A Conspiracy of Paper

SIXTEEN

I SPENT THAT NIGHT visiting a few taverns and alehouses, hoping to learn something about Bertie Fenn, the driver who had run down my father. No one I knew could provide me with what I needed to know. Most had not heard of him, a few had, and an even smaller number knew of his association with a shadowy figure called Rochester. I could find no one who knew where he was, but I let it be known that I would pay handsomely for the information. I knew that by being so bold there was a chance that the man I pursued might learn of my search. This knowledge might entice him further into hiding, or he might come looking for me himself.

Having given up hope of learning anything more that night, I settled myself with a comforting ale at the Bedford Arms tavern upon the Little Plaza in Covent Garden. This tiny, dank stewpot attracted the regular jades and ruffians of the neighborhood, most of whom earned their keep through thieving and thus kept a cautious eye upon me as I sat at my corner table and drank my mug in silence. Sometimes, in such places, an acquaintance or two would stumble upon me and most times I would welcome the company, but I had no wish to drink with friends that night. I had too many puzzles through which to sort.

Chief among these was my father’s pamphlet and its implications. Could Elias’s philosophical musings have proved true? Could a chartered company like the South Sea truly turn to murder to further its business? I continued to find the idea fantastical, but I could not shake Elias’s conviction in light of the claims put forth in A Conspiracy of Paper. This pamphlet, however, ultimately explained little and raised many questions. Even if my father had made a deadly enemy at the South Sea Company, I still needed to learn how old Balfour became involved. For that matter, I needed to understand the connection with Bertie Fenn, who had run down my father, and Fenn’s new master, Martin Rochester.

The other principal concern upon my mind was the dark-eyed beauty who had just walked into the tavern with the clear intent of finding a man who would buy her a mug of wine. I do not wish for my readers to think that while I considered this lass I had lost all regard for Miriam; nothing could be more false. Indeed, I considered the pleasures of this accessible creature precisely because I believed Miriam’s charms to be forbidden. The twenty-five pounds I had sent to my cousin-in-law might purchase on my behalf some small measure of gratitude, but the matter of a few shillings here could have provided me with a much more intimate gratitude in a much more immediate way.

As I moved to raise my mug to this charmer, the door of the tavern burst open and a half-dozen men, most with pistols drawn, marched into the room. I instinctively reached for my hangar, but I saw at once that their business would not concern me, for at the head of this crowd stood none other than Jonathan Wild. His lieutenant, Abraham Mendes, scanned the room and then pointed to a scurvy-looking cove sitting with a pair of doxies at the far end of the tavern. If Mendes saw me, he made no sign of it. He shoved a few chairs out of his path and marched toward his prey.

This old fellow, a skinny mass of pocked skin and wisps of gray hair, could do naught but finish his ale and await Mendes and the others. Perhaps he had withheld booty from Wild, as Kate Cole had done, or perhaps he had simply grown too old to be an effective enough thief for Wild to justify keeping him about. It made no difference—Wild would now have him carted off to be tried and inevitably convicted. The great thief-taker would earn his reward and such public nabbings as this one would only enhance his reputation as a heroic enemy of crime.

Two of the men, under the supervision of Mendes, gripped the resigned sacrifice under the arms and hoisted him to his feet. Wild held back and scanned the room, hoping perhaps to gauge the mood of the tavern, and as he looked about, his eyes met with mine. I expected him to turn away, but instead he limped forward that he might speak to me.

“Good night to you, Mr. Weaver.” He bowed deeply. His smirk suggested that he knew of something funny—almost as though we shared a joke between us.

I lifted my mug in salute, but the look on my face made it clear that I meant not to honor him.

“I trust your current inquiry proceeds apace,” he said with roguish cheer.

I did not consider but that he meant the business with Sir Owen, for he had involved himself, if only indirectly, by ’peaching poor Kate. Was that the source of his delight? That he had sent a woman almost certainly to hang that she might be punished for something I had done?

“Such a tricky business, murder,” he continued.

“Your prosecution of Kate has shown it to be the trickiest business in the world,” I countered.

He laughed softly. “You misunderstand me. I care not for that business with Kate Cole. I talk of your present inquiry. As I say, a very tricky business. There are those who believe that if the villain is not found immediately he shall never be found, but I have every faith in your skills.”

I opened my mouth to respond, but nothing came forth.

