A Conspiracy of Paper

NINETEEN

I AIMED TO MAKE my way to South Sea House the next afternoon, but I first wished to visit my uncle and report to him of my adventures with Bloathwait. I was not yet certain that I wanted to tell him what I had seen of Sarmento, but I grew tired of playing these cat-and-mouse games. For the nonce I would inform him that the Bank of England director had made it clear that he had some interest in the inquiry.

I confess that my desire to meet with my uncle was in some way augmented by a desire to see Miriam once again. I wondered how the matter of the twenty-five pounds she borrowed of me would sit between us. A loan of necessity such as this could produce a discomfort, and I was determined to do all in power to keep such a thing from happening.

The irony of my interest in Miriam amused me; had I known more of Aaron’s pretty widow, perhaps I would have contemplated a reconciliation long before. And yet, even as I sang a little drinking ditty to myself as I walked, I wondered about my intentions. Despite the world’s opinion of widows, I could not think myself such a cad as to attempt to encroach upon the virtue of a woman who was very nearly a relation, and living under the protection of my uncle, too. Yet what could a man such as myself offer? I who scraped together, at the very most, a few hundred pounds each year, had nothing for Miriam.

As I approached my uncle’s house, coming on to Berry Street from Grey Hound Alley, I was shocked out of my reverie by an ungainly beggar man, who materialized with jarring suddenness. He was a Tudesco Jew—as we Iberian Jews called our coreligionists from Eastern Europe—perhaps of middle years, though he looked ageless in that way of men who are undernourished and oppressed with labors and hardships. My readers may not even realize that there are different categories of Jews, but we separate ourselves based on our culture of origin. Here in England, those of us of Iberian descent were the first to return in the last century and until recently outnumbered our Tudesco cousins. Because of the opportunities our exiled forebears found among the Dutch, most Jewish businessmen and brokers in England are Iberian. The Tudescos are frequently persecuted and harassed in their native lands, and when they come here they find themselves without skills or trades, and thus the largest number of beggars and old-clothes men about the streets are of Eastern European origin. These distinctions are not etched in stone, though, for there are rich Tudescos, such as Adelman, and there is no shortage of poor among the Iberian Jews.

I should like to say that I formed no prejudice against the Tudescos simply because I thought their appearance and language strange, but the truth is that I found such men as this peddler an embarrassment—I believed them to cast our people in a shockingly bad light, and I felt ashamed of their poverty and ignorance and helplessness. This man’s bones jutted out of his parchmentlike skin, and his black, foreign garments hung upon him as though he had simply draped bedclothes across his body. He wore his beard long, in the fashion of his countrymen, and a conspicuous skullcap spread over his head, with stringy locks creeping from beneath. As he stood there, a foolish smile upon his face, asking me in poor English if I wished to purchase a penknife or a pencil or a shoelace, I was overcome with a desire, intense and surprising, to strike him down, to destroy him, to make him disappear. I believed at that moment that it was these men, whose looks and manners were repulsive to Englishmen, who were responsible for the difficulties other Jews suffered in England. Were it not for this buffoon, who gave the English something to gawk at, I would not have been so humiliated in Sir Owen’s club. Indeed, I should not find so many obstacles in my path that block me from learning what had happened to my father. But even this was a lie, I told myself, for I knew that the truth was that this peddler did not make the English hate us—he merely gave their hatred a focus. He was an outcast, he was strange to look at, his speech abused the language, and he could never blend into London society—not even as a foreigner blends in. This man made me hate myself for what I was, and made me wish to strike out at him. I understood this passion for what it was; I knew that I hated him for reasons that related not at all to him, so I hurried off, hoping to make him and the feelings he engendered in me fade away.

Yet as I rushed, I heard him call to me. “Mister!” he shouted. “I know who you are.”

This claim only fueled my anger, for what could I, the son of one of London’s prominent Jewish families—and this was a title that I rarely claimed—have to do with a beggar such as he? I clenched my fists and turned to face him.

