Read The Devil's Company Online
Authors: David Liss
Tags: #General, #Fiction, #Historical Fiction, #Mystery, #Mystery & Detective - General, #Mystery & Detective, #Suspense, #American Mystery & Suspense Fiction, #Historical, #Fiction - Mystery, #Detective, #Private Investigators, #American Historical Fiction, #Mystery & Detective - Historical, #London (England), #Jews, #Jewish, #Weaver; Benjamin (Fictitious character)
The Devil's Company (42 page)
In a way, I could not but admire his audacity, and accordingly I accepted his offer.
THE YOUNG LADY’S still slumber improved into a dull snore, which I took to be a good sign that she might recover soon. I certainly could not take her home until I knew who she was and where she made her home, after all, so I kept her as my companion while I did my work.
After agreeing to let me see his books, Pike led me to a shelf where were stacked numerous folios. “I have been providing happiness to men and women for some six years now, Mr. Weaver. It has been my privilege to serve the poor and the needy and the desperate ever since I made some rather foolish investments in an affair of sheep raising. My very own brother-in-law, if you can credit such a thing, neglected to mention that he had no particular plans to buy sheep. The money was all lost, and I could not pay quite what I owed. And, if I am to be honest in the eyes of God, I must also mention that I did not precisely end my spendings once this disaster had taken place. And so, for the matter of a mere few hundred pounds, left to rot for all eternity. Most men would turn to despair, don’t you think?”
“Perhaps so,” I agreed.
“You are right. They would. But not I. No, I have turned to serve the Lord here in this hell of desolation. And in what better way can the Lord be served than by performing that most holy of sacraments, marriage? Did not the Lord advise us to be fruitful and multiply? My own wife, sir, has been a blessing to me these many years. Are you married, Mr. Weaver?”
Because I could not be entirely certain I would be permitted to leave there in a state unblessed by matrimony, I thought it prudent to lie and say I was.
“Ah, very good, sir, very good. I can see it upon your face. There is no state happier than the married state. It is the very ship of good fortune, which every man must pilot for himself. Don’t you agree?”
I said nothing, lest he once more try to convince me to marry the sleeping lady.
Seeing that I would not answer, he gestured toward the books. “These go back six years, sir. As many as a hundred marriages a week, and the names do begin to compile. Now, when was this marriage you mention?”
“Not six months ago,” I said.
“Very easy, very easy indeed. It is the very book I hold in my hands.”
When he made no gesture to hand it over, I reached into my purse and pulled out the coins he had mentioned. The book, now liberated, was set before me.
“Perhaps you might recollect the woman I seek,” I attempted. “I am told she is very remarkable in her unusual beauty. A tall creature, very pale, with white skin and hair. What is most astonishing, they say, is that in spite of her pallor, her eyes are most dark. Have you seen such a woman?”
“I may have,” he said thoughtfully, “but in my penury, my memory is not what it once was. It is a sad thing for a man’s thoughts to be so distracted by wondering whence his next meal might appear.”
I handed him another coin. “Does that aid your memory?”
“Indeed it does, and I can now definitively report I have not seen the girl you seek.”
GIVEN THAT THE GIRL had come from a respectable family, I could be fairly confident, if not absolutely certain, that she would write with a good hand. That fair confidence, however, did not allow me to feel free to pass over the unintelligible scrawls in the book without a second glance. It therefore took me better than two hours to make my way through the last six months’ worth of names, and I had nothing to show for my labors. No sign of the lady in question. Certainly it was possible that she might falsify her name, but that was the sort of trick used by a man who wished to be married in the most physical sense but perhaps not the most legal. A woman, I believed, even a young and love-struck woman, would be less eager to cheat herself out of the slim legitimacy converged by a Fleet marriage.
When I closed the book, the Reverend Mr. Pike emerged from whatever shadow in which he had been lurking. He shook his head sadly. “You’ve met with no luck, I see. It is a very sad thing. I do hope you will come back should you ever again be in need of matrimonial records.”
“Certainly,” I said, though I thought it an odd suggestion that I should pursue such things on a regular basis the way a man might be asked to come again to a shop selling snuff or stockings. I looked over at the sleeping woman, thinking I might now try to rouse her and discover where she belonged. Before I could do so, Pike ahemmed behind me.