It mattered not that I had no words. Seeing that his men awaited him, Wild bowed again and turned to lead them from the tavern.

The place erupted into a buzz the moment the thief-taker departed; for most of the patrons here, this arrest was more than a matter of gossip, it was a matter of business. I could hear the speculation on why Wild had chosen this man, why this old fool had it coming, and why, ultimately, each of these men who remained believed that they would never meet such a fate.

I looked up from my drink and saw that the dark and pretty lass sat now a few tables over, and she cast her eyes in my direction, hoping to catch my attention. I turned away, for my amorous mood had departed along with Wild. It was not the tyranny with which Wild ruled his soldiers that had soured my disposition, for in truth I had grown accustomed to such scenes. Rather, I could not but wonder about the words Wild had spoken to me. How had he become familiar with my inquiry into my father’s death? And, perhaps more important, why did he feel compelled to make sure I knew he had become familiar? I tried to make myself believe that his only concern was based upon our business rivalry, but there had been too much mischief in Wild’s expression for me to accept that explanation. I did not even dare guess why, but my inquiry surely meant something to him. If I were right, if I might trust my instincts, then before I could learn who had killed my father, I should inevitably have to contend with the most dangerous man in London.

I WASTED NO MORE time in approaching Perceval Bloathwait at his town house in Cavendish Square. Rather than writing him a sycophantic letter in which I begged him to meet with me, I took a more direct approach—one that worked more effectively than I had reason to hope. I simply arrived in the early afternoon and handed my card to a shabbily clad footman, who invited me to wait in a cramped parlor. The room suffered for a want of windows, and what little light it received was dampened by furnishings of dull brown and red tones and by the somber portraits of Puritans-no doubt Bloathwait’s ancestors—that hung crookedly upon the wall. I could find no books with which to pass the time, so for want of any other occupation I began to pace with slow intensity. I thought my footsteps might kick up a cloud of dust upon the old carpet, but Bloathwait’s furnishings were merely old, not dirty.

The modesty of the house surprised me, for as a member of the Court of Directors of the Bank of England, Bloathwait could only be opulently wealthy. Though he hardly lived in squalor, I had anticipated something more along the lines of splendor—large, open, sunny rooms, classical columns, splendid furnishings, and handsomely dressed servants. Perhaps, I thought, an older, unmarried man who dedicated himself to his business had no opportunity or inclination for pleasures.

I reassessed my position, however, when, after perhaps three-quarters of an hour, the entrance of a pretty servant girl interrupted my pacing. This lass was slightly plump, but pleasing in a dress whose neck was cut low to delight what I supposed to be the lascivious oglings of her master. She had pale yellow hair, delicious hazel eyes, and milky skin bespotted with freckles. At first oblivious to my presence, she stopped halfway through the room and yelped when she abruptly noticed me.

“Bless me,” she said as she pressed one hand to her breast. “I beg your pardon, sir. I didn’t see you there, nor knew you was there at all, or I wouldn’t have come passing through, with a visitor here and such. But it’s a long way to go ’round, and when there’s no one in here, I don’t see that there’s a harm in it, though Mr. Bloathwait, he’d have my hide if he knew I’d done it.”

I smiled at her and bowed. “Benjamin Weaver, at your service.”

“Oh,” she breathed, as though a man in a handsome coat had never before plied her with gallantries. She stared at me and then, remembering her place, perhaps, she cast her eyes downward. “I’m Bessie.” She curtsied, and I took some pleasure as her pale and freckled skin reddened. “The laundry maid.”

I knew it unusual for a bachelor like Bloathwait to employ female servants unless he required more of them than their scrubbing and their washing. If such was the case with Bessie, I thought, then her presence here suggested that she was just the sort of willing lass who could prove useful.

“Do you like working for Mr. Bloathwait, Bessie?” I strolled over toward her, that I might stand directly in front of this pretty little laundry maid.

“Oh, aye, I do.” She nodded with a little too much enthusiasm, as though I might report her should she seem unhappy.

“What kind of a man do you think him?”

Her mouth dropped a little. She knew I was probing, but she could not tell for what. “Oh, I couldn’t answer a question like that. But he’s a great man, sure.” She looked up as though she had recalled something. “I best be getting on, sir. If Mr. Stockton, Mr. Bloathwait’s butler, finds me standing here talking with a fine gentleman, there’ll be no end to his questions, for sure.”