“I know you,” he said again, pointing at me. “You.” He shook his head, unable to summon the words. “You this, yes?” He balled his hands into fists and brought them up level to his nose before he pantomimed some quick jabs. “You the great man, the Lion of Judah, yes?” He took a few steps forward and nodded vigorously, his beard swinging back and forth like a crazed and hairy pendulum. He barked a little laugh, as though his ignorance of the English tongue suddenly amused him. Then, placing one of his hands upon his heart, he reached down to his tray of trinkets and held something forth. “Please,” he said. “From me.”

As he held out an hourglass in the palm of his bony hand, I understood that, while I saw him as what I hated about myself, he saw me as something in which he could take pride. It is a terrible thing to come to so humbling a realization, for in an instant a man sees himself as petty and illiberal and weak. And so I took the hourglass from him and dropped a shilling upon his tray, rushing away as I did so. I knew a shilling to be an enormous amount of money to the Tudesco, but he chased after me, holding the coin. “No, no, no,” he repeated nearly endlessly. “You take from me. Please.”

I turned to face him. I saw that one hand was once again pressed to his heart, the other held out the coin. “Please,” he said again.

I took the coin from his hand and then dropped it in his tray. Before he could react I put a hand to my own heart. “Please.”

We exchanged brief nods, expressing a communion I did not entirely understand, and then I hurried off in the direction of King Street.

I walked quickly, hoping to remove the encounter with the peddler from my mind, and when my uncle’s house came in sight, I nearly trotted. The servant Isaac opened the door only after I had knocked several times, and even then he attempted to block my entrance by maneuvering his withered frame before me. “Mr. Lienzo is not in,” he said sharply. “He is at the warehouse. You can see him there.”

He sounded clipped, perhaps a bit frightened. “Is something wrong, Isaac?”

“No,” he said rapidly. “But your uncle is not here.”

He attempted to close the door, but I pushed against it. “Is Mrs. Miriam about?”

Isaac’s face changed dramatically upon the mention of her name, and on an impulse I forced my way past him and into the foyer, from where I could hear voices, raised as if shouting. One of them was clearly Miriam’s.

“What happens in there?”

“Mrs. Miriam, she is having an argument,” he said, as though offering precisely the information I needed to ease my confusion.

“With whom?” I demanded. But at that very moment the withdrawing-room door opened and Noah Sarmento emerged, his face bearing a scowl something grimmer than his usual. He paused for a moment, visibly astonished to see the two of us standing in close proximity to their quarrel.

“What do you want, Weaver?” he asked me, as if I had just barged into his own home.

“This is where my family lives,” I said with what I admit was a bellicose inflection.

“And for a sufficient quantity of silver, you now care about your family,” he snapped. He grabbed his hat from Isaac, who had produced it without my notice, and stepped out of the already open door. Isaac closed it as Miriam emerged from the withdrawing room. She opened her mouth to speak to Isaac, but stopped upon seeing me.

I can only presume that she found some irony in my presence there, for she smiled slightly to herself. “Good afternoon, Cousin,” she said. “Would you care for some tea?”

I told her I would enjoy it very much, and we retreated into the withdrawing room, where we waited for the maid to bring us the tea things.

Miriam was still heated from her argument with Sarmento, and her olive skin had enough of the red mixed in to make her eyes glow like emeralds. On this day she wore a particularly striking shade of royal blue, which I speculated was a favorite color with her.

She was disordered, I could see that quite clearly, but she tried hard to mask her mood with smiles and pleasantries. After a few moments of asking me about the weather and how I had entertained myself since last we met, she produced a dazzling Chinese fan and began to wave it at herself somewhat violently.

“Well,” I breathed. At least, I thought, the difficulties with Sarmento made the matter of the money I’d lent seem less pressing. I had thought to engage her in idle chatter for a while, but I soon decided I should get nowhere with a woman like Miriam if I pretended to a frivolousness I surely did not possess. “Is Mr. Sarmento causing you any difficulties with which I can assist you?”

She set aside her fan. “Yes,” Miriam said. “I should like you to beat him soundly.”

“Do you mean at cards? Billiards, perhaps?”

We might have been discussing the opera for all her face revealed. “I would prefer cudgels.”

“I think Mr. Sarmento would hold his own nicely in a battle,” I said absently.

“Not against you, surely.”

