A Conspiracy of Paper

TWENTY-FIVE

ONCE I HAD cleaned myself and dressed, doing what I could to avoid too much attention from the servants at my uncle’s house, I sent a message to Sir Owen asking him to meet me at a local alehouse. He sent back a reply, and within a few hours I sat facing him over a comforting mug.

Sir Owen, however, did not look comforted. Gone was the avuncular warmth I had recognized from our earlier meetings. His tight-lipped scowl bespoke agitated nerves, and he looked at the door several times each minute.

“This is an unpleasant business,” Sir Owen said. “You promised me to keep my name out of this affair, Weaver.” He absently ran a finger over the handle of his mug.

I was still quite stiff, but I attempted to affect the air of a man relaxed and in command. I had often learned that, like a player upon the stage, the way I held my body could affect the emotions of those to whom I spoke. “I promised to do all I could, and I intend to keep that promise, but I cannot lie before the court, or I could very well face murder charges myself. Sir Owen, this matter has grown larger than either of us had anticipated, and I believe that the prudent course is now to prepare for the possibility that I may have to mention your name in court. I am certain that with the proper preparation you can ensure that no serious damage—”

“Your job is to protect those who hire you,” he grumbled, without looking up. “You must do what it takes. Is it more money you want?”

“Really, Sir Owen, you shock me with these accusations. I have served you as best I could at every turn.”

“I wonder,” he said absently, “how do you explain this woman’s sudden ability to name you in this matter? You told me that she had no knowledge of who you were or where to find you.” He sat upright and drank hard from his mug.

“That is true,” I said, “but it seems that Wild has found out, and I cannot but assume that Wild is behind this mischief.”

“Wild,” he spat. “He will see us all undone. I was a fool to trust you in this, Weaver. You are, if you will forgive me for saying so, a short-tempered Jew who thinks with his fists. Had you not shot anyone, none of this would have happened.”

I had no patience for Sir Owen’s sudden unpleasant and accusatory mood. He had been jolly enough when I had shot Jemmy down in the street—so long as the shooting never need trouble his quiet. “It is true that had no one been killed there would be no need for a murder trial, but one might add that had you not been careless with your papers none of this might have happened.”

I had thought to anger him, unbalance him perhaps, but my accusation only served to make Sir Owen believe in his own authority. He straightened out in his chair, and he regarded me with cold eyes. “You forget yourself,” he said quietly. “You have brought far too much trouble upon your head, and mine as well, by sneaking about where you have no business. How do we know that it is not the South Sea that is behind this sudden turn with the whore? The Company would certainly like to see you silenced in any way possible. All this sneaking about, looking to see who killed your father. Could it not wait until the business with the whore was done?”

I was about to speak when I stopped myself and thought on what Sir Owen had said. “How do you know of that matter?” I asked in a calm voice, hoping to reveal nothing.

I watched Sir Owen carefully for any sign of confusion, but he exhibited nothing but exasperation. “Who in London does not know that you are poking about into Balfour’s self-murder? It is no secret that you are stirring up trouble for the South Sea Company, and I heartily fear that you are stirring up trouble for me at the same time. What kind of a man are you, anyway, to keep your father’s name a secret? We sat among men of parts talking about Lienzo and you never said a word. Did you wish to embarrass me in my own club, Weaver? Is that what you are about?”

“If you are embarrassed,” I said calmly, “it is your own doing.”

Sir Owen clenched his teeth. “You are an irresponsible rascal to involve me in your sordid matters. I wish you had kept me out of it, for they will surely drag me into the gutter beside you.”

As Sir Owen grew increasingly belligerent, I thought it best to let him rant, ignoring his unkind observations about Jews in general and me in particular until he quite wore himself out. Finally he assumed a more reasonable posture. “I shall speak to men I know who are not without some small influence. Perhaps I can do something to keep you from being summoned at this trial. In the meantime, you must give me your word that should you be summoned, you will not speak my name or in any way connect me to your shooting that man.”