“I certainly wouldn’t want that. But I would think it rather pleasing, Bessie, if I might see you again sometime in the future. Perhaps we might arrange a meeting during which we would have no fear of Mr. Stockton. Would you like that?”

That charming redness spread across her face and neck and bosom again. She dropped into a curtsy as low as it was quick. “Oh, yes, sir. I would, sir.”

“How much would you like it?” I asked her, as I took a shilling from my purse and placed it in her palm. I held the back of her hand with my palm while my other hand closed her fingers around the coin. I gently stroked her fleshy digits with my thumb.

“Very much,” she breathed.

“I would like it very much too.” I removed my hand from hers and gently ran the backs of my fingers along her face. “You had better run along, Bessie, lest Mr. Stockton come after you.”

She curtsied again and then ran off.

Now, I am hardly the sort of man who considers himself above using a shilling or two to conquer a gentleman’s laundry lass, but I had more than the pleasures of the flesh on my mind. It seemed to me a useful thing to have a pliable confederate inside Bloathwait’s house, and if she was a compliant beauty, so much the better.

Not more than ten minutes after Bessie’s departure the unkempt footman returned and announced that Bloathwait would see me. I followed him out of the parlor and down the hall to a closed door. He knocked once and opened it to reveal a cramped room, furnished in the same dull tones as the parlor.

The study let in more light, however, but the brightness that came through the windows did little to dispel the feel of duskiness—just as the evident neatness of these rooms did little to dissuade me that I kicked up dust as I walked. Bookshelves covered the walls, and within them volumes were arranged according to size, of all things. Upon the floor near many of the shelves, ledgers were stacked, without any apparent attention to detail, and loose sheets of paper sat upon the shelves and were wedged between volumes.

For a man whose home suggested that he gave little credit to appearances, Bloathwait had designed his study with a brilliant attention to detail. He was an enormous man, and his oversized desk prevented him from looking like a foolish adult sitting upon a chair furnished for a child. He sat with an air of dignity that suggested his enormity, this man who was, after all, among the principal figures of the world of London finance.

Bloathwait sat with a formal stiffness, his somber black wig and black suit hovering like a storm cloud about his bulk as he engaged in some business or other. His ink-stained hand sailed across paper after paper in a furious hurry, as though there could never be enough time for all the work he had yet to finish, and in his mania he seemed to me half a fool, half a villain—a man equally likely to order my death as to spill his ink upon his lap.

I suppose he looked little different from the man I remembered from my boyhood; that creature had been enormous, full of grotesquely undersized features: mouth, teeth, nose, eyes—all adrift upon a wide, fleshy face. Now there was something that seemed more unpleasant than terrible, better able to incite distaste than fear. Still, I knew that if I had just passed him upon the street, spotted him upon the peripheries of my vision, my blood should have run cold.

Casting only a momentary glance at me, Bloathwait used his forearm to wipe a space clear of papers, and then grabbed a paper to attend to. Piles upon piles covered the entire surface of his desk; some documents were entirely filled with a tiny, close hand, others with only a few words. I could not imagine that a man so important in the management of the Bank of England could thrive in this chaos.

“Mr. Weaver,” he said at last. He set his pen down and looked at me. An old clock, as wide as a man and half again as tall, began to emit a rusty chime, but Bloathwait raised his voice to speak over the contraption. “Please sit. I trust you will state your business with all possible haste.”

As I moved to seat myself in an unsteady-looking chair that faced the desk, I saw him stretch out his arm for a piece of foolscap that rested at the outermost limit of his reach. It was a subtle movement, cautious and casual at the same time, but it caught my eye, as did the piece of paper he covered. I cannot say what was there, written in a scrawling hand, but some word or idea or phrase upon the page drew me in the very moment Bloathwait hid it from my view. With his free hand he took a folio volume and set it atop the paper. He then turned to me.

Observing that I watched his movements, he squinted disapprovingly. “I await your commands,” he said tersely. “I have allotted a quarter of an hour at the utmost for this meeting, but I reserve the right to abridge that amount of time should I determine our conversation to be unproductive.”

I could never be certain with a creature like Bloathwait, but I believed that my presence unnerved him, and I felt a strange thrill, pressing upon this man who had so pressed upon me when I was a boy. We sat here as equals, or at least something not entirely unlike equals. At any rate, he felt it in his interest to listen to what I had to say. “And what is it you wish your conversation to produce?” I asked, opting to be deliberately elliptical.