I stiffened a bit at this. Miriam flirted with me, quite obviously so. She had not failed to observe that I found her attractive, and I thought to myself that I would be wise to keep my wits about me. I could not allow myself to forget that she had been in an argument that her servant had been at pains to conceal from me. Whatever I was to this family, I was not yet trusted. “No,” I said, looking about the room. “Not against me. And against you, Miriam, he fared poorly as well. You have quite knocked him out of the ring.”

“I hope I have done so permanently,” she said acidly.

The maid wheeled in the tea things, and Miriam sent her off with a wave of her hand. In that time I chose to speak bluntly to Miriam, for I had nothing to lose by doing so. “Will you tell me about your quarrel with Mr. Sarmento?” I asked, as she poured me a dish of tea.

She smiled. “Among the English, it is considered impolite to be so blunt.”

“I have lived among them, but I do not observe all of their customs.”

“So I see,” she said, handing me my drink. I had not been quick enough to ask Miriam not to put sugar in my dish, so I accepted the sweetened mixture.

“Mr. Sarmento came to request my permission to speak to Mr. Lienzo for my hand,” she continued. “It was a shockingly awkward thing, I can assure you, and I am unaccustomed to being confronted so boldly. Like you, Mr. Sarmento might better learn the English customs.”

“What happened?” I kept my voice quiet, casual, disinterested.

“Mr. Sarmento said that he had a mind to speak to Mr. Lienzo and that he wished to inform me in advance. I told him that I had no knowledge of any business he might have with Mr. Lienzo. He accused me of being overly mannered, and said that I knew well what business he had. Seeing that I grew unacceptably warm, I corrected myself by saying he had no business that could possibly interest me. He became quite angry and said that it was foolish of me not to seek to marry him. Some other words were exchanged along the same topic—some rather loud words, I believe. Then he left, which you saw.”

“Surely my uncle will not condone his behavior. Will you tell him?”

She was silent for a moment. “I do not think so. Sarmento has a promising future in the trade, you know, and my father-in-law quite depends upon him. I think my feelings toward him were made entirely clear, and so long as he bothers me no further, I see no reason to be petty.”

“You are perhaps more generous than I would advise, but I admire your spirit,” I told her. I sipped my sweet tea and wished it were something stronger. “Do you trust Mr. Sarmento? What I mean to say is, he works for my uncle, but he seems to have his own dealings upon the Exchange.”

She set down her cup of tea and stared at me. “What do you know of his dealings?” Her face had grown stiff and inanimate.

“I have been spending a great deal of time in ’Change Alley, and I have seen him there, conducting affairs of which I know nothing.”

Miriam smiled in a way that unnerved me. “Your uncle employs Mr. Sarmento, he does not own him. It is no uncommon thing for a man in Mr. Sarmento’s position to pursue his own affairs as he has the opportunity.”

“Why did Isaac wish to keep this quarrel from my ears?” I asked. I think I had been wondering this in my mind, and I had not meant to speak it.

If the question surprised Miriam, she answered with composure. “Isaac is a good servant. He does not wish to allow family business to become public. A quarrel in a private room between two unmarried people can be interpreted in many ways, especially by malicious tongues.”

“True enough,” I agreed with some embarrassment, stinging a bit from Miriam’s exclusion of her wayward cousin from the family business.

She said nothing, and I shifted uncomfortably in the silence. I believe Miriam took some small pleasure at having me upon the rack, and smiled sweetly at me for some minutes before speaking. “Have you come on a social call, or do you have business with Mr. Lienzo?”

For reasons I cannot explain, this question put me at my ease. I settled comfortably into my chair. “Rather a bit of both, I think.”

“I hope more the former than the latter,” she said, smiling. “And if you have come to be sociable, then perhaps you would like to take a walk with me,” she suggested. “I long to examine some of the goods at the market, and I would welcome your company.”

I could hardly refuse the offer, so I silently determined to postpone my visit to South Sea House until the next morning. Miriam disappeared to ready herself, and after perhaps a quarter of an hour she reentered the room with an unexpected slowness, as though she were a child called forth for punishment. She held in her hand an envelope.