“If you will allow me.” He opened the door to his office and I observed that the tavern contained a queue of priests awaiting me, an army of shabby men dressed in soiled black suits and yellowed cravats, once, no doubt, in some earlier and unimagined time, a pristine white. Each of these men held, in a variety of styles—clutched to their breasts, crooked under their arms, held in both hands like offerings—volumes of a variety of sizes and girths.
“What is this?” I inquired.
“Ho-ho,” Pike said, with a hearty laugh. “You thought the word would not get out, did you? It spreads like fire, you know. All these men have heard I’ve been entertaining a gentleman willing to pay two shillings for the right to peruse a registry book.”
I SHOULD HAVE BEEN perhaps a bit more cautious with the money, had I not intended reimbursement from Cobb, so I agreed to the avaricious terms set out by the good Reverend Pike. Another shilling for the use of his room, another again for more candles to illuminate the pages as my eyes grew fatigued. Never, I must admit, have I had such good service. At the first sign that my lips had grown dry, he offered to send out for beer, and when my stomach made a large rumbling noise he sent for bread and cheese—all provided, of course, at outlandish prices.
In the end, I toiled for more than two hours, feeling the dust accumulate under my nails, in my nostrils, along my tongue. I was fairly sick of the books but I vowed to review them all. And so it was not until the seventh or eight priest, a slight man with a hunched back and a crooked smile, presented me with his little quarto registry that I struck gold. While this strange fellow hovered over me, I could not believe my astonishing luck. There it was, the girl’s name,
Bridget Alton
, in undeniable clarity.
The happy groom’s name was there as well, though this was harder to make out. It took some scrutiny before I could read it, but once I did there could be no doubt that it was a false one: Achitophel Nutmeg. And it hardly took a man of rare perceptive powers to divine this worthy’s true identity, for the first names were both from the biblical tale, not to mention the Dryden poem, “Absalom and Achitophel,” and the last names both staples of the spice trade.
Once more, I had stumbled upon the considerable persuasive prowess of Absalom Pepper, the very man Cobb claimed had been killed by the East India Company. Now it appeared he had married Ellershaw’s stepdaughter.
CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE
WAS FORTUNATE THAT MY MOTIONS, AS I WALKED ABOUT EXCITEDLY after making this discovery, awakened the young bride, who after much confusion told me her name and where she lived, explaining that she had been lured away from her home by a piteous cry for help from an old woman. Once out upon the street, she had been abducted by the three gentlemen I’d engaged with earlier and thence taken to a tavern, where she was made upon threat of injury to ingest large quantities of gin.
Though she listened to my tale of her rescue with gratitude, she declined to travel anywhere with me—a precaution I could not object to, since, had she taken it earlier, she would not have found herself so trepanned—so I sent a note to her family. Within the hour, a coach arrived, and she was escorted to it by a footman, who assured me I had his master’s gratitude and would be handsomely rewarded for my efforts. (Though I write this memoir some thirty years later, I still await that reward.) In any case, once the girl was gone from the marriage house, I was merely relieved to be well rid of the burden.
This liberty rendered me free to consider the marriage I had late uncovered. The marriage book listed an address for the happy couple, and while I had little expectation that the information would prove accurate, here was a case in which I found myself most pleasantly surprised, for without difficulty or mayhem I located the daughter Mrs. Ellershaw was so desirous to keep hidden.
Unlike the most recent Pepper widow I had discovered, I was somewhat relieved to find that Mrs. Ellershaw’s daughter lived in a respectable set of rooms on Durham Yard, a pleasant street enough, though certainly far below the grandeur in which her mother and stepfather lived. Her furnishings, however, were of the most elegant sort, for she had fine wood chests and shelves and tables, handsomely upholstered chairs, and a thick rug from the Orient. Both she and her maid were dressed quite modishly, with wide hoops, and the lady, at least, lacked not for embroidery and lace and fine ribbons in her bonnet.
The lady received me in the parlor of her landlady’s house. Her serving girl provided wine and then sat primly in the corner, concentrating most amiably upon her sewing.