“Sir Owen,” I said in a calm, quiet voice, “we must do what we can to see that it does not come to that, but I cannot make that promise. I shall hold my tongue as long as I can safely do so. I do not know that your name will never be asked of me. The court may not consider it of importance on whose behalf I sought out Kate. But if forced to speak in whose name I acted that night, I shall not be able to refuse. Is there no way to inform your wife-to-be, Miss Decker, of some small notion of your past—just enough to steel her against any unpleasant rumors she may encounter?”

I chose the wrong thing to say. Sir Owen’s fist clenched and his jaw tightened. He stared at me in disbelief for what seemed like ages. “What would you know of a refined lady’s sensibilities?” he sputtered. “You know nothing more than whores and gutter rubbish.”

Perhaps I should have been more sensitive to a man in his position, but I could not find it in my heart to feel sympathy with Sir Owen’s accusatory tone. I had done all I could do and more in his service. His expectation that I swing at Tyburn to show my loyalty was hardly just, and his accusations about the women in my life inappropriate, to say the least. “Is there not,” I asked calmly, “something in your gospels about only the sinless casting stones, Sir Owen?”

He stared full at me. “We have nothing more to discuss,” he said, and hastily departed.

· · ·

SIR OWEN’S PANIC left me confused, but not entirely dejected. He was, after all, on the verge of a public embarrassment—one that could jeopardize his upcoming marriage—and I felt that he was right in suggesting that I was in no small part to blame. I was more concerned with how this unfortunate chain of activity had been set into motion and what I could do to set it right. I thought it logical that Jonathan Wild had been the man to bring me into Kate Cole’s business, but again the question remained why. Sir Owen had suggested that it might be the Company itself that had tossed me, and the baronet along with me, into harm’s way, and that was a possibility I could not ignore.

I believed there was but one person who could explain these matters to my satisfaction, and so once again I made my way to Newgate prison to speak to Kate Cole.

After I passed through the terrible Newgate portal, and in exchange for a few coins, the warder led me to the Press Yard, where Kate’s room lay. The turnkey there explained to me that Kate had asked to take no visitors, but that was a request a few shillings soon dispensed with.

The room itself was surprisingly pleasant—it had a reasonably comfortable-looking bed, a few sitting chairs, a table, a writing desk, and a wardrobe. A small window allowed for a modicum of light to trickle in, but not enough to render the room sufficiently bright—even in full daylight—and a superfluity of cheap tallow candles cast streaks of black soot against the wall. Scattered about the room were empty flagons and tankards, pieces of half-eaten joints of meat, and stale crusts of white bread. Kate had been living well off her remittance.

If, however, she had been making the purchases of a gentlewoman, she knew not how to live as one. She wore new clothes—no doubt procured from the money I left her—but they were horribly soiled with food and drink, wrinkled as though she had slept in them, and smelled distractingly filthy. The lice she had acquired during her nightmarish hours on the Common Side of the prison had stayed with her, and they fairly crawled about her skin like anxious pedestrians on a busy street.

Kate showed no small amount of displeasure at seeing me in her doorway. She greeted me with a scowl of broken teeth and promptly turned away, unwilling to look me in the face.

The turnkey appeared at the threshold. “Will ye be wantin’ anything, then?” he asked.

“A bottle of wine,” Kate hissed. “ ’E’s paying for it.” She pointed to me.

He politely shut the door.

“Now, Kate,” I began, taking one of her wooden chairs and turning it to face her, “is this any way to treat your benefactor?” I sat down and awaited her reply, gently pushing away with my foot an uncovered chamber pot.

“I’ve nothing to say to ya.” She pouted like a child.

“I cannot imagine why you are angry with me. Have I not set you up in ease and taken you out of harm’s way?”

Kate looked up slowly. “Ya ’aven’t taken me out of the gallows’ way, nor Wild’s neither. So if that’s what ya ’ere about, ya kin be damned, for I ’adn’t a choice, ya see.”

