A Conspiracy of Paper

TWENTY-ONE

AT A TIME OF the morning that was far too early for social calls and concerns of society, London’s financial center was already thick with activity. The sky was as yet cloudless, and the day bright, so I shielded my eyes as I stepped out of the coach. I lingered for a moment from my elevated position and marveled at the street, a sea of wigs, as men rushed from this shop to that, from one coffeehouse to another, from the Bank to the vendor upon the street who hawked discounted lottery tickets.

South Sea House on Threadneedle Street, near Bishopsgate, was an enormous building, and struck me with its carved marble and life-sized portraits that decorated the lobby as an institution steeped in tradition. One would hardly suspect from its façade that the Company was less than ten years old and that its purpose—trade with the South American coast—had never been realized. There was something about the way people scurried through the lobby, the anxious, suspicious hurry in their walk, that made South Sea House little more than an adjunct of Jonathan’s Coffeehouse—that is, an extension of the Royal Exchange itself—and the men who conducted business there simply another order of stock-jobber. If stock-jobbing was but financial villainy, as so many had argued, then this was certainly one of the great breeding grounds of corruption in the Kingdom.

No doubt part of the hivelike buzz of South Sea House arose from the Company’s sense of urgency. This was an organization, as Mr. Adelman had told me, on the verge of striking a momentous bargain within the ministry—a bargain that I now understood would involve the exchange of millions of pounds. Millions of pounds—who could imagine such sums? This bargain would certainly be opposed by the Bank of England, whose even more auspicious building stood less than a quarter-hour’s walk from here. I did not know if I would find the answers to the mysteries of my father’s death in South Sea House, but I felt to some small degree emboldened by the name I had taken from Mr. Bloathwait’s desk: Virgil Cowper. I had not an inkling who Virgil Cowper was nor how he might offer me any assistance, but I repeated his name over and over again in my head, as though it were a little prayer or a song to ward off evil.

I stood for some minutes considering my course as the business of South Sea House flowed about me like some great river of pecuniary interest. At last I looked for someone to direct me, but as I did so I noted a scurvy-looking fellow making his way through the front doors and toward the back of the lobby. There was no particular reason for him to draw my attention, only that he was large and ugly and his clothing was none the best. By pure coincidence our eyes met, and we both looked upon each other for the most fleeing of moments; in that instant I knew him to be the very man who had set upon me on Cecil Street when I had been pursued by the mad hackney coachman.

We paused for a moment, he and I, and stared across this swell of people, neither of us knowing what came next. I could not simply grab him, he was too far away, and I suppose he wondered if he could successfully elude me. He had nothing to fear in the eyes of the law, for what could I do? I could hardly bring him before a magistrate, as I had no second witness to corroborate my testimony. I could, however, beat him mercilessly, and if he knew who I was, he knew I should not hesitate to do so. I thought, just for an instant, for time moved slowly as we stared at each other, of the fear I had felt that night as I believed myself to know what my father had felt just before the hooves of horses trampled upon him, and I yearned to hurt this miscreant. And so, with a sudden resolve, I made my move, and rudely shoving other visitors aside, I dashed forward.

He was far closer to the door than I, and he too had been poised to flee. The thief, most certainly accustomed to evading constables and watchmen upon the patrol, moved quickly and gracefully, evading the men around us. The crowds of South Sea House, who had come to buy and sell, invest and exchange, hardly cared for two men who pursued each other madly across the lobby, and I hardly cared for them, trying to keep my eye upon my prey as a hunting beast attempts to fix his sights upon one creature in the herd.

He reached the door, and I was hard upon him, but I slipped while climbing up the marble stairs, and collided with a portly gentleman just as I threw open the doors to see where this knave had run. When I looked around me, I could see no sign of him. I thought for a moment of asking other travelers upon the street if they had noted a large, ill-formed ruffian, but in London mine was a useless question, for where was there not a man of that description? I therefore abandoned all hope of catching him and returned to South Sea House.

