A Conspiracy of Paper

EIGHT

I ARRIVED NEAR ENOUGH on time at my uncle’s home on Broad Court in the parish of St. James, Dukes Place. In the year 1719, foreign Jews were still not permitted to own property in London, so my uncle rented a pleasant house in the heart of the Jewish neighborhood, only a brief distance from the Bevis Marks synagogue. His house was three stories; I cannot recall how many rooms, but it was well-proportioned for a man living with a wife and a single dependent and hardly more than a handful of servants. Still, my uncle often worked at home, as my father had, and he enjoyed entertaining guests.

Unlike many Jews who moved to Dukes Place and then left when they made their fortune—relocating to the more fashionable neighborhoods to the west—my uncle chose to remain behind to share his lot with the poorer members of his nation. It is true that the eastern parts of the city are none the most pleasant, for London’s prevailing winds blow every foul stench of a foul-smelling metropolis right to his doorway, but despite the odor and the poverty and the isolation of Dukes Place, my uncle would not think of relocating. “I am a Portuguese Jew, born in Amsterdam and moved to London,” Uncle Miguel told me when I was a boy. “I have no desire to move again.”

As I walked toward the door it occurred to me that it was Friday night, the beginning of the Jewish Sabbath, and that my uncle had tricked me into attending a Sabbath meal. Memories of my childhood bombarded me—the warm odor of freshly baked egg bread, the din of conversation. Sabbath meals had always been held at my uncle and aunt’s house, for the Sabbath was, by tradition, a family occasion, and where I lived was less a family than a household. Every Friday before sundown we would walk from our house on Cree Church Lane to my uncle’s place, where we would share prayers and food with his family and whatever friends he had invited. My uncle would always talk to my brother and me as though we were adults, a habit I found both confusing and gratifying. My aunt would slip us jellies or little cakes before dinner. These meals were one of the few rituals from my childhood that I thought on with any fondness, and I felt a fleeting rage toward my uncle for exposing me to these memories once more.

Even after I had knocked upon the door I thought of running away, of abandoning my plans and my inquiry and Mr. Balfour and the idea that my father had been murdered. Let him stay dead, I nearly muttered aloud, but despite the urge to flee, I remained fast.

Isaac, a short and stooped curmudgeon who had been my uncle’s servant since I was but a boy, met me at the door. Nearing, I suppose, sixty or more, he appeared to me in good health and as close to good spirits as he was capable. “Had you come but a few moments later,” he said by way of greeting me, whom he had not seen in a decade, “Mr. Lienzo would have had to answer the door himself.” Isaac had always been particularly nice about matters of religion, and he refused to work on the Sabbath, as Jewish law dictates. As my uncle refused to work as well, he could hardly resent the same adherence to the law in a servant.

This house brought upon me a flood of ancient memories, for I had spent untold hours here as a child. Most of the furnishings were precisely as I recalled—the blues and reds of the Persian rug, the ornate woodwork of the stairway, the austere portraits of my grandparents upon the wall. More than the appearance, the scents recalled the Sabbaths of my childhood—stewed meats and boiled raisins and the sweet aromas of cinnamon and ginger.

In the parlor I was greeted by my uncle, who sat alone with a paper. It looked to be one of the publications that specialized in the dealings of government issues and stocks in ’Change Alley. Upon my entrance he set it aside. “Benjamin,” he said as he rose from his seat, “I am so glad you came. Yes, it is a very good thing to have you here.”

“You tricked me, Uncle,” I said. “You did not tell me it was a Sabbath meal for which you invited me.”

“I tricked you?” He grinned. “Did I hide from you the day of the week? You ascribe to me more wile than I have—though I should be glad to be as clever as you say.”

My retort was cut off by the entrance of my aunt, followed by a beautiful woman of perhaps one- or two-and-twenty. Aunt Sophia was an attractive older woman, a little inclined to be fat, and a bit silly in her manner. Her social interactions were almost exclusively with other Jewish immigrants, and she had never learned to speak English very well. Like my uncle, she wore clothing that spoke of her time among the Dutch. Her dress was of a thin black woolen, high in the neck and long in the sleeve, and her hair was piled up, pointing to a small, white bonnet upon her crown, so as to remind me of women in Dutch paintings of the last century.