“What precisely are you saying to me, Kate?”

“That it was Wild, it was. It was ’im that ’ad me ’peach ya. I weren’t to say nothing, but Wild, first ’e said as ya was to see me ’ang, but when I told ’im it weren’t true, ’e then told me that ’e would see me ’ang and that ’e ’ad more pull with the judge, ’e did, than ever ya did. So that’s what ’appened an’ ya kin do with it what ya will.”

I was silent for a moment, attempting to put it all in perspective. Kate was breathing hard, as though that speech had taken all her energy. I suppose part of it had been rehearsed—she had to know I would pay her this visit.

It was at least some small progress to learn that it was Wild who had involved me in Kate’s case. It did not mean that Wild was behind the murders of Balfour and my father, but it did mean that he had been far less than honest when he asserted that he was willing to suffer me as a rival so long as I went after the South Sea Company.

There were simply too many unrelated pieces of information for me to sort it all out, perhaps because my sorting method was flawed; Elias had chastised me for thinking of each element of the inquiry separately. How, then, might I consider the relationships between the disparate elements?

I was here to speak to Kate about Wild, but perhaps I should speak to her about something else, for there was still one enigma at the center of my inquiry—Martin Rochester. He had supposedly hired the man who ran down my father, and it seemed as though every man in ’Change Alley knew something of him. But it was Wild’s assertions about Rochester that most interested me, for the great thief-taker had been determined to convince me of Rochester’s villainy while at the same time providing me with no useful information. Now, here I was with Kate—Kate who knew at least something of Wild’s business and who had no love for her master. Perhaps I could learn from her what share of these crimes belonged to Rochester.

The turnkey returned and provided us with a bottle of wine. He demanded the outrageous price of six shillings, which I paid because it was more convenient to do so than to debate the matter.

Kate grabbed the bottle from my hand, uncorked it, and took a long swig. After wiping her mouth with the back of her hand she looked at me, certainly debating whether or not to offer me any. I suppose she considered that she had done me too much harm to make amends with small gestures, so she kept the wine for herself.

I let her take another drink before I spoke. “Do you know a man named Martin Rochester?”

“Ooh,” she screeched like a rat pressed beneath a boot, “now it’s Martin Roch’ster that’s in it, eh? Well I’ll not be put upon by the like of ’im. ’E’s caused me enough trouble, ’e ’as.”

“Then you know him?” I asked anxiously. I felt my heart should burst with excitement. Could it be that I had finally found someone who was willing to admit to more than a vague familiarity with this enigmatic man?

“Oh, I know ’im all right, I do,” Kate said indolently. “ ’E’s as mis’ble a bastard as Wild, and twice as smart ’e is, too. What’s Roch’ster got on this?”

I could not believe my luck. I was astonished that Kate should speak of her acquaintance with this man so casually. “I don’t know,” I said truthfully. “But I grow convinced that if I can find him, I can make both of our lives easier. What can you tell me about him?”

Kate opened her mouth, indeed she began to make some noises, but she caught herself, and her lips spread into a carnivorous smirk. “Ya still ain’t told me what Roch’ster is to ya.”

“What is he to you?” I demanded. “What do you know of him?”

“I know ’im well, I do. Very well indeed.”

“You’ve met him, then?” I asked. “Do you know where he can be found?”

“Oh, I met ’im, sure. But ’e can’t be found if ’e don’t wan’cha finding ’im, I kin tell ya as much. That’s ’is stock an’ trade, it is. ’E’s an ’ard one.”

“Can you tell me anything that might make it easier for me to find him?”

She shook her head. “Only that ya’d better find ’im before ’e finds ya.”

“Can you describe him to me?”

“Oh, I reckon I could.”

“Then please do.”