The presence of this man here only served to give credit to Elias’s claims that one of the chartered companies was behind these crimes, for what business would a man who had attacked me on a deserted street have at a place like this—unless the company employed him for some nefarious purpose? By returning to South Sea House, I quite possibly ventured into the very heart of villainy, into the lair of the people who had murdered two men and who had attempted my life as well. Feeling the grip upon my hangar—more for comfort than because I believed I would need to draw it—I returned to the lobby of this great institution that sought to rival the Bank of England.

I thus proceeded up a flight of stairs and asked a gentleman who appeared to do business in the building if there was an office where I might find one Virgil Cowper. He mumbled that he toiled in the office dealing in stock-holder records, and then directed me up yet another flight. There I found a cramped room where some dozen or so clerks were at work with some business I could not divine. Each desk was weighted down with enormous, if orderly, piles of paper, and I watched as the clerks took pieces, made some markings upon them, annotated ledger books, replaced the papers in another pile, and then started anew. I asked the scribe nearest to the door where I might find a Mr. Cowper, and he gestured to a desk toward the back.

I could not imagine what an interview with Cowper might yield, but I invested this man with no small importance. I had discovered his name, and I had followed his trail here. I had followed Elias’s advice and taken probabilities into account, and they, in turn, had led me to a man whose connection with Bloathwait I hoped to learn.

I had all but forgotten my brief pursuit of the ruffian as I approached Cowper. He was a man of about forty years, haggard by his look, for the skin was loose about his face, and his hands were rough, callused, and stained with ink. A suit of clothes—gray and austere—made his grayish-yellow complexion and beveined eyes seem all the more cadaverous; nevertheless, he had an intelligent look about him and possessed something in his face that spoke of a kind of earnest ambition, but he also seemed a man whose youthful promise had yielded nothing but the feelings of failure that come with the advance of age. It is this moment in life, when the bounty of the future becomes the drudgery of the present, that all men fear, myself included, and for that reason I immediately felt a sympathy for this man.

“I beg a few moments of your time, sir,” I said, “it is upon a matter of business.”

I am told that it grows more common for clerks in places such as a trading company to think of themselves as dedicated to that company, but such was not the case in 1719, I assure you. A clerk at the South Sea Company would gladly use whatever access and influence his position afforded in order to turn a few pounds for himself, and I aimed to take advantage of that predilection.

“Business, you say?” Mr. Cowper said softly. “I am always game for business. Please describe the nature of this business.”

I handed him my card, which he glanced at quickly and then put away.

“It is of a private nature,” I said quietly.

“Then let us take a walk,” he said. He stood up and led me down the stairway to the lobby. I began to explain my interests, but he held up a hand to stop my speech. “Not yet, sir.”

When we reached the lobby, he began a walk directly across to the far wall. “We may talk here in some privacy, provided we continue to travel back and forth. That way no man may listen in to our conversation without making himself conspicuous.”

I nodded at his sage precaution, at first thinking it was Mr. Cowper’s own idea, but I soon noticed that a dozen or so pairs or small groups of men did as we did, moving back and forth, each group upon its own trajectory, like billiard balls rolling at an easy pace.

“Now what is it I may do for you, sir?” he inquired with a polished obsequiousness.

What, indeed? I had so rejoiced at the idea of tracking this man to the source, of following my guesses and the trail of probability, that I had not thought on what I might do with Mr. Cowper once I found him. I could presume from the notes I had discovered upon Bloathwait’s desk that this man had some knowledge of the forgeries, but I could not even be sure of that. I did know, however, that he worked in the records office, and therefore would have access to useful information.

“Do you have access to stock-holder records?” I inquired.

“Such as they are,” Cowper said, still keeping his voice quiet. “I fear this Company is none the best at organizing its archives.”

“I should very much like,” I said cautiously, “to learn if some particular people subscribed to Company stock.”

Cowper stroked his chin. “This may prove difficult. The more recent the record, however, the greater the chance it can be found. For older records, I can promise you nothing.”