She clasped my shoulders with her arms and asked me questions in halting English, which I answered in equally halting Portuguese. I astonished myself at the happiness I took in seeing her. She was a kind woman, and she looked at me with no judgment—I saw only her pleasure at having me in her home. She was, in fact, just as I remembered her.

“And this,” my uncle said at last, placing his arm around the beautiful woman, “is your cousin Miriam.”

The term cousin I knew was somewhat formal, for Miriam was my late cousin Aaron’s widow. I knew little of her or their marriage, for Aaron had wedded her after I had left home, upon the return from his first voyage to the Levant, but London is not so large that one does not hear stories. She had been my uncle’s ward, her own parents having died before she was fifteen, leaving her a handsome fortune. She had married Aaron by the time she was seventeen and been widowed of him by the time she was nineteen. Now, still in the bloom of her youth, and presumably possessed of a fortune, she remained within her father-in-law’s household.

Miriam had a Jewess’s coloring—olive skin, black hair, which she let dangle down in ringlets like a fashionable London lady, and rich green eyes. Her dress, too—a gown of sea green with yellow petticoats—bespoke a particular attention to the styles of the town. I could not help but think of this lovely woman, who came complete with her own fortune, as somehow trapped in my uncle’s house, only wanting a rescuer. Though I came with no fortune of my own, I suspected hers might prove sufficient for the two of us, and I almost laughed as I considered that I, a Jew, should wish to play Lorenzo to her Jessica.

I bowed deeply. “Cousin,” I said, feeling worldly and dashing. I was the wayward cousin returned, and I hoped that she might find me fascinating.

“I have heard much of you, sir,” she said, with a smile that showed white and healthy teeth.

“You honor me, madam.”

“We are in England, not France, Benjamin,” my uncle said. “You may omit the formalities.”

That I had no clever response was fortunately hid by a knock at the door. “The sun,” my uncle said, “is too far set for Isaac to answer that.” He and my aunt walked forth to greet his visitors.

“Do we expect others?” I asked Miriam, pleased with the early opportunity for conversation.

“Yes,” she said with a scowl that for a moment I thought directed at me. She circled around the sofa upon which I sat and gracefully lowered herself into a well-cushioned armchair across from me. “Do you know Nathan Adelman?” Her displeasure, I saw, belonged to another.

I nodded. “I know of him, certainly. An impressive dinner guest.” Adelman had come to England from Hamburg to join King George’s court five years earlier, in 1714. He, as my father had been, was one of the handful of Jews allowed to hold the title of licensed broker upon the Exchange; he was also a powerful merchant with ties to the East and West Indies, the Levant, and, surreptitiously, to the South Sea Company and even to Whitehall itself. Rumor held that he was the Prince of Wales’s unofficial adviser in all matters financial. I knew no more of him but that the displeasure so evident upon Miriam’s face suggested she took no delight in his company.

When he walked into the room, the situation unfolded itself. He offered an optimistic, almost exuberant smile at Miriam, who was near thirty years his junior. Adelman looked only slightly younger than my uncle—he was a short, plump, handsomely dressed man, clean-shaven, attired in a full, black bob-wig and looked for all the world as much an English gentleman as anyone in a respectable London coffeehouse. It was only his voice that gave him away. Like my uncle, he had clearly worked hard to eliminate much of his accent—though in his case, having a touch of the German in his speech offered perhaps some advantage in a court with a German king. It was well-known that King George’s first priority was his German principality, Hanover, and Adelman’s first priority was King George’s son. This dedication to the Prince left Adelman in a ticklish situation, for at the time the Prince and the King were feuding, and Adelman therefore lacked the King’s ear, which he was said to have in the past possessed.

Miriam offered him a disaffected nod, while I arose and bowed deeply upon my introduction. By the time I sat again I understood that it did not take a man trained in uncovering secrets to read the relationships before me. Adelman wished to marry Miriam, and Miriam had no desire to marry Adelman. I could not even venture a guess as to how my uncle felt about this courtship.