Bloathwait blinked like an uncomprehending beast. “What expectations should I have? You have called upon me.”

Anxious to remove myself from his cold scrutiny, I thought I should avoid the issue no further. “I am here, Mr. Bloathwait, because I am inquiring into the matter of my father’s death.”

His face displayed no emotion, but he scrawled a note upon a piece of paper. “How very odd you should come to me.” He did not look up while he spoke. “Do you believe I know something of the operation of hackney coaches?”

I stung a bit at this rebuke. It occurred to me that, despite my efforts to puff myself up, I still felt somewhat childish in Bloathwait’s presence, as though he were an older kinsman or a teacher; unnerving him, I realized, left me feeling naughty, not powerful. I would get nowhere if I cringed each time he looked at me with disapproval, so I involuntarily clenched the muscles in my chest as I determined to treat him as I would any man.

“Hardly,” I said, affecting a bit of impatience. “But it is my recollection that you did know something of my father.”

He raised his head once more. “Your father and I both worked upon the ’Change, Mr. Weaver—each in his own way. I attended your father’s funeral as a courtesy, and no more.”

“But you knew something of him,” I pressed on. “Such is what I have heard.”

“I will not answer for what you have or have not heard.”

“Then I shall tell you,” I said, thrilled now to have taken control of our conversation. “I have been told, sir, that you made it a habit all your life to inquire into my father’s affairs. That you familiarized yourself with his business, with his acquaintances, with his comings and goings. I know that at least once you took some small notice of the comings and goings of his children, and that later you transferred your interest to the father himself.”

He offered me the slightest of smiles, exposing a wall of improbably large and crooked teeth. “Your father and I had been enemies. I see you have some recollection of our animosity. Though that enmity ended long ago on my part, I have learned that it is wisest to assume one’s neighbors less generous than oneself.” He paused for a moment. “I maintained a distant familiarity with your father in the event that he wished me harm. Such never proved to be the case.”

“I hoped,” I continued, “that because you did maintain such a familiarity you might have some idea on who should wish him harm.”

“Why do you believe anyone should wish him harm? I was led to believe that his death was an unfortunate accident.”

“I have been led to believe otherwise,” I explained. I proceeded to inform him of the suspicions of William Balfour.

Bloathwait listened like a student at a lecture. He took notes as I spoke, and appeared to ponder confusing aspects of my narrative. Then I finished, and he changed his attitude to one of mild amusement, shaking his head and displaying a condescending smile upon his little mouth. “If Balfour-the-son is only half as much a fool as Balfour-the-father, then he is twice as much fool as should be heeded. I shall tell you, I have no contempt for poverty—none whatsoever. If a man begins with nothing and ends with nothing, he is like most men upon the earth. Some men who grow rich become contemptuous of men who are poor or of men who began as poor. I only have contempt for men who were once rich and became poor. I have had my reversals—of course you know that—but a true man of business can reverse his reversals. Balfour squandered everything upon nonsensical pleasures, and he left nothing for his family. I scorn him.”

“I believe there is some merit in what his son claims. If not in the son himself,” I added after an instant.

He fingered the corner of a piece of paper. “Have you any proof of these suspicions?”

I thought it best to share no information yet. I wished to know what Bloathwait knew—not how he would react to what little information I already had. “Had I proof,” I said, “I should not require your help. I now only have suspicions.”

He leaned forward, as though to signal that he now wished to give me his full attention. “I shall tell you that I had something of a personal dislike of your father. I do not hesitate to say so. In matters of the Exchange, however, I could not but respect him, as I respect any man who supported the Bank of England. I shall therefore do all that I can to aid you, that I might honor all men who honor the Bank. I cannot say I believe your fantastical tale of plotted murders and missing issues, but if you wish to make some sort of inquiry, I shall in no way hinder you.”

I thought it best to acknowledge what he clearly believed to be his generosity. “Thank you, Mr. Bloathwait.”

He stroked his chin thoughtfully. “I also do not like the idea that someone might murder one of your race with impunity,” he continued. “I hardly need tell you that we Dissenters suffer from nearly as many disabilities as you Hebrews, and I should hate to think that any man might strike down another without fear of punishment so long as his victim is not a member of the Church of England.”

“I respect your sense of justice,” I said cautiously.