“There is a matter I must discuss, Mr. Weaver. I know not how to account for the generosity you showed in sending me so enormous a sum, and I do not wish to insult you, but considering the accompanying note, I believe there has been some small error. Your letter suggested that I had made a request of you. I cannot say how you made this error. Though I admit I am none the most sufficient in money, I am afraid I cannot accept a gift that is clearly not intended for me.”

She handed me the envelope, which I absently dropped into my pocket. “Do you mean to say,” I began incredulously, “that you sent me no note requesting this amount?”

“I fear I know not of what you speak.” She looked down to conceal the blush that spread along her face and neck. “I sent no note.”

I had been dealing with thieves and felons too long not to know when someone unpracticed in the art ineptly attempted a lie. Miriam now had reasons for not wishing to accept the money of me, and I would not press her to say why, or act as though I misbelieved her.

“I am greatly sorry to have caused such an embarrassment. I fear some prankster must have played a little joke upon us. We shall say no more of it.”

Miriam smiled with gratitude and told me she wished to visit the market at Petticoat Lane, but by the time Miriam and I arrived it was late for the market, and much of the best of the perishables had been taken. Consequently, the market was not bursting with activity—yet it was far from empty. Around us was a busy crowd, principally of Jewish women, who strolled from vendor to vendor, examining the wares. Around us the hawkers shouted at us in Spanish, Portuguese, English, and even the language of the Tudescos—a curious mixture of Hebrew and German.

Miriam had, I was beginning to learn, a sense of purpose about her that ordered the chaos of the marketplace. She took her time, strolling from one stall to the next, examining this piece of linen or that of silk. Many of the merchants—mostly men of middle years who found themselves seduced by Miriam’s beauty—called out to her as she passed. She offered a bow to each, but stopped only where she wished to examine goods.

“Mr. Lienzo prefers that when I make purchases, I buy all I can here,” she explained to me. “He likes that the money should remain among our people.”

“He is a conscientious man,” I observed.

She said nothing at first, but there was a look of mischief in her eyes. “Too conscientious, I sometimes think. It is certainly possible to be overly nice in one’s dedication to his community, don’t you agree? If we are to be accepted in England, surely we must learn to act as the English do.”

“We shall never be accepted here,” I said with a conviction that surprised me. I did not think of myself as having strong feelings on this subject, but when she asked, I found these words flowed freely: “This is not our country. We shall never be English and our children will never be English. If we convert and join the Church of England, then our descendants shall always be known as the Jews who converted. We are what we are.”

Miriam let out a little laugh—as though I had said something witty. “For an apostate, you are certainly very concerned about these matters, Cousin.”

“Perhaps apostasy is but an opportunity to consider what is otherwise impossible to see,” I said with a shrug.

A vendor called to Miriam in Portuguese, wanting her to examine his collection of household trinkets, but she waved him off and shouted a few friendly words in his tongue. “You are probably right,” she said to me. “But even so, I think Mr. Lienzo could be a bit more”—she paused to consider her words—“a bit more English in his ways, I think. There is no need for him to wear that beard. No one else does. It only makes him look backward.”

“I disagree,” I said. “I think it shows he is his own man.”

“You are your own man,” Miriam observed, “and you wear no beard.”

I laughed. “There are many ways to show one’s independence.”

Miriam stopped again and fingered a roll of India cloth. She held it up to the light for a moment and then to her own skin. It was a bright aqua blue—just the sort of color I knew her to admire.

“It look very nice for you,” the stall-keeper told her eagerly.

“Thank you, Mr. Henriques,” she said absently. “But I’m afraid I can ill afford it.”

“I take you credit,” he said eagerly.

Miriam looked at me for an instant. Perhaps owing to the nature of her original, and now-disavowed, request, she had no wish to have me see her take goods upon credit. She politely thanked the man and moved on.

“Do you ever wonder what I do with my time?” she asked me abruptly.

“I’m not sure what you mean,” I said. Indeed I did wonder, but only in the way a man does when he finds a woman attractive. The thought of her doing anything—sewing or playing upon the harpsichord or practicing French—struck me as utterly charming.

“Do you wonder what I do to keep myself occupied?”

“I suppose it is like the life of any woman of means,” I stammered, feeling somewhat foolish. “You take lessons in order to become accomplished in music and painting and languages. You learn to dance. You make social visits. You read.”