After a few moments of polite conversation concerning the weather and the political situation in France, a knock at the door produced our final dinner guest. My uncle disappeared briefly and then returned, one hand pressed in a friendly fashion to the back of Noah Sarmento, a clerk who worked within my uncle’s warehouse. This was a very young man with a polite but severe countenance. He was clean-shaven, wore a small, tight wig, and though his clothes were not of poor quality, they were of nondescript grays and browns and of equally bland tailoring.

“Certainly you know Mr. Adelman,” my uncle began.

Sarmento bowed. “I have had the pleasure many times,” he said with a cheer that seemed ill-suited to his features, “though not so many as I should like.” Sarmento’s smile rested as naturally upon his face as an admiral’s uniform upon a monkey. This image is perhaps a false one, however, for to liken Sarmento to a monkey would be to suggest there was something playful and mischievous about him. Nothing could be more false. He was as dour a man as I had ever met, and though I know many philosophers argue against the science of physiognomy, here was one man whose very character could be read in the pinched and unwelcoming shape of his face.

Adelman returned a shallow bow as my uncle introduced me in such a way as to avoid the mention of my assumed name. “This is my nephew Benjamin, son of my late brother.”

Sarmento nodded only briefly before he abandoned contact with me. “Mrs. Lienzo,” he said, bowing in her direction. “It is a pleasure to see you once more.”

Miriam nodded, half-closed her eyes, and looked away.

“Tell me,” Sarmento began to address Adelman, “what news in South Sea House? The coffeehouses are all a-flutter to see what shall happen next.”

Adelman smiled politely. “Come sir. You know that my relationship with the South Sea Company is purely informal.”

“Ha!” Sarmento slapped his thigh. I could not see if he did so with pleasure or to spur himself on. “I hear the Company makes not a move without consulting you.”

“You do me too much honor,” Adelman assured him.

I valued this discourse only because Miriam and I exchanged quick glances to express our mutual lack of interest. We soon moved to the dining room, where I continued to find the conversation awkward and halting. My uncle several times pressured me to say the prayers traditionally uttered with Sabbath dinner, but I pretended forgetfulness of what had been so ingrained upon me as a child. In truth, I felt an odd inclination to participate, but I was unsure that the prayers I remembered were the correct ones, and I did not wish to err before my cousin. I did not say as much, but I suggested that I thought of blessings upon food as so much superstition. When my uncle uttered these prayers, however, I felt the tug of something—memory or loss, perhaps—and I took a strange pleasure in the sound of the Hebrew words. There had been no prayer in my house when I grew up; my father sent my brother and me to study the laws of our people at the Jewish school because that was what men did, and we attended the synagogue because my father had found it easier to go than to explain why he did not.

I looked about the room to see how the others responded to the blessings. I thought it odd that Sarmento, who had demonstrated a clear admiration for Miriam before, could hardly allow his gaze to waver from Adelman. “Tell me, Mr. Adelman,” Sarmento began once my uncle finished with the prayers, “will the recent threats of a Jacobite uprising affect the sale of government issues?”

“I’m sure I have nothing to say that is not said throughout the coffeehouses,” Adelman demurred. “Upheaval always promotes fluctuation in the prices of the funds. But without such fluctuation, there could be no market, so the Jacobites do us some small favor, I suppose. But that, as I say, is but common knowledge.”

“There could be nothing common about your opinions,” Sarmento pressed on. “I should so much like to hear them.”

“Indeed, I believe you,” Adelman said with a laugh, “but I wonder if our friends who do not spend their time in ’Change Alley are as curious as you.” He bowed his head at Miriam.

“Perhaps I might make an appointment to meet with you then at another point.”

“You may call on me at any time,” Adelman responded, although with such little warmth that he should have frightened off all but the most determined of sycophants. “I am often to be found at Jonathan’s Coffeehouse, and you may always send a message there knowing I shall receive it.”

“If we may not talk about the funds, then let us talk of the amusements of the town!” Sarmento cried, with a loudness I suppose he meant as enthusiasm. “What say you, Mrs. Lienzo?”

