The Devil's Company (10 page)

CHAPTER SIX

DID SWEAR. TO MY MIND, THIS WAS LIKE PROMISING A MAN HIS lottery ticket would answer with a fortune. Worse than that, for a lottery, as a game of chance, can be manipulated—as I knew well—but there could be no counterfeiting a meeting with the king. Still, the promise did the business, and two nights later, I found myself in the green market to the west of the East India complex, where I contrived to busy myself in the examination of discounted cabbages—for these were the goods that had not sold that day, and the clever and unhygienic consumer could find a bargain if he didn’t mind a bit of maggot with his leaves. The air had grown quite cold over the course of the afternoon, and I ran my gloved hands over a variety of vegetables and squinted in a show of disappointment. My coat was of a better quality than any of the scavengers, and I attracted more notice than I should have liked, so I was most relieved when the operation commenced.

At only a few minutes before the striking of the eight o’clock hour, I heard a woman cry out in fear, and I knew Mr. Hale and his men had upheld their part of the bargain. Along with the other late patrons-many of whom used the distraction as an excuse to depart the premises without paying for their moldy greens—I ran out to Leadenhall Street and observed a group of some thirty or forty silk weavers standing by the premises, braving the cold in their inadequate coats. A half dozen or so held torches. Another half dozen tossed chunks of old brick or rotten apples or dead rats at the walls surrounding the structure. They shouted a wide array of criticism at this barrier, claiming the Company practiced unfairly against common laborers, contrived to lower their wages, diffused their markets, and corrupted the common taste with Eastern luxuries. There were some epithets against France thrown in as well, because the Englishman has not been born who knows how to riot without mentioning that nation.

Though many have had cause to complain about the sluggish motion of British justice and the enforcement of laws, here was a case in which a certain slowness served me in good stead. In order to make the silk weavers disperse, a constable would have to rouse a justice of the peace brave enough to stand before them and read aloud the substance of the Riot Act. At such a point, the mutineers had one hour in which to disperse before the army might be deployed to end the violence—ironically, through the use of violence. Here was an old system, but one borne out by time, and many experiments had proved that the firing of muskets into one or two of the troublemakers would send the remaining rebels a-scatter.

Devout Hale had assured me that he and his men would prosecute my cause for as long as possible before the risk of harm overtook them. They would not, in short, endure musket fire on my behalf, but they would continue to fling dead rodents for as long as they might do so in safety.

Such was the most I could request of them. If I were to attempt to be truly safe, I would need to enter the premises, get what Cobb desired, and exit before the soldiers scared away the mischief makers. I therefore made my way past the riot, feeling the heat of the burning torches and smelling the rank perspiration of the laborers, and hurried around the corner to Lyme Street. Darkness was now fully upon me, and as any perambulators would have been drawn to the spectacle of riot, and the guards within the complex would be preparing for a siege of silk workers, I felt I might scale the wall with some reasonable hope of success. Should I be discovered, I decided, I would merely explain that I was being chased by a crazed rioter who believed me affiliated with the Company, and as that organization was the source of my woes, I hoped they would be willing to be the source of my succor as well.

Because I needed to explain myself if apprehended, I could not bring with me grappling equipment, for it is the rare innocent spectator indeed who inexplicably has such engines about him. Instead, I climbed the wall in the more primitive method practiced by boys and housebreakers without expensive tools and found the climb rather easy—more particularly so as the street was deserted, any perambulators having gone to observe the mayhem on Leadenhall. During a daylight surveying of the area, I had observed numerous cracks and crevices, and these proved more than equal to the task of providing footing up the ten feet to the top. The greatest difficulty lay in climbing while holding on to the rather heavy sack I carried, containing as it did its measure of living creatures, who writhed unhappily within.

Nevertheless, I managed, occasionally shifting the weight of the sack from my hand to my teeth, and in that manner I scaled the outer wall. I then lay prone for a moment to survey the grounds. The bulk of the watchmen, as I had anticipated, had abandoned their stations and now engaged themselves in the manly art of hurling insults at the rioters while the rioters hurled carrion at them. In addition to shouting, I heard incessant metal clanging and knew the rioters had improvised drums of some sort. These were good fellows, for they knew the more distraction and irritation they could devise, the greater the chance that I might enter and exit with impunity.

Getting down the wall would prove more complicated that getting up, but some twenty feet to the south, closer to the warehouses, a hillock rose by the wall, and there the drop would be no more than half my body length, so, snakelike I slithered to that spot and prepared to enter the grounds.

At that moment the dogs observed me; some five dragon-headed mastiffs sprang forward, thunderous barks booming from their terrible jaws. As they approached, I reached for my cumbersome sack and took out the first of the rabbits I had purchased at market that afternoon. I dropped it to the ground, where, after an instant of regaining its bearings, it saw the dogs descending upon it and sped away. The advantage went to the rabbit, for the sack had kept it warm, and the dogs were visibly chilled by the coldness of the night. Three of the dogs ran off in frigid pursuit, so I dropped the second of my rabbits, and this one carried the other two beasts off with it. I retained the third, having, I suspected, further use for the creature when I made my exit.