“Only those books that are acceptable for young ladies, of course,” Miriam said as we avoided a group of children who ran through the market paying no attention to the people or things with which they collided.

“Of course,” I agreed.

“I think you have a superior understanding of the typical day of a woman of means,” she said. “What is a typical day like for you, Benjamin?”

I almost stopped walking. “How do you mean?” I asked foolishly.

“In a typical day, what do you do? Surely it cannot be such a difficult question. I have asked Mr. Lienzo about his affairs, and he has given me a rather dull answer having to do with shipments and ledgers and letter-writing. I wonder if your life is less dull.”

“I don’t find it dull,” I told her cautiously.

“Then perhaps you could tell me about it.”

I could hardly do any such thing. How could my uncle ever forgive me if I told his daughter tales of beating upon prigs and hauling impecunious gentlemen to prison for their debts? “You understand that my business is to help people who require a man to find things for them,” I began slowly, “sometimes people and sometimes goods. That is what I spend my time doing—finding things.” I was rather delighted with the ambiguous way I had found to describe my activities.

She laughed. “I was hoping you would describe this process more fully. But if you feel the topic is too indelicate to discuss with a young woman, I quite understand.” A devilish smile crossed her lips. “We may talk about something else instead. Tell me—do you have plans to marry?”

I could not imagine how she had summoned the courage to ask me so improper a thing, and yet she had—and boldly too. She knew she was being indecorous, and she cared not a whit. Indeed, she took some pleasure in violating the strictest rules of polite behavior in my company. I wondered if I should take this as a sign of her favor or of her belief that I was such a ruffian that I would know no better.

“There are women I, shall we say, admire,” I told her. “But I have no marriage plans at the moment.”

“I see.” She continued to smile, taking pleasure in my discomfort. “It must be a fine thing to be a man and to go wherever you so please.”

“It is a fine thing,” I said, thrilled to think so quickly of a gallant reply, “but in the end, we only go wherever the women we admire please, so perhaps we have not the freedom you imagine.”

“I hope you will marry well, Cousin.” Her voice seemed carefully regulated. “Marry into money. That is my advice.”

The words were out of my mouth before I could stop them. “Advice your late husband took.”

“Yes,” she agreed. “But I hope you will take better care of your wife’s fortune than Aaron did of mine. I suppose he did not choose to be lost at sea, but he might have chosen not to take my independence with him. And anyone who would try to take away what little liberties I have—would he not be a villain?”

I was not sure I understood her. “Do you mean Mr. Sarmento?”

Miriam appeared prepared to respond, but then changed her mind. “I am done here,” she explained. “We may return home. I know you have business to attend to.” We began to walk toward Houndsditch. “Perhaps you could take me to the theatre one night,” she suggested.

My heart leapt at the suggestion. “I should like nothing better. Do you believe my uncle would approve of your attending the theatre with me?”

“He may not relish the idea,” she explained, “but he has permitted it in the past, provided I had protection against the dangers of that place. I believe your protection would be adequate.”

“I would certainly never let any harm befall you.”

“I am delighted to hear it,” she said.

We were not at all far from my uncle’s house, just turning upon Shoemaker Lane, when I noticed a large crowd at the end of the street. Perhaps twenty people gathered in a semicircle, hooting and laughing with what sounded to my ears like malice. I cautiously measured the composition of the crowd, which I saw to be mean and lowly.

“Miriam,” I said deliberately, “you must get to safety.” There was a milliner’s shop not one hundred feet from us on the High Street. “Go into that shop and remain there. If there is a manservant, send him for the constable.”

She screwed her face into a look of exasperation. “Surely you do not think me incapable—”

“Now!” I commanded through clenched teeth. “Get to that shop. I shall come for you in a moment.” I watched her turn away and head toward the High Street.