“I should think that my cousin can speak more to that topic,” Miriam said quietly, carefully avoiding my gaze as she did so. “I am told he knows something of London amusements.”

I knew not how to take her comment, but I could detect no insult. I could only be sure that Sarmento had asked Miriam a question and she had deferred to me. I rose to the challenge, feeling that I now had the opportunity to impress her. I spoke only of what I had heard of the new theatrical season, and I gave my opinion on a variety of players and performances from the previous year. Sarmento proceeded to seize upon each of my points, using them to launch some discourse of his own on ideas about acting or plays and such. This popinjay would never dare to insult me in public, but here, at my uncle’s dinner table, he made no effort to hide his contempt for me; I could hardly embarrass my uncle by challenging his puppy. Instead I pretended not to understand his looks and gestures, and silently hoped I should have the opportunity to meet him elsewhere.

It was a tradition in my uncle’s household that, with the servants dismissed, the resident ladies would serve the meal on the Sabbath. And so it was, and to my delight I observed that Miriam seemed particular about both avoiding Sarmento and Adelman—leaving those gentlemen for my Aunt Sophia—and to seeking me out when delivering her bowls of soup or plates of cardamom-scented lamb. I looked forward to each new course, that I might bask in her proximity: the rustle of her skirts, the scent of her lemony perfume, and such tantalizing hints of her bosoms as her bodice offered. Indeed, the third and final time she served me she caught my eyes indulging in such pleasures, and she trapped my gaze within her own. In an instant I braced myself, for London ladies know of only two responses to a gaze such as mine, and I knew not if I would receive the hard scowl of chastisement, or the equally disappointing lascivious smirk. I cannot adequately describe my confused pleasure when Miriam declined to pursue either of these courses, and only offered me a smile of knowing amusement, as though the joy I took in her nearness was a secret we both shared.

After the meal, in the best English fashion, we four gentlemen retired to a private chamber with a bottle of wine. Adelman, on several occasions, attempted to discuss affairs of business with my uncle, who made it clear that he would not talk of these things on the Sabbath. Sarmento again turned the conversation to the rumors of another Jacobite uprising here in England. The topic of the followers of the deposed King was of interest to my uncle, and he had much to say. I listened intently, but I blush to own I did not follow politics very closely, and many points were lost upon me.

Adelman, whose interests were so clearly tied to the success of the current dynasty, dismissed the Jacobites as a mindless rabble, and condemned the Pretender as a Popish tyrant. My uncle nodded in mute agreement, for Adelman had merely encapsulated Whiggish sentiment. But Sarmento hung on Adelman’s every word, praising his ideas as those of a philosopher and his words as those of a poet.

“And what of you, sir?” Sarmento turned to me. “Have you no thoughts on these Jacobites?”

“I concern myself so little with matters of politics,” I said, meeting his gaze. I believed his question was not about my political views, but how I should respond to his boldness.

“Surely you are not a detractor of the King?” Sarmento pushed on.

I could not guess his game, but in this era in which rebellion always threatened the Crown, this was more than mere idle chatter. A public accusation of Jacobitical sympathies could ruin a man’s reputation—perhaps even result in an arrest by the King’s Messengers. “Must one who is not an active supporter be a detractor?” I inquired carefully.

“I am sure,” my uncle volunteered hurriedly, “that my nephew has raised a bumper many times to the King.”

“Yes,” I agreed, “though I confess that when I drink to the King’s health it is more often for the sake of the drinking than the King.”

My uncle and Adelman both laughed politely, and I thought my quip should tire Sarmento. I was mistaken. He merely took a new topic. “Tell me, sir,” he began when the laughter died down. “Who do you like—the Bank or the Company?”

The question confused me, and I suspected it had been meant to. The matter of this financial rivalry was of some interest to me, for I knew Old Balfour to have made investments based upon his notions of this competition, but I so little understood the terms of these companies’ antagonisms that I could hardly think of how to answer. Any pretense on my part that I understood the topic should only expose me as a fool, so I spoke plainly. “Who do I like for what?”

“Do you believe the Treasury is best served by the Bank of England or the South Sea Company?” He spoke slowly and deliberately, as if giving commands to a half-witted servant.