Kate looked at me with a gleam in her eye. I could see she had an idea she thought remarkably clever. “Why don’t we say I’ll do that after I’m set free?” She flashed a wine-stained grin at me.

“I am willing to pay for any information that will help me find Rochester.”

“I’ll wager yer willin’ to pay, but while yer willin’ to pay, I’m rottin’ in jail, ain’t I? Ya keep tellin’ me what ya want, but if I give ya everythin’ that ya want then I don’t got nothin’, and I’m sure to be carted off to Tyburn. So from now on, ya just think about all the things ya want of me, and I’ll be ’appy to ’and ’em over once I walk outta Newgate.”

“Kate,” I said, feeling my body clench with anger, “I don’t think you understand how important this is.” I thought about Wild’s interest in my inquiry, and his efforts to drag me into Kate’s trial. There had to be some link between these two matters, but I knew not what it was. Rochester was the elusive figure behind my father’s death, and he had some connection with Wild. I believed that if only I could learn more of it, I would understand many of the mysteries that plagued me.

Kate, however, showed no interest in my concerns. “I care nothin’ for yer troubles, and I know full well that it’s Wild what’s be’ind mine. And I know there’s nothin’ with Wild and Roch’ster, so there’s nothin’ ya can say or do to Roch’ster to ’elp me.”

I attempted to reason with her for near another quarter hour, but she would not budge. I thought of evicting her from the cell I had provided, but that could do me no good. So I left her, determined to try again and determined to think of something that would offer me the leverage to make her speak.

THE NEXT DAY I received a message to meet Virgil Cowper at Jonathan’s. I arrived a quarter of an hour before our planned meeting time, but found him at a table by himself, huddled over a dish of coffee.

“What have you found?” I asked, sitting across from him.

He hardly even looked at me. “There is no evidence that Samuel Lienzo ever subscribed to any South Sea issues.”

I cannot claim this information greatly surprised me. Considering what I knew of my father’s stance about the Company and the Bank of England, I should be surprised to learn he had been a stock-holder.

“However,” he continued, “Mr. Balfour is another case altogether. He had owned stock worth more than twenty thousand pounds.”

I knew not how successful a businessman Balfour had been, but twenty thousand pounds was an astronomical amount to invest in but a single fund. And if that fund should prove ruined, I should think nearly any investor should prove ruined too.

“You said had owned,” I thought aloud. “He did not own, then, at the time of his death?”

“I cannot comment on the time of his death, but the records show that Mr. Balfour bought his stock near two years ago and sold it again fourteen months later—about ten months ago. The stock rose not insignificantly in that time, and he made himself a handsome profit.”

If Balfour had sold his stock ten months ago, then his transaction with the South Sea Company had come and gone ten months before his death. How, then, could his supposed self-murder be linked to the Company?

“To whom did he sell?” I inquired.

“Why, he sold back to the Company, sir,” Cowper cheerfully informed me.

That was hard luck, for had he sold to another individual, I could trace that person. Once again the trail ended with the Company, and once again, I could think of no next step.

“I did come across another name,” Cowper then informed me. He smiled crookedly, like a thief upon the street offering to sell a costly handkerchief cheap.

“Another name?”

“Yes. Related to one of the names you gave me.”

“And what name is that?”

He ran his index finger along the bridge of his nose. “It will cost you another five pounds.”

“And what if this name means nothing to me?”

“Then you have wasted your five pounds, I should think.”

I shook my head, but I counted out the coins all the same.

Cowper quickly pocketed them. “The name I came across is also Lienzo. Miriam Lienzo—address listed as Broad Court, Dukes Place.”

I worked my jaw over nothing. “That is the only Lienzo you found?”

“The only one.”

I could not even take the time to consider what it meant that Miriam owned South Sea stock. With Cowper here, I needed to be sure about my father and Balfour.

“Is there another possibility?” I inquired. “About the other name, Samuel Lienzo?”

“What sort of possibility?” He affected a laugh and then stared without interest at his coffee.