He leaned back in his chair and spread his hands upon the expanse of his chest. “I wish I knew of something that might help you. I can only tell you this: in the weeks before his accident, I heard some rumors about your father. I heard that he had somehow become an enemy of the South Sea Company.”

I concentrated on looking no more than mildly curious, though I wished to ask a thousand questions—none of which I could formulate. That Bloathwait had heard talk of enmity between my father and the Company proved little, but it confirmed the importance of the pamphlet that my uncle had uncovered.

“Tell me more about what you heard.”

“I fear there is no more,” he said with a casual wave of his hand. “Men do not speak openly against the Company, Mr. Weaver. It is far too powerful to cross. I only heard that your father had engaged himself upon some business that might injure the South Sea. I never learned the nature of the business or the injury.”

“From whom did you hear these things?”

He shook his head. “I could not say. It was long ago, and I thought nothing of it at the time. Men who do business often exchange information casually. I regret that I took no further notice.”

“I regret it too.”

“Should I learn anything further, I will certainly contact you. I can only advise you that if you truly believe your father to have been murdered, then you must look to what he might have done to anger the men of the South Sea Company. You must then determine what course of action such a Company might take.”

“What could a man have done to anger the Company?”

Bloathwait exposed his palms in a gesture of ignorance. “I cannot say how the managers of the South Sea think, sir. If a man were to threaten their profits, would they lash out against him? I do not know. But I can think that your father had no greater enemy when he died.”

“Do you believe, then, that the Company would have its agents kill a man who threatened profits?”

“I never said so,” Bloathwait responded coolly. “I merely state that the directors of the South Sea are ambitious men. I would not guess to what lengths they might go to protect their ambitions.”

I could not trust the disinterested air with which he hinted at the villainy of the Company. When I was a boy, Bloathwait had proved himself to be an ambitious plotter, and he had not become a man of such importance without learning subtlety. His caution in discussing the Company surely disguised the extent to which he wished me to believe his implications.

“These ambitions,” I said, using the same easy tone as Bloathwait, “threaten the Bank of England, do they not? The South Sea Company is your most dangerous rival. I should think you would benefit greatly if I discover any wrongdoing on the Company’s part.”

Bloathwait’s face darkened, and in an instant I saw the man of my boyhood—enormous, determined, and terrifying in his intensity. “I think you go too far.” He spoke in a deep, hostile whisper. “Do you suggest that I would threaten other men’s business out of petty motives? You came here looking for my assistance, and I have told you what I know. I find your insults as inexplicable as they are rude.”

“I meant no rudeness.” I attempted a conciliatory tone, though what came from my mouth sounded like an angry retort.

He shook his head to show his contempt for my clumsy effort at recovery. Our discourse now resembled lines in a stage play more than it did conversation—neither of us spoke anything like truth, but we dared not venture too far from our roles.

“You may show yourself out,” he said quietly, hoping to convey the demands of his affairs rather than the insult of my accusation. “I have no more time for you. I wish you well of your inquiry, and if I stumble upon information that might help you, I shall send it along.”

I pushed myself to my feet and bowed. I had just turned when he called my name.

“I cannot guess what your inquiry will yield, Weaver, but should you learn anything of the South Sea Company that seems to be of”—he paused to consider his words—“of an incriminating nature, I beg that you will come to me with your information before you go elsewhere. I promise you that the Bank will pay you handsomely for your consideration.”

I bowed again and left the study.

I felt some relief as I made my way out, for I believed that I should always relish keeping my distance from Bloathwait. For now, however, I knew that I might not enjoy so much of a distance as I should like. He had confirmed what I already knew—that my father had made the South Sea Company his enemy. The mere existence of this enmity did not prove a murder, but it gave me somewhere to press my inquiry. More to the point, Bloathwait had shown himself willing to aid me in my efforts, so long as the South Sea Company suffered for it. I comforted myself with the thought that should I become convinced of the guilt of the Company or its agents, I should have a powerful, if dangerous, ally.

As I walked toward the door, I stopped and asked a stooped man of middle years if he knew Bessie’s whereabouts, but this worthy shooed me away. “Off with ye,” he snapped and bared his teeth like a goat. “Bessie’s fool enough without having her head turned by the likes of ye.”

I bowed meekly and made my way from the house. But I had an idea in my head that I would be back, and the next time I would not go through such formal channels.