Cowper’s willingness to undertake this talk told me that he was certainly into something, I need only learn what. “I believe what I search for should be no more than a year old. I wish to know if two men I shall name held South Sea issues. If so, I wish to know in what amounts, when they were bought, and if they were again sold. Is that something you can do?”

He smiled. “I believe I can be of service to you. It shall take some time—a week perhaps. But it can certainly be done.”

“And what shall I pay you for your services?”

Cowper thought about this for a moment, as we nearly collided with a pair of enormously fat men involved in a conference far more jolly than ours. They laughed so hard that they were nearly oblivious to where they walked.

“I believe five guineas per name shall answer it.”

I began to regret the bargain, for his price was so high I could hardly even think that I might lower it to something reasonable. Finally we settled upon eight guineas for both names—still an exorbitant price.

Cowper and I had just concluded our business when I spotted, or I should say, I was spotted by, Nathan Adelman, who came down the stairs with his eyes affixed to me. Cowper hurriedly completed our farewell and disappeared into the throng while I awaited Adelman.

“Good day to you, sir.” I nodded.

“I see there is no dissuading you from wasting your time,” Adelman said blandly. He remained upon the first stair, that he might look me in the eye without straining. “Well, if you are going to be poking about, I suppose I may as well keep you from doing any harm. I shall take my dinner now,” he said, “perhaps you can join me at the chophouse across the way. Their pork is most excellent,” he said with a pointed look, as though challenging me to eat forbidden meat.

We walked down Bishopsgate and then to Leadenhall Street, where the chophouse stood near the Green Market. We silently agreed to a truce of civility, and our conversation as we walked rested upon trivial matters: the pleasantness of the recent weather, the excitement of the new theatrical season, and the increase of business upon the Exchange.

He led me to a crowded, smoky hall that offered overcooked chops of meat and stale mugs of ale for a shilling. We took ourselves a table, and Adelman called out for two plates. Within minutes a boy delivered two servings of a greasy mixture of chops, buttered cabbage, and pale yellowish bread—a dyed and chalky coarse bread, not true white bread made of refined flour.

“Tell me how your inquiry proceeds?” Adelman asked, as he turned to dragging a chunk of chalk-bread through the grease of his chop.

This was by no means the first time someone had placed pork before me, and I had not much scrupled to eat it since I had run away from home. Nevertheless, there was something so distressing about Adelman’s need to devour pig flesh before my eyes that made the thought utterly distasteful to me. “It proceeds apace, I believe.” I dipped a piece of bread into the grease and then set it back down.

Adelman laughed, his mouth full of food. “I am pleased to hear it. I trust the clerks at South Sea House are giving you their full cooperation.”

“Would that all of South Sea House gave me its full cooperation.”

Adelman continued to dig at his food. “You have yet to ask of me anything I can provide.”

“You have made it clear that you would provide me with nothing.”

He glanced at me. “No taste for pork, eh? I thought you more modern than that.” He shook his head and smiled. “Your foolishness about diet is much like the foolishness of your inquiry. I had hoped to dissuade you from a course born of tribal ignorance, but if I cannot prevent your inquiry, I hope to limit the damage it does this Kingdom.”

I thought it a bit obvious; he wished to lead me astray, and any information I received of Adelman I would have to scrutinize with care. “Very well, then,” I said, ready to test his new spirit. “What can you tell me of Perceval Bloathwait?”

Adelman set down his fork. “Bloathwait? What concern is he of yours?”

“I believe my father was a concern of his. And,” I added, hoping to incite some response, “he has made it clear that he wishes to aid me in my inquiry.”