I offered him my most polite smile. “I was not aware that a man should find himself required to takes sides.”

“Oh, not everyone, I suppose. Only men of means and business must.”

“Must they?” my uncle inquired. “Cannot a man of business simply observe the rivalry without taking sides?”

“But you take sides, do you not, sir?” His question, as a clerk addressing his employer, struck me as impertinent, but if my uncle took offense he showed no sign of it. He merely listened to Sarmento palaver on. “Has not your family always believed that the Bank of England should maintain its monopoly on funding government loans? Have I not heard you argue that the South Sea Company should not be permitted to compete with the Bank for this business?”

“You know, Mr. Sarmento, that I do not wish to discuss such issues on the Sabbath.”

He bowed slightly. “You are quite right, sir.” He turned to me again. “You, sir, feel no such restriction, I suppose. And as all men of business and means must have an opinion, may I assume that you have one that you are only hesitant to share?”

“Tell me who you like, sir, and perhaps I shall have a model that I might emulate.”

Sarmento smiled, but not at me. He turned to Mr. Adelman. “Why, I like the South Sea Company, sir. Particularly when it is in such capable hands.”

Adelman bowed slightly. “You know full well that we Jews may not invest in the Companies. Your assertions, while flattering, may perhaps do my reputation some harm.”

“I only repeat what is spoken of in every coffeehouse. And no one thinks less of you for your interest in these matters. You are a patriot, sir, of the highest order,” Sarmento continued in his dull voice, which poorly matched the passion of his words. “For while the nation’s finances are protected by men such as the South Sea directors, we need little fear uprisings and riots.”

Adelman appeared unable to think of a response, and merely bowed again, so my uncle stepped in, no doubt hoping to move our conversation away from matters of business, and he announced that for the second time in almost as many years the churchwardens of the parish had elected him to the office of Overseer of the Poor. This revelation produced a hearty laugh from Adelman and Sarmento that I did not understand.

“Why should they elect you to this office, Uncle? Does it not involve attending church services each Sunday?”

All three men laughed, but only Sarmento laughed with hearty pleasure at my ignorance. “Aye,” my uncle agreed. “It means attending the Church on the Christian Sabbath, and it means swearing a Christian oath upon a Christian Bible. They do not appoint me because they wish me to perform the duties of the office. They elect me because they know I shall refuse to do so.”

“I confess I do not understand.”

“It is but a way to generate revenue,” Adelman explained. “Your uncle, he cannot perform the duties they have honored him with, so he must pay a fine of five pounds for refusing. It is common for the churchwardens to appoint many Jews in the course of a year—even poor Jews. They know that others will find the money to pay the fine. In this way they raise much money.”

“Can you not complain?”

“We pay many taxes,” my uncle explained. “You were born here, so you are free of the alien taxes, but Mr. Adelman and I are not. And though we have both received denizenship of Parliament, our taxes are still much higher than those of freeborn Britons. This appointment is but another tax, and I pay it quietly. I save my complaints for issues of importance.”

We conversed for another hour on a variety of topics until Adelman stood abruptly and announced that he must return home; I used his departure as the excuse for my own. Prior to my leaving, however, my uncle took me aside. “You are angry.” His eyes glowed with a strange warmth, as though he had forgotten the anger he had felt toward me at my father’s funeral, as though there had been no rift between me and my family.

“You broke your promise,” I said.

“I have only delayed it. I said I would talk to you after dinner. I did not say how long after. Come to the synagogue for prayers tomorrow morning. Spend the rest of the Sabbath with your family. When the sun goes down, I shall tell you what you want to know.”

I hardly knew how to respond or even how his offer affected me. “Uncle Miguel, time is not a luxury I possess. I cannot simply spend my day praying and making idle chatter.”

He shrugged. “That’s my price, Benjamin. But”—he smiled—“it is a one-time cost. I shall make no further demands on you, even if you need information weeks from now, or months.”

I knew I could not persuade him; he would let his own brother’s murderer run free rather than back down once he’d made up his mind. And I must say I liked the idea of spending the afternoon with Miriam, so I agreed to meet him the next morning.

