A Conspiracy of Paper

TWENTY-SIX

WHEN I RETURNED to my uncle’s house I found that old Isaac, the servant, awaited my return with a large package just delivered for me.

“Who is it from?” I asked Isaac.

He shook his head. “The boy who brought it wouldn’t say, sir. He gave it to me, held out his hand for a coin, and left without answering any questions.”

I hesitated for a moment, for I found something frightening in secret messages, and I did not like the idea of the players in this game seeking me out in my uncle’s home.

While I inspected the box, Miriam entered the room and greeted me casually. The look on my face gave her pause, however. “Does something trouble you?” I felt uncomfortable under the heat of her gaze upon my bruised eye, but at least she seemed to have forgotten her earlier coolness, and that was perhaps enough for me.

I showed her the bundle. She merely shrugged. “Open it,” she said.

I sucked in my breath and began to untie the packaging. Miriam looked on curiously as I opened it and found inside the most remarkable contents. It was a costume and a ticket to a masquerade ball to be held that evening at the Haymarket. A note affixed to the invitation read:

Sir,

You are encouraged to attend this ball of Mr. Heidegger’s tonight, where many of the questions you seek will be answered. In a place where all are disguised, one may feel free to speak openly. I look forward to our meeting in a place where I hope to prove myself,

A friend.

Miriam attempted to read the note, but I quickly folded it and hid it from her view.

“How intriguing,” Miriam noted. “It’s rather like a romance.”

“Rather too much like one,” I noted as I removed the costume. Perhaps this secret contact hoped to throw suspicion off me by casting me in the most obvious light, for the costume provided was that of a Tudesco peddler. The clothes were tattered robes accompanied by a floppy hat and a collection of inconsequential trinkets affixed to a tray. The mask covered the top of my face only, with eye-holes over two tiny, evil-looking eyes perched above a grotesquely huge false nose. Below and above the mask were ample quantities of false red hair to make an unruly cover over my own hair as well as to disguise the bottom of my face with an impenetrable thicket of false beard.

“Someone,” I noted, “has a grotesque sense of humor.”

“Does that help you determine who sent the costume?”

“Not particularly,” I mused, “unless it was my friend Elias.”

“Will you go?” Miriam asked me. She sounded excited, as though she found the idea of this intrigue thrilling—and like a romance, without any true risk of danger.

“Oh, I should think so,” I said.

But I did not wish to go according to the terms of my anonymous patron. I therefore sent for Elias, who was kind enough to exit himself from a rehearsal of his play to attend me at Broad Court.

Miriam and I sat in the parlor, though she hardly spoke to me. I remained in contemplation while she read a book of verse. Several times I believed she had been upon the cusp of speaking to me, but she held herself back. I wished she would tell me what was upon her mind, but my own thoughts were so occupied with the matter at hand that I could hardly think of how to frame my question. So I said nothing until Isaac brought Elias into the room. I could see from the look upon his face that he was poised to produce some quip at the expense of my people, but he held his tongue upon seeing Miriam, whose beauty stopped him in midbreath.

“Weaver,” he said, “I see you have been wise in not speaking of your cousin’s loveliness, for such treasures must be kept in secret, lest they be stolen.” He bowed deeply to Miriam.

“But he has not kept you a secret, sir,” Miriam replied, “for he has told me of his great and trusted friend Elias, on whom he depends more than any man alive.”

Elias bowed again, beaming with pride.

Miriam grinned with pleasure. “He has also told me that his great friend is a libertine who will tell any lie that he might undo innocence.”

“Good God, Weaver!”

She laughed. “Perhaps he said no such thing, and I merely draw my own conclusions.”

“Madam, you misunderstand me,” Elias began desperately.

“Elias,” I snapped, “we have urgent business, and time is not our ally.”

A waggish smile washed over Elias’s face. “What has developed, my less-than-jovial Jew?”

Under the circumstances I thought it best that Miriam leave the room; she knew nothing of these matters, and I had no wish to introduce her to my intrigues.

Once Miriam left, I showed Elias the note and invitation. “What know you of these balls?”

“You cannot be serious,” he said. “Heidegger’s masquerades are the very pink of the fashion. I should be ashamed of myself if I did not attend them regularly. Only the most fashionable sort can count on procuring an invitation.” With that he produced a pair of tickets from his pocketbook. “I shall attend tonight, accompanied by Miss Lucy Daston, an ambitious young lady with a small but nevertheless crucial role in a comedy soon to take Drury Lane by surprise.”

“You will indeed be there,” I said with a smile, “but instead of a beautiful actress, I think you would have a far superior time escorting a more manful companion.” I grinned at him. “And I have the very costume for you.” I showed him the disguise that came with the invitation.