“I am very sorry to disturb you, madam, but I must ask you some questions about your late husband, Mr. Pepper.”
Ellershaw’s stepdaughter, whom I must call Mrs. Pepper, despite her being now one of a small army of women bearing the name, appeared most distressed at the mention of her late husband. “Oh, Mr. Pepper. He was the best of men, sir. The very best of men.”
I could not but note the unlikelihood that three such different women should deliver their observations of the same man in precisely the same words. “Madam, begging your pardon, but did the late Mr. Pepper ever describe himself in those very terms?”
Her color heightened prodigiously, and I knew I had struck the nail true. I could hardly be surprised, however, that a man who should think so well of himself that he might marry three women (at the least) should be freighted down with vanity. “Mr. Pepper,” she explained, “was a most remarkable man, and he would have been less remarkable had he not possessed the insight to witness his own superiority.”
I bowed from my seat, for I could not but applaud her sophistry. “It must have been a great blessing to him to be possessed of so devoted a wife.”
“I pray it was so. But tell me, sir, how I may be of service to you and what your business might be with my late husband.”
What indeed? It occurred to me that I should have thought this matter through with greater care, but I had grown so comfortable with interrogating the widows Pepper that I had not rehearsed to myself the very particular difficulties of this particular interview. I knew nothing of the light in which Mr. Pepper had represented himself to this lady, so I could not take that approach, nor could I enter the harbor from the angle of my position at Craven House, for I presumed that my connection to Mr. Ellershaw could run the ship aground. The previous two widows had been, at least to my opinion, unsophisticated enough that I could paint my fictions with broad strokes, provided they were confident. However, I could not but perceive at least some cleverness in this lady’s eyes.
I therefore chose to adopt a course as close to a probable truth as I could easily devise upon such short notice. “Madam, I am something of a private constable,” I began, “and I currently conduct an inquiry into the untimely death of Mr. Pepper. There are those who believe his drowning not to be an unfortunate accident but rather an act of unspeakable malice.”
The lady let out a gasp and then shouted for her girl to bring her a fan. At once a marvelously painted gold and black fan of oriental design was in her hand, waving back and forth most violently. “I won’t hear of it,” she said, her voice an urgent staccato. “I can accept that it was the will of providence that my Absalom might be taken so young, but I cannot think it would be the will of a human being. Who could hate him so?”
“That is what I wish to learn, Mrs. Pepper. It may be that there is no more to this than meets the eye, but if someone has harmed your husband, I believe you would rather know the truth.”
She said nothing for a long moment and then abruptly ceased her frantic fanning and set that agent upon her side table. Instead, she picked up my card and examined it once more. “You are Benjamin Weaver,” she said. “I’ve heard of you, I believe.”
Again, I bowed from my seat. “I have been so fortunate as to receive some public notice. At times, sadly, the notice has not been laudatory, but I flatter myself that, on balance, I have been treated kindly by the Grub Street tribe.”
She worked her jaw slowly, as though masticating my words. “I am hardly familiar with these matters, but I cannot believe that a man of your skills can be retained cheaply. Who then inquires into Mr. Pepper’s death?”
I saw now that I had been right to be wary of her intelligence. “I serve both the great and the low. Though not averse to earning my bread, neither do I shy away from righting wrongs perpetrated against the poor.”
This bit of puffery mollified her not at all. “And whom, in this case, do you serve?”
It was time to put my plan to the test. I should either be struck dead upon the battlefield or carry home the victory. “It is ever my policy to keep such matters private, but as the man in question was your beloved husband, it would be inexcusable to stand upon ceremony with you. I have been hired by a gentleman of the silk industry who believes that Mr. Pepper may have been struck down with malicious intent.”
“The silk industry?” she asked. “What concern can his fate be to such as they?”
“Mrs. Pepper, forgive the delicacy of this question, but in what manner did your late husband make his way in the world?”
Her color rose once more. “Mr. Pepper was a gentleman,” she said with great force.
“He had no—?”
“He was to come into money of his father’s estate,” she said, “had not a pack of rapacious solicitors conspired to convert his inheritance into a private pool of wealth from which they might dip.” She once again worked the fan mightily. “He applied all the money of my dowry to his legal fees, but they would not give him justice, and since his death they have been so bold as to deny the very existence of the case.”
