. Perhaps he hated the cleric as well. “Mr. Norbert,” he said at last, “I do not wish to be rude, but I must speak to Mr. Weaver in private.”

The priest appeared immune to insult, though he may have felt some discomfort at having spoken of what he now knew should have been kept a secret. He smiled and stood, collecting his hat. “I shall return at a time more convenient, sir.” He offered us both a bow and was gone.

I had not stirred from my chair. Sarmento remained standing. I enjoyed the feeling of power his distress gave me. “I did not know you to be a member of the Church of England,” I said in a relaxed and easy voice. “What thinks my uncle of this?”

Sarmento clenched and unclenched his fists. “You have me at a disadvantage, Weaver. You are correct to assume your uncle does not know. I do not think he would understand, but I have found a home in the Church, and I need not feel judged by you, who adher to no religion at all.”

“I remember quite clearly,” I mused, “that you accused me of speaking too much like an Englishman. ‘We do not speak thus,’ you said to me. A mere deception to confuse me?”

“Just so,” he said blandly.

“I am interested to have settled that you are comfortable deceiving others. Please understand that I did not come here to discuss religion with you, sir. I care not for what you believe nor whom you worship, though I do care of your playing games with my uncle’s confidence.” He attempted to interrupt me, no doubt to say something insulting, but I would not have it. “I came to learn why you were in that crowd the other night, sir, outside the masquerade ball.”

“For what reason,” he snapped, “should I answer any of your impertinent questions?”

“Because,” I said as I stood to face him, “I wish to know whether or not you have played some role in the murder of my father.”

His face turned ashen. He took a step back as though I had slapped him. He looked much like a puppet at a Smithfield droll—his mouth opened and closed without making a sound and his eyes grew absurdly large. Finally he began to sputter, “Surely you don’t think . . . you cannot mean that . . .” Then something in him clicked like the gears of a machine. “What reason could I possibly have to kill Samuel Lienzo?”

“Then what were you doing in the crowd outside the Haymarket?” I demanded.

“If you suspect everyone in that crowd,” he stammered, “then you will have much work to do speaking to all of them. And what has that crowd to do with your father’s death?”

“It’s not the crowd that concerns me,” I said harshly. “I suspect you.”

“I think much of this Kingdom would be shocked to learn that it is a Jewish belief that any man who would become a Christian would commit a murder.”

“Do not play the Jew-hater with me, sir.” I felt myself redden. “I know that rhetoric far too well to be intimidated by it, particularly when it comes from the mouth of one such as you. What were you doing there, Sarmento?”

“What do you think I was doing there? I was looking for Miriam. I knew she was placing herself at risk with that rake, and I was merely there to make sure he tried nothing that would dishonor her. It was happenstance that I became separated from her and came upon the crowd surrounding the man you felt inclined to kill. I saw you had been seized by the constables, but it would have done no good for me to step forward. I could hardly have vouched for your character, when I think so little of it.”