A Conspiracy of Paper

TWENTY-TWO

I SAT SILENT and brooding, taut with anger and pain, as the chaise rode on for I know not how long. My abductors spoke not a word, and in the silence and darkness I contemplated who might have orchestrated this attack. I could not but suspect the South Sea Company, but would the architects of a villainous conspiracy that had secretly taken the lives of two men be so sloppy as to attempt a violent abduction before a crowd of onlookers? But if it was not the South Sea, then who would wish to abuse me so, and for what purpose?

At last we stopped, and I was led out to walk a short distance. I heard a door open and felt a pair of hands pushing me into a building. Within a few seconds the hood upon my head was removed, and I could see I had entered a gaudily decorated house. The walls were adorned with classical-inspired imagery that suggested less the virtues of Plutarch than the excesses of the Satyricon of Petronius Arbiter. I shall not ask my reader to blush by describing the attitudes of the plaster statues and the painted figures of this chamber.

The men about me held themselves like children whose sure punishment only awaited the return of a parent. They watched me warily, though my arms were still firmly bound behind me.

I was brought to a drawing room and instructed to sit. The men withdrew somewhat, but did not leave. Next I felt a person approach from behind and cut loose the cord that tied my hands. At once I almost jumped up, but I decided to survey the scene quietly before taking any action. The room bore furnishings of the Eastern vogue, with Chinese-style vases and Oriental decorations upon the wall hangings. A painting, offset with a thick frame of gold, depicted a coronation scene among the Turks. I tried to take in as much as I could, not knowing what could be important, for I knew that the man who had summoned me was to be my enemy for some time to come. Presuming he let me live.

The man who had freed my arms turned to face me, and I saw that it was the Great Man himself who walked, or I should say, limped toward me to shake my hand. Though Jonathan Wild was ten years older than myself, he had a youthful glow about him. His broad face would have struck an uncritical man as unaffectedly jolly, but I had too recently tasted of his tricks to see it as anything but villainous.

Following immediately upon Wild’s footsteps was his man, Abraham Mendes, who stood impassively. He showed no sign that he recalled our brief dialogue outside the Bevis Marks synagogue. His task, I believed, was to cast menacing looks at anything that moved—the fact that he knew me changed his behavior not at all.

“Mr. Weaver, I’m so glad to meet you again.” Wild grabbed my hand and shook it in a powerful and constricting grip, as though he wished to convey meaning even in so small a gesture. “I really must apologize for the unconscionable way you have been treated by these men. I asked them to treat you with courtesy, but I think your reputation must have intimidated them, and they reverted to their rude ways.”

Since he had greeted me in the Bedford Arms tavern, I had anticipated that I would sooner or later meet up with Wild, but I still could not imagine what he hoped to gain from this adventure. Why had I been beaten, if only to take my revenge on my attackers? Why had I been blindfolded, when the entire world knew that Jonathan Wild resides in a spacious house he had only recently bought in the Great Old Bailey?

Wild ordered the men out of the room and sat in a hard-looking chair with enormous arms. Mendes stepped around and stood behind him, glaring at me with a coldness I found chilling. I could not understand how Mendes could so easily make himself into two people—the violent henchman and the affable fellow-Jew.

“Again,” Wild said quietly, “I apologize for this misunderstanding, and I hope we will be able to recover from this debacle. Might I get you a glass to calm your spirits?” He limped toward a decanter set upon a table in the middle of the room, having every intention of pouring my wine himself rather than have a servant perform this task.

“I should welcome a glass of wine.” I slowly shifted my battered body, attempting to find a comfortable position. This conversation, I told myself, was much like a battle within the ring. I would have to force myself to ignore my pain, to keep my wits about me though my body urged me to surrender.

Wild poured the wine, handed it to me with the greatest deference, and then returned to his chair. “We have so many things to discuss. It astonishes one, does it not, to think that we do not have the opportunity to speak to each other more often.”

I took a sip and found that the wine did calm my spirits to a small degree. I straightened myself out, ignored the throbbing in my head, and met Wild’s villainous gaze. “I find there is little left that astonishes me, Mr. Wild, and much that tries my patience. You may not have intended to treat me ill, but I have been ill-treated and my disposition is not entirely amicable, so if you have business, I would have you state it.”