Next, I slipped onto the soft ground, landing in a practiced crouch. I continued to move in such a fashion until I slipped between the warehouses and Craven House itself. My task would prove far more complicated now, for the grounds were lit, and though I was dressed in a sufficiently gentlemanly fashion that my appearance would not send anyone fleeing for help, I presumed that the clerks and workers inside the house would notice an unfamiliar face. I could only hope that most of these men had already left for the day—though I was made to believe that many men worked long hours for the Company—and those who remained would be watching the riot with equal quantities of amusement and concern.

I slipped through the garden, sticking close to such shadows as I could find, and opened the rear door, thinking to find myself in a kitchen of some kind. Instead, two surprises lay in wait for me. The first was that the room I entered was no kitchen but a great meeting hall, a space equal to housing some sixty or seventy men, provided they all stood quite straight and not too many were exceedingly fat. Here was where, I surmised, the Company would hold sales of shares, share exchanges, and auctions of large quantities of East India goods to fairly small numbers of wealthy men. At this time of night, the room had no reason to be occupied, so it made a most agreeable point of entry.

On the less pleasing side, the door had attached to it a bell, which alerted anyone who cared to hear that someone had entered.

I dashed immediately to a far corner and into a slim space between two bookshelves, hoping that, should anyone come into the room, even with a candle, the shadows would conceal me. No one inquired into the bell, however, and I concluded after a few minutes that the coming and going of people was not a matter to send servants running in with torches. I would like to have concluded that it meant that no one was in the house to hear the bell, but that notion was disabused by the creak of footsteps on the floor above me.

I removed my outer coat and placed down my rabbit sack, making certain it was fully closed, prepared now to make my way into the heart of the building. Mr. Cobb had been so kind as to explain to me that the office I wanted was located in the southeast corner of the second floor. He knew no more than that, however, and it was up to me to locate the stairs of this mansion. I slinked across the floor and came to a closed door, one that offered no light spilling between the cracks—a good sign indeed. Trying the handle and finding it unlocked, I opened it swiftly. I was prepared, if necessary, to impersonate a man who had every business in Craven House rather than act like the sneak thief I was.

On the far side of the room, I found another door both unlocked and showing no light. Once more I made bold to open it and now found myself in a hallway. Here, at least, was some improvement. Though my sense of direction had been altered somewhat, I believed I knew which way to find the front of the house, and there, I concluded, I would find the stairs. I had made my way about halfway down the hall when a light entered my path. The glare momentarily blinded me, but after a few blinks I saw a young woman walking in my direction with a candle. Even in the darkness I could see she was a pretty thing, with dark hair only partially hidden by her bonnet and large expressionless eyes of some dark color, though I could hardly say what. And though I ought to have had more urgent things upon my mind, I could not help but admire her womanly shape, which her plain gown might have concealed but was unable to disguise.

“Ah, there you are,” she said to me. “With those wretched rioters out there, I thought you should not be able to find your way in, but I suspect you are cleverer than I’d been led to believe.”

I almost thought to ask if Cobb had sent her, but I held my tongue. If Cobb could have inserted a woman inside Craven House to do as she pleased, he would not have needed me. No, this was something else. I said to her, “I should hate to think who has been leading you to believe me unclever.”

In the darkness, I saw her eyes widen. “I do beg your pardon, sir. I thought you were someone else.” I could not be certain, but I believed her skin reddened as well. This mistake deeply embarrassed her, that much was clear.

Ready to make another glib response though I was, I thought it better to hold my tongue for a moment. I needed her to believe I was an East India Company clerk, and I must act that part, not the part of a man who sees a lovely young woman. “Your mistakes are your own and no concern of mine,” I told her, hurrying past her in the gruff manner I hoped would be typical of Craven House men.

“Sir,” she called out. “Sir, a moment.”

I had no choice but to stop as well, for were I to run off she would surely guess I did not belong. Were this a man, I decided, I would take no chances and lash out with a blow that would render the troublemaker unfit for further interference, but I am too delicate a soul to pummel so pretty a thing, so I merely turned and glared at her with the impatience of an overworked clerk who needed to be doing three different things at that moment.

“What is it?”

She held forth her candle. I felt certain that she did so to study my features, but then I was thinking like a man with something to hide when she would in all likelihood be thinking like a servant. “I see you have no light, and as there aren’t many people about, I thought you should like my taper. I should not bother you, sir, but with the rioters outside I feared for your safety.”

She put the candle too close to my face, and for a moment I was half blinded by the flame and half blinded by her charm. Some clever remark bubbled up inside me, perhaps about how no mere tallow and wick could outshine her beauties, but I choked it down, thinking it inappropriate for the identity I assumed, and snatched away her offering. “Kind of you,” I muttered and took the light, wondering what sort of man takes a light from a lady because there is danger about. The answer came easily enough: an East India man. I headed in the direction to which I’d set out.

I hardly wanted the candle, and I extinguished it the moment she was out of sight, but she had provided me with some useful intelligence, mainly that the house was mostly deserted. This knowledge gave me the courage to act with an eagerness that bordered on recklessness. I strolled forth confidently and, finding the stairs, climbed them like a man who visited Craven House both regularly and licitly.