I thought on how I could word my idea. “That he thought he had stock when he did not.”

“I’m sure I do not understand you,” Cowper said. He moved to drink from the dish, but he could not bring himself to place it to his lips.

“Then let me be more precise. Is there a possibility that he owned forged South Sea issues?”

“There is no possibility,” he said hastily. “Now, if you will excuse me.” He began to stand.

I was not prepared to let him depart. I reached out, grabbed his shoulder, and forced him back down. Perhaps I did so a bit too roughly. He grimaced with discomfort as I shoved him onto his bench. “Do not toy with me, Mr. Cowper. What do you know?”

He sighed and pretended to be unimpressed with my bellicose manner. “There have been rumors around South Sea House, but nothing specific. Please, Mr. Weaver, I could lose my position for even speculating that such things might exist. I wish to speak no more about it. Do you not understand the risks I take by telling you as much as I have?”

“Do you know anything of a Mr. Martin Rochester?” I demanded.

His face now turned bright red. “I told you, sir, that I would not discuss the matter.”

I rejoiced inwardly, for Cowper had just inadvertently given me far more information than I could have hoped for: in his mind, it seemed, forged stock and Martin Rochester were related concerns. “What amount could entice you to change your mind?”

“Not any amount.” He stood up and made his way from the coffeehouse.

I sat there for some moments, staring at the pulse of the crowd around me, uncertain of how to proceed. Could the South Sea Company have killed old Balfour to regain its twenty thousand pounds? Clearly not, for I now had learned that he had sold the stock back to the Company itself. More than that, if their dealings were as massive as my uncle suggested, measured in the millions, then twenty thousand pounds were as nothing to so grand an institution. Could it be that there was something else here—something I had overlooked? What if their motivation was not the money, but the ruin itself? I had assumed all along that old Balfour had been killed for money while my father had been killed for another reason—a reason related to the theft of old Balfour’s estate. Now it appeared that those assumptions were wrong—or at the very least dubious.

My thoughts were then interrupted by one of the house boys who came through crying out the name of a gentleman for whom he had a message. I bethought myself of a wonderful idea, and immediately called for a paper and pen and wrote out a brief note. I then summoned the boy over and slipped a few pence into his hand.

“Call out for this in a quarter of an hour,” I told him. “If no one claims it, tear it up.”

“Certainly, Mr. Weaver.” He flashed a silly grin and began to trot off.

I grabbed his arm. Not hard, but just enough to make him stop. “How do you know my name?” I asked, freeing him from my grip. I had no wish to make him feel threatened.

“You’re a famous person, sir,” he announced, pleased with his knowledge. “A boxer, sir.”

“Are you not a little young to have seen me fight?” I inquired, half to myself.

“I never saw you fight, but I heard about you. And then you was pointed out to me.”

My face betrayed nothing. “Who pointed me out?”

“Mr. Nathan Adelman, sir. He asked me to let him know if I saw you. Though he had no message for you.” His voice trailed off, for the first time, I think, suspecting that Adelman might not have wished him to say anything to me. He covered up the damage he had done by showing me another grin.

I gave him a few more pence. “For your trouble,” I said, hoping my money would dissuade him from thinking too hard on his blunder.

The boy ran off, giving me some time to think of what he had said. Adelman wished to know if I made my way to Jonathan’s. I could not suppose there was anything too sinister in that. One thing I had come to believe was that Adelman told the truth when he said that even men who had nothing to hide would wish to impede my inquiry. I knew not if Bloathwait’s suspicions, like my father’s, of false South Sea stock were true or not, but I did know that even the rumor of it would be horribly damaging to the Company—so much so that Virgil Cowper had been afraid even to listen to talk of such a thing.

In a quarter of an hour, as promised, the boy reappeared, ringing his bell loudly. “Mr. Martin Rochester,” he bellowed. “Message for Mr. Martin Rochester.”