“Very well, Mr. Weaver. I too am a man pressed for time.” He sat down. “I would so like for us to have an understanding, because it would be so easy for us to become adversaries. After all, we are in the same business, and I fear that since I have made such a success of the thief-taking trade, there is little left for you. Yet I think there are ample opportunities in collecting debts, protecting gentlemen, and even uncovering the truths behind terrible crimes—such as the one committed against your father.”

“What do you know of the matter?” I asked, wishing to sound relaxed.

He shook his head, as if at the foolishness of my question. “I assure you, sir, that there is very little that happens in this town of which I do not know.”

“Then you may tell me who killed my father,” I replied.

“Alas”—he shook his head—“that is one bit of information that has eluded me.”

“Perhaps, then, the scope of your information is not so broad as you would like me to believe.”

He narrowed his eyes in disapproval. “You must not be so hasty, sir. But I have heard of your haste, and of your temper too. Tell me, Mr. Weaver, is it true that when you were younger and rode upon the highway, taking from others the wealth you wanted for yourself, that you were a great favorite among the gentle sex? I have heard it said that you were known by the name of Gentleman Ben and that you were loved by the ladies even as they handed you their rings and jewels. Once you had to discourage the daughter of a wealthy merchant who wished to ride away with you.”

I should not have been surprised that he knew such things. I had indeed taken a false name when I rode upon the highway, and as there would be men about town who knew me from those days, it was inevitable that Wild should learn of my past. For my part, I had never even spoken of those days since setting up my business in London. There were some secrets I kept even from Elias. “I am not interested in discussing the improprieties of my youth.”

He showed me another grin. “There is nothing to shame you in your past. I heard that once, when a fellow-adventurer threatened to become too rough with a lady whose wealth you desired, you turned and fired your pistol directly into his face, killing him on the spot.”

I felt at least some relief in his repetition of this rumor that had followed me for some years—not because I was pleased that these stories were assigned to me, but it proved that Wild heard only the same false stories that had circulated for years. His information had limitations. “The pistol misfired,” I said slowly. “No one was hurt, and the man you speak of later hanged at Tyburn for his crimes.”

“I only hope you turned him in yourself—procured a nice reward. I think it a shame to see enemies hang and receive no other compensation than the satisfaction of watching them dangle.”

I studied his face, hoping for some sign of what he was about. But I could read nothing into his unctuous smile. “I fear the crux of your discourse eludes me, sir.”

“Ah, my point. My point, sir, is that I wish to discuss the matter of this inquiry into your father’s death.”

“Shall I guess?” I asked tartly. “You wish to see me discontinue the inquiry.”

Wild laughed, as a benevolent patron laughs at the foolishness of his charges. “No, Mr. Weaver. Just the opposite, in fact. I wish to make certain you proceed apace.”

I sat patiently to await his explanation.

“I wish to keep you out of a business that I claim for myself,” Wild continued. “The public approves of me heartily, and I have no desire to compete with you for the trade. Since thief-taking is so unpleasant a business I am sure you wish to find other avenues of employment. Thus I am to see that your investigation into the matter of these deaths is successful, for I believe that such a conclusion would open new opportunities for you, and we would no longer find ourselves competitors.” He looked at me in the most challenging manner imaginable. “You will note that I have not let this unfortunate business with Kate Cole trouble me.”

I took a drink of wine. “So much the better,” I said, affecting indifference. In truth, his oily speech only exacerbated the pain in my head, and I wished to say nothing that might extend our conversation.

“Yes, it is too bad about Jemmy,” Wild continued cheerfully. “Not too bad that he’s dead, for I could not trust the fellow and would have ’peached him myself soon enough. It is a shame that I shall receive no money for his death, but I shall see money of Kate, and that’s all one to me. You might have wondered if I would feel ill will toward you for stepping into my business as you did, but I can assure you that I hold no grudge. I promise that your name will never be raised at Kate’s trial.”

“I am pleased to hear that,” I muttered. I cannot say that I was surprised by Wild’s intention to let Kate swing, but the coldness of his resolve unsettled me. Did he believe himself to be charming or terrifying?

“Yes, I thought you might be pleased,” he continued. “Now, shall we return to your more pressing problem? I do want to be of service.”

“I shall not stop you.” Wild surely could not believe that I should be fooled by his bombastic claims of fellowship—I saw not what I had to gain by pretending to be more foolish than he might hope. “Frankly, Mr. Wild, I don’t believe you, and I should be utterly astonished if you expected me to believe you. Perhaps you can simply tell me what it is you want, and then I may return to my lodgings to heal myself of this meeting.”