“Forgive me once more for the indelicacy of the question—”
“Let us say that you will know I have forgiven the indelicacy of
all
your questions unless I ask you to leave, at which point you will know that no further forgiveness is forthcoming. In any event, if you truly mean to find justice for Mr. Pepper, then you ask these questions for my own cause as well.”
“You are too kind, madam. As to my question, I have made some inquiries about town, and I have heard the sad rumor that your marriage was not approved by your family.”
“There were those in my family who forbade the marriage, but I had allies as well, who provided me my dowry secretly that Mr. Pepper’s cause might be best pursued.”
I nodded. If Mrs. Ellershaw had taken her daughter’s side in this clandestine marriage, it might explain at least a portion of the rift between that lady and her monstrous husband.
“Again, a most delicate question, but may I inquire into the worth of the dowry?”
From the look upon her face, I had no doubt that our interview came very close to ending precisely there, but she apparently thought better of it. “I hate to speak of such things, but the amount was fifteen hundred pounds.”
With some effort, I kept my face impassive upon hearing this massive sum.
“And this amount was lost to legal fees?”
“As vile as it sounds, so it was. These solicitors are skilled at nothing but lies and tricks and delays.”
I made some sympathetic comments meant to mask my disbelief. “Can you not conceive of any reason why the silk workers of this city might take an interest in the cause of your husband’s unfortunate accident?”
She shook her head. “I cannot think of it.”
“He never spoke to you of silk engines? You never observed him making notes upon such things, contemplating projects, anything of that nature?”
“As I have said, he was a gentleman born, pursuing his just inheritance. I believe you mistake him for a ’Change Alley projector.”
“Then the error is mine,” I said, with my third bow of our session.
“What did these men tell you, sir? Why should they take an interest in Mr. Pepper?”
I could only hope that she knew so little of how these affairs were conducted that my untruth would not surprise her. “I have not inquired into that.”
“And do they believe they know who would do him harm?”
Here I decided to take a considerable risk. If this lady chose to take my accusations to her stepfather I would have exploded my disguise, and I shuddered to think of the consequences for my friends. “Out of respect for you and your loss, I shall tell you, but I must have your word that you will tell no one. There are networks of communication and rumor, channels of intelligence that will undermine my pursuit of justice, perhaps even endanger my life, if what I tell you now is revealed prematurely. No matter the anger this accusation engenders within you, you must keep it locked in your breast.”
Her head snapped violently to her left. “Leave the room, Lizzy.”
The maid started in her chair. She ceased her sewing but did not otherwise move.
“Go upstairs now, I say. If I don’t hear the creaking of the upper stairs in a moment’s time, you can seek another position and without a reference from me.”
This threat provided the girl with the incentive she needed, and she fled the room.
I took a sip of my wine, now grown cool, and set it back down. “I beg you to recall this is but an accusation. Nevertheless, there are men among the silk workers of this metropolis who believe that Mr. Pepper’s death was arranged by the East India Company.”
The color at once drained from her face, and her limbs began to tremble violently. Her eyes grew red, but no tears emerged. Then, at once, she propelled herself to her feet so violently that I feared she might hurl herself at me. Instead, she left the room, shutting the door hard behind her.
I hardly knew how to conduct myself. Had I been excused? I rang for the servant, but no one answered. Then, after what felt like an interminable period, but might have been no more than five minutes, Mrs. Pepper reappeared. As she did not sit, I rose to meet her gaze from across the room.
“They brought him here, you know,” she said. “They dragged his body out of the river and brought him to this house. I held his cold hands in my own and wept over him until my physician insisted I withdraw. I have never known such sadness and such loss, Mr. Weaver. If Mr. Pepper was killed by a malicious agent, I want you to find him. Whatever these laborers pay you, I shall treble as your reward. And if you find that it was the East India Company, I shall stand by your side and make certain that they pay for their crimes.”
“You have my word—”
“Your word is nothing to me,” she said. “Return when you have something to tell me. Trouble me no further with idle speculations. I cannot endure the pain.”
“Of course, Mrs. Pepper. I shall endeavor—”