I thought it something of a stroke of brilliance on my part. I had no expectation that Rochester would be here, that he would reveal himself so easily—he had done far too much to keep himself hidden for that, but I thought this display might shake something loose. And I was correct.

I cannot say that all conversation stopped. Indeed, many conversations continued oblivious to the boy’s cry. But some stopped. I watched as men deep in argument ceased speaking in mid-sentence and looked up, mouths still open like befuddled cattle. I saw men whispering, men scratching their heads, men scanning the room, looking to see if anyone answered the call. The boy strolled through the room and could not have received more attention if he had been the finest actress of the stage, come to strut naked through a gentleman’s club.

The boy made a complete pass, and then shrugged and returned to his duties. Slowly, the jobbers who had been disturbed by my experiment returned to their other interests, but within a few minutes I saw a man stand and begin to walk after the boy.

It was Miriam’s lover, Philip Deloney.

I watched him exchange a few words with the boy and then leave. I stood up and walked over to the boy, who was busy collecting dirtied dishes from tables.

“Did that man say what he wanted?”

“He wanted to know who sent that message, Mr. Weaver.”

“And what did you tell him?”

“I told him you did, sir.”

I laughed softly. Why not tell him? “What did he say?”

“He asked to see it, but I told him I’d already torn it to bits, just like you said.”

I could not fault the boy his honesty. I thanked him and made my way out of Jonathan’s.

A strong wind struck me as I opened the door and headed into the Alley. What interest could Deloney have with Martin Rochester? Was it simply coincidence that he had an intimacy with Miriam and also involved himself with the man I believed responsible for my father’s death? I could not answer that question with any certainty. But I knew that I could no longer consider my interest in my cousin Miriam a distraction from my work. I could no longer doubt that her lover somehow had a connection to the death of my father.

I WANDERED UNTIL I was close to Grub Street, where the bookseller, Mrs. Nahum Bryce, had told me I should find the shop belonging to Christopher Hodge, who had published my father’s pamphlets. At Grub Street I stepped into a public house to inquire the location of Hodge’s business, but the tapman there only shook his head.

“Shop’s gone, it is,” he said. “An’ Hodge went with it. Fire, it was—terrible one what killed him and pretty badly scorched a couple of ’prentice boys with ’im. Coulda been much worse, I reckon, but at least it happened when he’d given most everyone a night off.”

“A fire,” I repeated. “When?”

The tapman looked up, trying to recall. “I’m thinking three, four months now,” he speculated.

I thanked him and made my way to Moor Lane, where I once again called upon Mr. Bryce’s widow. She emerged from the back of his shop, a quiver in the corners of her mouth betraying some small amusement upon seeing me again. I requested a private audience, and she escorted me through the back to a small parlor of sorts, where I sat upon an aging and somewhat threadbare settee. She took an armchair across from me and instructed one of the apprentices to bring us tea.

“How may I be of service to you, sir?” Mrs. Bryce asked me.

“I wish to inquire of some information you gave me that I found most odd. You see, I find it very strange that you would advise me to seek out a Mr. Christopher Hodge of Grub Street when Mr. Hodge’s shop, along with Mr. Hodge, appears to have burned down some months ago.”

Mrs. Bryce’s mouth opened and closed several times, as she attempted to form some thought. “You astonish me,” she began at last. “And it pains me, sir, for you to believe that I should in some way deceive you. Were I a man, I might call you out for such an error; as I am a woman, I must understand that you do not know me, and any insult you offer me is an insult to a person you think me to be—a person who does not exist.”

“I stand ready to offer you my apology if I have in some way misjudged you.”