Adelman made a sound of disgust. “He wishes to aid you so long as he might cast aspersions upon South Sea House. Allow me to tell you a fine story, Mr. Weaver. As you may recall, four years ago, when the Pretender made his most violent attempt to invade this island and retake the throne for the House of Stuart, there were at one point rumors that the Pretender’s carriage was on its way to London. You may also recollect, sir, the panic caused by this rumor—the idea that the Pretender should feel safe to enter the city as its monarch made many a man believe that the war had already been all but lost and King George would flee. In reality, the rebellion had already been quite stopped in Scotland, but these rumors were not simply fed by mania and fear, for an entourage, including a carriage bearing the insignia of the Pretender, was discovered on the London road.”

“I fail to see what this has to do with me.”

“No doubt,” Adelman said. “But you will. When news of the Pretender’s advance on London reached ’Change Alley, stock prices plummeted. Every man with large investments in the funds sold out for fear that if the Pretender succeeded in his attempt to replace King George, then the funds would be worth nothing. Now, I do not wish to suggest that every man who bought during this crisis was a villain. There were many patriots, myself included, who had faith in His Majesty’s ability to withstand an invasion. But Mr. Bloathwait bought tremendously, and he made an inestimable fortune when the invasion was revealed to be a hoax and the stock prices normalized.”

“Your idea of villainy is rather changeable,” I observed. “You say you also bought when the prices fell. Is he a blackguard because he bought more than you?”

“No, he is a blackguard because he orchestrated the panic,” Adelman said, taking a bite of chop. “Bloathwait hired the coaches, had them appear as the Pretender and his men, and sat back and awaited the collapse of the markets. It was a very clever plan, and it made a man who was only comfortable into a man who is now very wealthy indeed.”

I betrayed no disgust, hoping my lack of concern would prompt Adelman to reveal even more. “It seems rather like Mr. d’Arblay’s false lottery scare,” I noted blandly.

“The difference is one of scale, I suppose. Mr. d’Arblay threatened to ruin a few investors’ plans. Mr. Bloathwait threatened to ruin an entire nation. I admit I feel some bitterness because when the newspapers excoriate stock-jobbers they have a habit of looking to me, but I am merely a man of business who sees opportunity in serving my nation. Bloathwait is your true villainous stock-jobber. He would, and did, send the entire nation’s finances into chaos to give himself an advantage upon the Exchange. Now, you must decide if you wish to trust such a man.”

“What is it you wish of me, Mr. Adelman?”

“Only to give you some advice. Continue your inquiry, Mr. Weaver. It is spoken of in the coffeehouses now, but not as much as it might be. I say continue, and continue as boldly and as loudly as you dare. Then you may sit back, and like your friend Mr. Bloathwait, watch the prices in ’Change Alley fall, and when they do so, you may buy great quantities. With any luck, the damage you do will last but a short while, and you will find yourself a rich man.”

“What know you,” I began, unimpressed by his speech, “of forged South Sea issues?”

Like a creature from Ovid, Mr. Adelman was suddenly transformed. He sprang forth and grabbed me by the arm, hissing in the most hideous and barely audible voice, “You must never speak of such a thing again. You know not the damage you can do. Those words are like a magic incantation that, if uttered too loudly in the wrong place, can destroy the Kingdom.”

Adelman relaxed somewhat. He returned to his seat. “Forgive my excitement, but there are things of which you know nothing. I cannot sit by and watch you destroy the good we have done.”

“You talk of serving the nation, but you are no different from Bloathwait, who attempts to serve his own profits. I must believe that these things, which I shall do you the courtesy of not mentioning again, exist. I shall continue to pursue that line of inquiry, so you may as well tell me what you know.”

“It is but a vicious rumor,” Adelman said, after ruminating for a moment, “started by Bloathwait. A hoax, like his Pretender’s carriage. For all I know he produced some false stock and circulated it to give his story credit, but I promise you, it is but a ruse to ruin the credit of this Company, and you, Mr. Weaver, are but a tool of those who would bring about such a ruin.”

“What if I told you that my father believed in the existence of such false stock—that he believed that a factor within South Sea House produced it?”

“I would say that you have been most horribly deceived. Your father was too perspicacious a jobber to believe such a false rumor.”