He placed a hand upon his breast. “You wound me, sir.” He froze in this position, and then appeared to change his mind. “No, you do not. Of course you do not wound me; when I have been telling you of my plans to let Kate swing, there is no reason for you to see me as anything but a schemer—which I am, and a devilish good one, too. The truth is that I have reasons of my own for wishing to see you succeed in your inquiry—for uncovering the truth behind these murders. My business thrives upon the plague of thieves in this city, but murder is another matter altogether. A murder is something I never condone. It is quite bad for my business. If a man finds his watch missing, that is one thing, but when wealthy merchants are plotted against, it is something else.”

“Then why did you wait for me to begin an inquiry? If these murders distressed you so, why not manage the affair yourself?”

“Because until you began your inquiry, no one believed they were murders. As long as the public is content, I am content. But I assure you, Weaver, that having stirred up public sentiment about these deaths, if you now fail to resolve the matter, it is bad for both of us.”

“What rot!” I could not help but laugh, though the motion hurt both my ribs and my head.

Wild laughed with me. “You will have to accept it. My motives are my own. I wish you to succeed, but if you do not wish to succeed, you may ignore my advice and my assistance. There is no better-informed man in the city, and I may have knowledge that could aid you. Feel free to ask me anything, sir. Anything at all.”

I considered this offer. “Where can I find Bertie Fenn, the man who ran down my father?”

Wild held out his hands to signify his helplessness. “I do not know where you can find him, but I have heard that he works for a man named Martin Rochester, who is something of a criminal mind in his own right. Not a man to trifle with, from what I hear.”

“I have heard this name of Rochester for some time. It seems the entire world knows of him, but no one knows him. It is indeed enigmatic.”

“Yes, you are on an enigmatic course, are you not?”

“Then if you wish to aid me, you can clear up some of the enigmas rather than add to them. Tell me everything you know about Rochester—his business, where he lives, whom else he employs.”

Wild only shrugged. “Alas, Rochester is a very secretive man. I know not where he works nor whom he employs—other than Fenn, that is. I am simply a thief-taker, sir, and cannot begin to fathom the world of stock-jobbers such as Rochester. These stock-jobbers are the very devil. They turn everything upside down. There is no sorting out of one’s business around them.”

I sighed. These endless railleries against stock-jobbers frustrated me—not because I wished to defend them, not because these condemnations insulted my father’s memory, but because these words were upon every man’s lips and proved worse than empty and useless.

“You do not really have any information for me then? For a man who knows of everything, you share remarkably little.” I started to rise, and even this slight motion caused Mendes to shift the weight upon his feet.

Wild held up a staying hand, I could not say at which of us. “Perhaps I do not have precisely the information you desire. Yet I hear things, and I should like to share with you some of the things I have heard.”

I made no effort to disguise my skepticism. “By all means.” I settled back into my chair.

“It is my understanding that Rochester arranged for the death of your father as well as Michael Balfour. I do not know why, but I do know that he employed Bertie Fenn. Further, sir, it is my understanding that Mr. Rochester has some connection with the South Sea Company. I believe you will have to look to the Company to find the truth behind these murders.”

“How is it,” I asked, “that so many men point me in the direction of the South Sea Company but can then tell me no more?”

Wild looked at me with something like surprise. “I cannot speak for other men.”

“What is your affiliation with Perceval Bloathwait?” I demanded.

“Bloathwait?” I had either genuinely surprised him or he was a superb actor. “The Bank of England director? What dealings should I have with him?”

“That is precisely what I wish to determine.”

“None. I suspect I never shall, unless he should find his pocket picked one day or the other.”

“Then tell me how you know these things about the Company,” I said.

“Men are undone in whispers, you know. A prig tells me a piece, a whore tells me another piece. I put all these pieces together. Sometimes I can ask no more than I am told.”

I thought hard on what else I might ask. I could not begin to guess at Wild’s motives, but if he wished to aid me, for the nonce I would take his information. “What do you know of a man named Noah Sarmento?” I asked. Wild might deny dealings with Bloathwait, but if my uncle’s clerk was a villain of some description, then Wild might know of him.

His face was a blank. “I cannot say I know of him.”

“Very well. You had your men beat me and drag me here in order to give me your friendly encouragement. Do I understand that correctly, Mr. Wild?”

“Really, Weaver, I have apologized about that. I have told you all I know of Rochester and the South Sea involvement. You must do some of this work yourself.”