No citizen of London requires that I speak of the danger of the crowds of this great metropolis. There was no saying when a mob would form, but once it did, it could rain violence and terror as sure as any storm, and it could dissipate just as quickly. I had seen riots begin over almost nothing at all, such as the apprehension of a pickpocket. I had once witnessed a mob form to guard a fellow caught nabbing a watch. I cannot say why or how it began, but as it awaited the constable, the crowd began to grow violent with the fellow, tossing him back and forth as though he were a dead dog at the Lord Mayor’s Show. Out of anger and rage and frustration, this fellow struck back, laying one of his tormentors upon the ground with a mighty blow to the jaw. In retaliation, the mob jumped upon him, and someone—whose only motivation was the thrill of the act itself—found a loose piece of brick and threw it into the window of a glazier’s shop. Under these fragile conditions, the noise was as a spark to dry kindling. Men and women were grabbed and beaten at random. A house was set afire. A little boy was trampled, nearly to death. Yet, within a half an hour, the mob was gone, like a wave of locusts, leaving nothing in its wake. Even the pickpocket had disappeared.

Having been witness to London riots, I knew to approach this crowd with caution, for anything at all might inflame it. As I grew closer, I could hear applause and shrill laughter, and I saw that the circle of rioters surrounded the old Tudesco who had given me the hourglass. A large man with a shaved head, punctuated with a bushy and drooping mustache of a dazzling orange color, stood holding the old man by his beard. He appeared to be a laborer of some sort—his clothing was cheap wool, torn and stained, showing dirt and muscle though the rips in the fabric. As I moved forward, the laborer pulled hard on the old man’s beard, and the Tudesco staggered, held from the ground only by the force of the hand upon his whiskers.

“Stop!” I shouted as I pushed my way through the crowd. I could taste in the air their hatred and violence and rage. Day after day of hard and underpaid labor had left them hungry for a poor sod upon whom to exact revenge. These people might live in a different world from the men of Sir Owen’s club, but they heard the same stories. Jews corrupted the nation, taking wealth away from Englishmen, attempting to turn a Protestant country into a Jewish one. I had been told of this manner of attack, but I had never before witnessed one. Not like this. I knew these people would not think kindly of my interference, and I concentrated on hiding my fear. “Let him go,” I said to the laborer with the mustache. “If there has been a crime, send someone to fetch the constable.”

This mustachioed man complied with the first part of my command. With a malicious grin he opened his hand and the old man fell to the ground. I could see he was conscious and not terribly hurt, but he lay still as though dead. Perhaps that was what he had learned to do in Poland or Russia or Germany, or whatever barbaric nation he had fled for the safety of Britain.

“No need to get a constable,” the rude laborer told me. “We know ’ow to ’andle a thievin’ Jew.”

“What did this man do?” I demanded.

“ ’E crucified Our Lord!” the mustache shouted to the crowd, who rewarded him with cheers and laughter. Several people shouted for me to get out of the way, but both the mustache and I ignored them. “And besides that,” the ruffian continued in a much-softened voice, “ ’e tried to pick me pocket, ’e did.”

“Do you have witnesses?”

“Aye,” he said, again in his mountebank voice, “these good people. They saw it all.”

Again, laughter and cheering, now joined by shouts calling for the Jew to be tarred and feathered, crucified, have his nose slit, and, inexplicably, to be circumcised.

I held up my hand to silence the crowd, hoping my performance of authority would have some sway with them. It seemed to for a moment. “Hold with your rough music, friends,” I said. “If there is justice to be done, I’ll not stand in your way. But let me hear what the peddler says.”

I reached down and helped the man to his feet. He looked around, his eyes hard and bloodshot. I suppose I expected him to stand with quivering lips, like a child trying not to cry, but he only looked like a man out in the cold with insufficient clothing, braced against the elements, knowing he could do naught but endure them.

“Tell me the truth, old fellow,” I said. “I shall do my best to see that it goes as easy as possible with you. Did you try to pick this man’s pocket?”

He turned to me and began to speak excitedly in a language I did not understand. It took me a moment to realize that he spoke Hebrew, but with the strangest accent I had ever heard. True, had he spoken it with an orator’s clarity, I should have had some trouble understanding him, but in his frantic speech I managed to fix upon a few words: “Lo lekachtie devar.” I did not take a thing.

He saw that I could not easily understand him, and stopped speaking in the ancient language, again reverting to gesture. He once more put his hand upon his heart. “I take nothing,” he said.