I waited a moment, hoping to unnerve Adelman. “I am in possession of evidence,” I said at last. I chose not to clarify if I had evidence of the false stock or my father’s belief in it.

“What manner of evidence?” Adelman’s face now grew crimson beneath his white wig.

“I shall only say that it is evidence that has quite convinced me.” I overstated my conviction in my father’s pamphlet—for all I knew, it was but hyperbolic rhetoric—but I believed I had an advantage over Adelman and I wished to use it for all it was worth.

“What have you?” he demanded. “A false issue?” He spoke those words so quietly he did little more than move his lips. “If that is what you have, let me promise that what you have is a base forgery. Such a thing could never have come from South Sea House—if you have anything it is only designed to make you believe it to be something it is not, something it cannot be.”

“A forgery of a forgery?” I almost laughed. “A feint within a feint? How very charming. This stock-jobbery is as much the devil as its enemies say.”

“Name your price for this ‘evidence’ of yours. Do not for a moment believe that I think what you have is proof of anything, but if I have to pay to keep rumors from circulating, I shall do so.”

I hope I shall not disillusion my reader if I say that, for an instant at any rate, I wondered what my price might be. What loyalty had I to my father that I should turn away a sum of money to do what I had done for so many years—forget him. What could Adelman mean when he said I might name my price? A thousand pounds? Ten thousand? Might it not be wise to clarify his meaning before rejecting this offer?

It is always something of a disappointment for me when I learn that I have not the stomach for such villainy or calculation as might be in my best interest. And perhaps to overcompensate for this war that raged inside me, I assumed a stance of indignation. “My price? My price is knowing who killed my father and Balfour—and why. There is no other price.”

“Damn you, sir.” He threw his utensils hard upon the table.

I admit I enjoyed this moment of power, and I saw no reason not to indulge myself. “Damn me, you say? Would you care to damn me at dawn tomorrow morning at Hyde Park?”

Adelman’s face lost its redness and now matched the color of his wig. “I assure you, sir, I never duel. It is a barbaric practice, and one practiced only by equals. You should be ashamed to have even suggested such a thing.”

“Dueling is dangerous,” I agreed. “But insulting a man to his face, Mr. Adelman, is also a dangerous practice. I tell you, I grow tired of your attempts to dissuade me from my course. I shall not be dissuaded. I shall not be bought out. This inquiry will cease, sir, when it reaches its conclusion, and not a moment sooner. If I have to expose the South Sea Company, the Bank of England, or anyone else who has had a hand in these deaths, I shall not hesitate to do so.”

I stood up and glared down at this great man, who, perhaps for the first time in many years, knew not how to respond. “If you wish to discuss this matter further, you know where you may find me, and I am always ready to receive your commands.”

I turned and departed, full of self-satisfaction; I felt—for the first time since I had begun this search for the truth behind my father’s death—that I might possess some small measure of strength.

I LOOKED FORWARD TO returning to my lodgings, for I had found my encounter with Adelman to be surprisingly tiring. My hopes of removing my boots and taking a drink were dashed, however, when I noticed my landlady waiting to greet me at the front door. The look on her face told me I would not be resting soon. I saw that she was anxious and tired, but had I been less tired myself I would surely have seen the signifiers of fear in her sunken eyes and pale complexion.

“There are some men to see you in the parlor, Mr. Weaver,” she told me in a shaky voice.

“Some men,” I muttered. “Pray, not some Christian gentlemen, Mrs. Garrison? Shall I assume that the Hindoo Rajah and his entourage have stopped by to honor me with a visit?”

She pressed her hands together in a gesture of supplication. “They are in the parlor.”

Much raced through my mind in the few seconds it took to storm into the room. Had the constable come to arrest me for the murder of Jemmy? As I walked through the door I saw five men, dressed reasonably well, but their malicious eyes gave the lie to the cuts of their clothing and the niceness of their wigs. Three of them sat on the sofa, their legs spread out in an air of comfortable disrespect. Two stood behind the sofa, one of them toying recklessly with Mrs. Garrison’s China vase. The other man fingered a bulge in his coat pocket that I knew could only be a pistol.