Adelman and I stepped out the door together, and I was struck by the opulence of his gilt carriage, which was parked outside my uncle’s home. Upon seeing his master, a boy of perhaps fourteen years and a brownish complexion—East Indian, I guessed—dressed in a gaudy red-and-gold livery, opened the door and stood like a statue.

“Lienzo”—Adelman grabbed my arm with a practiced congeniality—#8220;may I drop you off somewhere? You live in Covent Garden, do you not?”

I bowed to show my acceptance and thanks.

I admit that this confinement in so small a space with a man of Adelman’s prominence made me uneasy, for if my trade often placed me in the company of great men, it rarely did so under such circumstances. Here we were engaged, not in business, but in an amicable ride across town.

As the carriage lurched forward, Adelman drew the curtains along the windows, enveloping us in near-complete darkness. He kept silent for some time, and I could think of no way to begin a conversation, so I remained still, feeling the wheels of the carriage roll over the unforgiving London roads. Each time I shifted in my seat, the noise I made seemed distractingly loud. I could hear nothing from across the carriage where Adelman sat.

Finally he cleared his throat, and I believe he took a pinch of snuff. “I understand,” he began, “you have had a visit from a Mr. Balfour.”

“You astonish me, sir.” I nearly shouted in my surprise. I own that I felt a shiver run down my spine. There was nothing in Adelman’s voice, you understand, to make me fearful. He maintained his polished and measured Germanic tone. There was, however, something in the question itself—in the knowledge that produced the question. What could a man of Adelman’s stature know or care of these matters? I regretted that in the darkness I could learn nothing of his face, though I suspect he was too well practiced in his expressions to have offered me any information on that front. I too could mask my feeling, however. “I cannot express my shock at learning that my dealings should attract your notice,” I told him with utter calm.

“You are part of an important family, Mr. Lienzo.”

“I go by the name of Weaver,” I told him.

“I meant no disrespect,” he explained quickly. “I thought perhaps it was a name you used only when you fought.” He paused for a moment. “I shall be blunt with you. I admire you, sir. I admire that you have decided to abandon the ancient suppositions of our race and make your way on your own. Pray, don’t misunderstand me. I respect your uncle to a prodigious degree, but I find his clinging to rites and rituals a dangerous hindrance to our people. You, on the other hand, have shown Englishmen everywhere that Jews are not to be mocked or laughed at. Your exploits in the ring are legendary. Even the King, sir, knows your name.”

I bowed in the darkness. He spoke the truth when he said I had turned my back on the rites and rituals of my people, yet I found his celebration of this neglect made me uneasy. Perhaps because I had always viewed my neglect of matters religious something born of idleness, where he saw it as liberated philosophy. “You honor me with your words,” I said after an uncomfortable moment of silence. “But I am unsure what all this has to do with Mr. Balfour, nor why my business with him should interest you, sir.”

“Yes, you are a man of business. I delight in a man of business. Let me say, Mr. Weaver, that I was saddened to hear of the death of your father, but the admiration I felt for him does not make me see what is not there. His death was a tragic accident; nothing more. I knew Michael Balfour as well. He was a good man, I should guess. Good enough, at any rate. But like his son, Balfour was weak. He made mistakes in his dealings, and he could not salvage himself nor face the consequences of his ruin. To the untrained eye, the fact that two men of business who were friends died so short a time apart may appear to be strange, but there is nothing to connect them. Tell me,” he said with a theatrical change of voice, “what has Balfour offered you to pursue this matter?”

I told him the nature of our agreement.

He let out a brief laugh, rather like a bark. “You will receive no money—I doubt that he can produce twenty farthings, let alone pounds. His estate, you know, cannot be recovered. Balfour lost all, and it is no secret that his mother has naught but contempt for her son. You will earn nothing for your time, sir, but the enmity of powerful men who do not like to see someone meddling in their affairs. As it happens, I may be in a position to offer you an alternative. Your skills have not gone unnoticed, and your discretion is as commented upon as your cunning. These are rare qualities, and there are many men—in the South Sea Company, in Parliament, in the Court itself—who would be glad to have at their disposal a man of your talents. What say you, Mr. Weaver, do you wish to place this unpleasantness behind you? These men I know can make your fortune.”