His denial could not have surprised me. What else would he say? In my heart I knew that there was at least the possibility that he had committed the crime. Because he was a kindly old man did not mean that he could not have attempted to pick a pocket. I cannot say it was the way he spoke or the look in his eyes or the desperately earnest way he held his body that convinced me—not so much as it was my desire to protect him from this senseless mob—but I believed him as I would have believed him had he told me that the sun shone above.

“This man,” I announced in the most commanding voice I could muster, “says he tried to steal nothing. What we have here is a simple misunderstanding. So go about your business, and I shall see that he goes about his.”

The crowd was still, and for a moment I thought that I had triumphed, but I saw that the matter was now a contest, not between man and mindless throng, but between two men.

“It’s you that’ll be about yer business,” the mustache told me in a shrill if commanding voice. “Or we can take care of two as easy as one.”

He began moving toward me, and I knew that it was time to set aside my more gentle nature. I took from my pocket a loaded pistol, and with a strained gesture I pulled back the hammer with my thumb. “Disperse,” I said, “before someone gets himself hurt.” I backed up a bit, grabbing the old man’s arm and pulling him with me.

The crowd moved forward, as if they were all one being controlled by a single will. The tone of the confrontation now changed dramatically. They were not angry or enraged anymore—they struck me instead as brute beasts that, once set upon a certain course, had not the capacity to alter that course.

“You can’t fire upon us all,” the mustache said with a forced sneer. It was incumbent upon him to be brave, as the gun was aimed at his chest.

“True enough, but someone must die first, and I suspect it shall be you. And once I discharge this pistol I still have this hangar at my side. You’ll win in the end; I’ve no doubt of it. The mob shall have the old peddler. These is no question of who shall win the battle, only the number of casualties.”

The mustache was quiet for a moment and then told the old man that he should consider himself warned. He then turned on his heel and, grumbling loudly about the enslavement of the Englishman in his own country, he turned away. In a moment the crowd disbanded as though they had all just awoken from dreams, and I stood alone with the Tudesco, who cast a glazed stare upon me.

“I thank you,” he said quietly. He sucked in his breath in an effort to calm himself, but I could see that he shook violently and was on the verge of tears. “You give my life.” Scattered about his feet, his trinkets looked to me like a child’s playthings overturned by a petulant temper.

I shook my head, denying his words and the swell of passions I held at bay. “They would not have killed you. They would only have roughed you up a bit.”

He shook his head. “No. You give my life.”

With quiet dignity he stooped to collect his goods. Overcome with sadness, I dropped some silver in his tray—I don’t know how much, it might have reckoned in shillings or pounds—and turned toward the milliner’s shop to find Miriam, but as I turned she stood directly behind me.

It was hard to read her face. She might have been horrified at the violence she had been witness to, impressed by my response to it, relieved that no real harm had been done.

“Why are you not in the shop?” I snapped. Perhaps I responded too strongly, but my sense of perspective had abandoned me.

She let out a little laugh, which she used to hide her embarrassment. “I thought this would be my last opportunity to see the Lion of Judah fight.”

My heart was still pounding from the encounter with the mob, and I had to concentrate to keep from growing furious. “Miriam, I cannot take you with me to the theatre or anywhere else unless I can be certain that you will listen to me should there be a threat.”

“I am sorry, Benjamin.” She nodded solemnly, perhaps for the first time thinking seriously on the danger. “You are quite right. Next time I shall listen. I promise.”

“I should hope there will be no next time.”

When I turned back to the old man, he had gathered up his things and begun to hurry along to whatever decrepit hovel he called home, where he would try to forget what had happened.

“His kind are used to far worse,” Miriam said. “And they’re not used to being pulled from the flames. Your friend will remember this as a good day.”

Unsure how to respond, I told her it was dangerous to linger. We headed away from the crowd and I saw her home to safety.

Once I had discharged myself of her, I remembered the envelope in which she had returned the money she claimed not to have asked of me. I marveled at its lightness, for it could hardly contain even one of the coins I had sent her. I tore it open and discovered a negotiable Bank of England note for the amount of twenty-five pounds.

I folded the note and put it into my purse, but I could not help but wonder. Why did she not merely return the silver I had given her? And if she had so little money, as she had claimed, how did she obtain this note?