They were not the constable’s men.

“Ah,” the man with the vase said. He placed it down hard, perhaps hoping to see a crack wind its way up from the base. “At last the great Mr. Weaver shows himself. You’ve kept us here all day, you have. That’s something of an incivility, don’cha think, me spark?”

Mrs. Garrison had not followed me in, but she remained in the hall that she might listen to what transpired.

I could not imagine who they might be, but their presence intrigued me. I understood that I might be in grave danger, but I also believed that I was very close to learning much about the deaths into which I inquired.

“If you have business,” I said sternly, “speak it. Otherwise you can get out.”

“Listen to ’im,” one of the men on the sofa said. “ ’E thinks ’e can tell us what to do.”

“Mr. Weaver,” the leader said, “we’ve come to take you for a visit. Our employer has invited you to come see him. And to make sure you don’t get lost along the way, he’s asked us to bring you over ourselves.”

“And who is your employer?”

“You’ll find out in due course,” the leader said. “You just cooperate, and you won’t get hurt. We’ve got enough men here, and pistols too, to keep a man like yourself from giving us any trouble.”

Behind me Mrs. Garrison let out a shriek. I turned to her quickly. “Do not be alarmed,” I said. “Have these men done you any harm?”

She shook her head.

“Then they shan’t.” I turned to the leader. “Let us go.” Alone, perhaps, I might have attempted to extricate myself from the situation more forcefully, but I could not risk the safety of Mrs. Garrison. She was an unpleasant woman to be sure, but I knew my duty too well to engage in an altercation that might bring her harm.

“ ’E’s quite the gallant,” one of them noted as they ushered me out in front of Mrs. Garrison’s house. Seeing a coach waiting, I walked toward it at a brisk pace, anxious to have the adventure ended. A small crowd had gathered to watch this odd procession, and I thought to myself that at least while others looked on I should have little to fear. But even as this thought passed through my mind, I felt from behind me a sudden sharp blow to the back of my skull. The pain consumed my every sensation. I have taken no small number of blows to my head in my time in the ring, but it is one thing to feel a man’s fist against your face, quite another to be struck from behind with a solid object. The pain was, in a disorienting way, quite literally unbelievable—blunt and stabbing, hot and cold all at once. I thought to myself, That cannot be—it cannot hurt that much.

Without taking time to consider, I reached to grab the spot that hurt so implausibly. I should have known better than to render myself vulnerable, for another of the men took advantage of the opening and struck me hard in the stomach. My chest constricted as I struggled for air. As I doubled over, I felt another blow, this one in the small of my back, which knocked me to the ground.

I thought that if only I could catch my breath I might rise up and pummel these men, but I was no sooner upon the ground than I was struck again in the face and side, and before I could resist I felt my arms pulled behind me and bound with a cord. Just before a cloth was slipped over my head, I looked up and saw the faces in the crowd that watched me beaten before my own lodgings. Not one of them stepped forward to help, and I found myself attempting to commit each face to memory that I might return and beat everyone who had watched my misfortune with such cowardly indifference. I heard someone say that he would go for the constable, but that I knew would do me little service.

Abruptly I was pulled to my feet and pushed against the side of the coach; what felt like a dozen hands were upon me, roughly searching for weapons. My pistol, my hangar, and my knives were removed, and I was shoved into the carriage, where I collapsed into my seat.

I struggled futilely against my bonds, not because I believed I could escape them, but because I could not endure the idea of these men believing me entirely conquered. I soon grew tired of thrashing about like an unhooked trout; there was little good I might accomplish, and I had no desire to bring more beatings upon myself. Thus biding my time, attempting to persuade myself into feeling no agony, I felt the wheels begin to roll, and I vowed that I would have vengeance for this anger and humiliation before the sun set that night.