“I never seek an apology, I assure you. Only that you should not be convinced of a falsehood. As I recall, sir, when you inquired of the publisher of Mr. Lienzo’s pamphlets, I mentioned Christopher Hodge, for he had, indeed, sent to press some writings of Mr. Lienzo’s. I know much about Mr. Hodge’s doings, for he was a great friend of my husband’s and of mine. Indeed, after Mr. Bryce’s death, Mr. Hodge provided me with a great deal of assistance in running this business. I was not ignorant of his death, for it touched upon me very deeply. But as to my failing to inform you of Kit Hodge’s passing, I need only remind you that you interrupted my narrative to ask me about Mr. Deloney, and you then abruptly rushed off. If I omitted any details you may have sought, you must consider that the fault rests with you, sir, for having departed in such a haste.”

I stood and bowed. “You are just in your censure, Mrs. Bryce. I have been hasty.” I returned to my seat.

“It is no matter. As I say, I only wished for matters to be clear in your mind. Although,” she said, and I could see from the grin she attempted to suppress, that she was perhaps about to say something that might amuse her, “I find this accusation of deception most interesting. For it occurs to me that Mr. Deloney returned to my store just yesterday, and I asked him if he had been contacted by you, sir. When I told him your name, he assured me that he had never gone to school with you, and he then abused you with some names I shall never repeat. So, you see, sir, from my point of view, it appears very much as though you have been deceiving me.”

I could do nothing but laugh, and heartily too. I rose again to my feet and bowed at Mrs. Bryce. “You have corrected me, madam, and I thank you.”

She only returned her charming widow’s smile. “I must say your response astonishes me. And I should very much like to hear more why you felt compelled to deceive me on the score of your relationship with Mr. Deloney.”

“Mrs. Bryce,” I began, “I shall be honest with you, but I hope you will forgive me if I am circumspect as well. I have been hired to determine if there was something other than accidental in the death of Samuel Lienzo, and I have come to suspect that there may indeed be, and that his death may be related to information he had obtained—information he wished to publish in a pamphlet. I held, and lost, a manuscript copy of the pamphlet, and I wished to know if Mr. Lienzo had attempted to publish a copy of it before his death. If I was deceptive, or if I suspected you of deception, it is only because this inquiry has imparted upon me the need to be both discreet and suspicious.”

Mrs. Bryce gasped. “Do you mean to say,” she began, “that you think Mr. Deloney is somehow involved in all of this?”

I had no desire to speak of my suspicions, so I only told the bookseller that my suspicion of Mr. Deloney had proved misguided.

“The fire that burned down Mr. Hodge’s shop,” I pressed on. “As you knew him, I cannot but wonder if you were in any way suspicious of this blaze.”

Mrs. Bryce shook her head. “I was not. As much as his death pained me, we cannot look for intent in all disasters. I thought nothing more of it than its sadness. Do you mean to suggest, sir, that you believe his shop was burned and he was murdered in order to prevent the publication of Lienzo’s pamphlet? Why, the very notion is fantastical.”

“I should have thought much the same,” I told her, “until very recently. I do not say I believe these allegations to be true, madam, but I believe them to be at least possible.”

“I suppose the first step must be to determine whether he had the pamphlet in his possession at the time the shop burned. As it happens, I took over his affairs after his death. He had stipulated as much in his will. Most of his materials were destroyed, but some of his record books remain. If you’d like, we can look through these.”

I thanked Mrs. Bryce and together we went to her study, where she presented to me a half-dozen volumes of ledger books that smelled of charring and mildew. Hodge had written in them in a dense but legible hand, and for the second time in a very short period I found myself feeling uneasy at studying the scribblings of a man whose life had been, in all probability, taken from him. Together we pored over the books for two hours, drinking tea as Mrs. Bryce explained to me notations and talked about particular works—if they had done well or poorly, if her husband had liked them or not. Finally, after we had been forced to strike several candles against the growing darkness, Mrs. Bryce found a line in one of the books: “Lienzo—conspiracy/paper.”

I stared at it. “It seems compelling evidence,” I said quietly.

Mrs. Bryce took her time responding. “It doesn’t prove anyone killed Mr. Hodge,” she said at last, “but all the same, I would appreciate it if you no longer frequented my shop.”