“Then I shall get to it.” I began to rise. “Thank you for your time, Mr. Wild,” I said sourly, as I attempted to steady myself. I did not wish to give Wild the satisfaction of seeing me in any way incapacitated. “I cannot say how much faith I can place in your promise, but I can assure you that this meeting has been illuminating for me.”

“I am delighted to hear that. You know, Mr. Weaver, my offer still stands—if you wish to find employment with me, there is always room for a man of your stripe.”

“Your offer is as tempting to me today as the day you first made it, sir.”

“Ah, then. One more thing I wish to bring up. It’s about this Kate Cole matter. I could not but detect some squeamishness on your part when I mentioned her hanging day. I suppose you are one of those unfortunates crippled with sentiment—such a nasty condition. It occurs to me that if the idea of her hanging distresses you, I might choose to spare her the rope.”

“And in exchange?” I asked.

“In exchange,” he said, “you will owe me a favor. One of my choice, that I may call upon when I choose.”

I believed that he could arrange to spare her life. A man like Wild would have precisely the influence to abort the trial, just as he would have the power to see her hang should he choose to do so. Yet I wondered what price he would extract for clearing my conscience. What would it mean to be in Wild’s debt—to have no say in how that debt might be paid? I thought about this offer in terms of probability, in terms of risk and reward, in terms of Wild’s efforts to speculate on lives as though he jobbed people themselves upon some felonious exchange. In the end, and it is a decision I have come to regret in many ways, I placed my fear of Wild’s power over my concern for Kate’s life. I said nothing and watched the images of a hanged Kate play themselves out before my mind’s eye and told myself that, should Kate’s life end in this way, I could endure the guilt.

I chose not to honor Wild with a response to his offer, so he continued speaking. “Very well, then. Shall I have Mr. Mendes return you to your lodgings?”

I glanced at my old acquaintance, who had hardly moved since his arrival in the room. “Yes,” I said, making sure to betray nothing of my feelings. “I think I’d like that.”

· · ·

MENDES AND I SAT in the coach in silence for a few moments. Finally he turned to me. “You will understand if I do not return your arms until we reach your home.”

“If I wished to harm you, Mr. Mendes, I would not require weaponry. Tell me,” I said, changing my tone dramatically, “do you enjoy working for Wild, being treated like his mameluke?”

Mendes laughed. “My employment with Mr. Wild has served me well.”

I thought on this for a moment, attempting to concentrate, though the jarring movements of the hackney aggravated my too-recent wounds. “Come now, Mendes. Let us be honest with each other. It may well be that Wild is an easy master, but he is a master all the same. No matter the trust he may put in you, you must remain for him always a Hebrew, and nothing more.”

“I hardly know what you mean,” Mendes said. “For Wild, any man is but the sum of what he does. I am no different. While I serve him well, he treats me well.”

“We, however, are of the same neighborhood,” I continued. “I ask you now to think of that commonality and tell me the truth of these matters.”

“The truth?” Mendes stared.

“Yes. I know you and I have never been great friends, but we have a common bond. You continue to associate yourself with the Jews of Dukes Place—more than I do. You attend services at the synagogue, and I admire your desire to maintain a connection with our people. Can you not look at that commonality and find it within you to be honest with me?”

“Perhaps it is you who should be honest with me, sir. What is it that motivates you?”

“Me? Why, I wish to find the man who killed my father. No difficult motivation, that.”

“Except you never cared a fig for your father while he was alive. I, however, saw him quite regularly about the neighborhood, while you feared to set foot within our quarter.”

I could hardly answer these charges, which I knew were only too just. I told myself that his words meant nothing, that Mendes knew nothing of how my father treated me, that a man of his spirit could have taken it no more than I. But I could not quite believe my own thoughts, perhaps because when I left, I left not out of anger or indignation or the justice of my cause—I left with my father’s stolen money in my pocket.

We rode in silence until the hackney now stumbled to a halt. “We are arrived, Mr. Weaver.” He handed me my daggers, hangar, and pistol, and wished that I might use them in the best of health. “I hope you meet great success in your inquiry,” Mendes said as I stepped out of the hackney. “Mr. Wild does as well. That may be difficult for you to believe just now, but I promise you it is so.”

My legs shook a bit as I touched the cobbled street, and the daylight in my eyes, after the dark of the hackney, made me feel like a drunkard just roused from last night’s stupor. As I limped toward Mrs. Garrison’s front door I thought of all the information I had obtained that day, and wondered why I felt no closer to knowing anything at all.