I pretended not to find his offer intriguing. “What you propose is undeniably generous,” I said, “but I am still uncertain why you are interested in my business with Balfour or why you should like me to cease perusing the matter.”

“The matter is a delicate one. To begin with, I would not want to see any stench stirred up in regard to our people. Should the newspapers get wind of your search, I fear it should reflect badly upon the Jews of England, and that is bad for all of us—rabbis, brokers, and pugilists alike, yes? The second reason is that the South Sea Company involves itself in some exceedingly complex renegotiations of the dispersal of public funds. I cannot go into detail, but suffice it to say that we are concerned about the high rate of interest on the funded national debt, and we are in the process of convincing Parliament to proceed with measures to aid in lowering the interest, thus freeing the nation of a terrible financial burden. Our plan cannot work if people lose confidence in a web of credit that most find befuddling. Any public suspicion that there is some connection between Balfour’s death and the funds would harm us irrevocably. If the people believe that the funds are rife with murder and intrigue, then I am afraid we shall fail in our plans to ease the national burden of debt, and you, sir, will have cost your King and your Kingdom, quite literally, millions of pounds.”

“I should not like to do such harm,” I said cautiously, “but there is still the matter of Balfour’s concerns. He believes that these deaths are not what they appear, and I believe that I must look further into that matter.”

“You will only be squandering your time and harming your Kingdom.”

“But surely you can accept the possibility that these deaths are more than coincidence.”

“I cannot,” he told me with utter confidence.

“Then how do you explain the fact that Balfour’s own clerk cannot account for the ruin of the estate?”

“Matters of credit and finance are, even to those who make their livings in dealing with them, fantastical, unfathomable things,” he explained in a sharp tone, no longer so polished and friendly. “They are, to most men, on the order of the supernatural rather than the physical. I daresay there is hardly a broker in England, if his death was unexpected, whose papers would not reveal themselves to be inextricably tangled and appear to be lacking.”

“Mr. Balfour’s death was not unexpected,” I observed. “Not to himself, if his death was indeed self-murder.”

“Balfour is hardly a valid example. He took his own life, which proves his inability to order his own affairs. Come, Mr. Weaver, let us not prove our Christian neighbors correct about us by being overly rabbinical in our examination of these things.” He handed me his card. “Forget this Balfour nonsense, and come visit me at Jonathan’s. I shall provide you with introductions to men who will make you rich. Besides,” he said, with a smile I could sense even in the darkness of the coach, “it will save you the trouble of spending the morning in the synagogue with your uncle.”

I politely thanked Adelman as the coach came to a halt outside Mrs. Garrison’s house. “I shall, sir, give this very serious consideration.”

“It should require but little,” he said. “I am glad to make your acquaintance, Mr. Weaver.”

I stood and watched the coach drive away, considering his offer in my mind. Perhaps it would be a wonderful thing if I were the sort of man who could dismiss with ease what Adelman had proposed, but the thought of serving such men as he knew had a powerful allure. All he asked in return for his favors was that I not trouble his business, and what objection could I offer to abandoning an inquiry into the death of a father for whom I could recall no fondness?

I turned toward Mrs. Garrison’s house and entered into the warmth of her front hall, but somehow, before I reached the top of the staircase, I had dismissed Mr. Adelman’s offer forever. I could not say if it was because I did not relish the idea of dealing perpetually with men like Adelman, men who believed their wealth gave them not only influence and power, but also a kind of innate superiority to men such as myself. I could not say if it was because there was something compelling in the unexpected ease I had known in the presence of my uncle and aunt, or the displeasure I felt at the notion of severing a connection with a household wherein lived my cousin’s lovely widow. Perhaps it was a combination of these, but I understood before I had even struck a single candle that my duty was clear.

It might be an awkward thing having to tell Mr. Adelman of my decision, but it then occurred to me that I should be surprised if my inquiry brought me again into contact with so busy a man. At that time I could not have even guessed how intricately his affairs would intertwine with my own.