Elias stared in horror. “Gad, Weaver, surely you mock me. Can you expect me to give up my evening with fair Lucy in order to wander about Heidegger’s dressed as a bearded mendicant? I shall never get this close to such a beauty again; it seems as though every time I take a liking to an actress she disappears, only to become one of Jonathan Wild’s whores. And you do not seem to understand the effect my failure to bed this wench will have on my constitution.”

I placed an arm about his shoulder. “I must say I am delighted with you. You come here with a ticket and, I am confident, a costume I might borrow. I think we shall have a splendid time.”

Elias picked up the costume and stared at the mask. “It is true that Lucy lacks your wit,” he said mournfully, “but I must say that you are a devilish harsh companion. I have no other friends who ask me to do such things.”

“And that is why you spend your time with me.” I grinned.

“Will your uncle reward me for my efforts when we capture the murderous fiend?”

“I am certain. If you were not already to be rich of the proceeds of your play, your help in this matter would make you a rich man.”

“Splendid!” Elias chirped. “Now, let us talk about this widow cousin of yours.”

MASQUERADES, AS MY READER will know well, were at the very height of their popularity at the time of this history, but until one has actually attended such a gathering, its precise nature cannot be imagined fully. Think of a large, gorgeously decorated space, exquisite music playing, delectable foods passed about in abundance, and hundreds of the most absurdly dressed men and women intermixing freely. Anonymity made women bold and men bolder, and the hiding of one’s face left one free to expose parts of one’s mind and body normally left concealed in public.

To complement the disguise of the costume, no one spoke in his true voice, but obscured it with the masquerade squeak. Thus, to envision the assembly, think only of the Haymarket full of shrill and squawking Pans and milkmaids, devils and shepherdesses, and of course countless black, hooded dominos—the ideal costume for men who enjoyed the hunt of the masquerade but lacked the imagination, desire, or sense of humor to dress as a goatherd, harlequin, friar, or any of the characters in vogue. While the string band played delightful tunes from Italy, these identical blackened figures—enshrouded in shapeless robes, faces covered with masks that hid the visage above the nose—moved about the room as wolves circling a wounded hart.

In such a black disguise I, too, moved about. I had originally thought to borrow Elias’s costume—with an appropriate sense of self, my friend had planned on attending dressed as Jove, and we traveled to his lodgings, where I found that the Olympian’s robes fit too snug upon me, so we set out to procure a masquerade domino.

Elias took me to a tailor with whom he was friendly—that is to say, he currently owed him no money—and whose shop was well known to masqueraders. Even as we entered we saw a pair of gentlemen purchasing dominos. And as we engaged upon the errand, I made an effort to inform Elias of all I had recently discovered—most distressingly, the news that old Balfour had once owned twenty thousand pounds’ worth of South Sea stock.

“No wonder he was ruined,” he said, as I slipped a black domino over me and adjusted the hood. “To lose so much. Inconceivable.”

I put the mask upon my face, and looked in the mirror. I looked like a great black apparition. “But according to my man at South Sea House, Balfour sold the stock long before his death.”

Elias fiddled with the sleeves in his fastidious way. “Could your man not inform you to whom he sold?”

“He sold to no one,” I said, as I slipped the domino off. “He sold back to the Company.”

I stepped forward from the secluded area to purchase the costume. Elias had grown red in the face, as though he could not stand to breathe. I knew he wished to tell me something in private, but he had to wait until I had paid for my costume and the tailor had wrapped it for me. After these excruciating minutes had passed, we stepped out in the street, and afforded privacy by noise and distraction, Elias let forth a long breath.

“Have you no idea how that sounds, Weaver? You cannot just sell back to the Company. Stock is not a trinket that you can return to the shop.”

“If Cowper wished to sell me misinformation, would he not have sold me believable misinformation?”

“You did believe it,” he pointed out, pushing his way past a slowmoving gathering of old ladies. “But I take your point. Perhaps what he wished was to make you suspicious.”

“I shall go mad,” I announced, “if I must always suspect people of telling me lies so that I shall know they are lying. What ever happened to telling a man lies he meant a man to believe?”

“The problem with you, Weaver,” Elias announced, “is that you are too invested in the values of the past.”

After dining and taking a bottle of wine, we arrived at the masquerade, and I spent much of the evening drifting about, sometimes speaking to Elias, but mainly keeping my distance, so that it would not be obvious that the begging Jew was with me—or even that he had come with help should he need it. I was nevertheless shocked when, near enough to Elias to hear his conversation, yet inconspicuously acquiring a drink of wine from a serving boy, I saw a woman with a stunning shape, dressed as some Roman goddess or other, approach Elias, and from behind her mask, which entirely obscured her face, squeaked, “Do you know me?”

When Elias squeaked the same response in reply, the goddess said, “I should think I do, Cousin. I must say, your costume is the talk of the ball.”

Unable to contain myself, I stepped forward and grabbed her by her arm. “Good Lord, Miriam,” I whispered in my own voice. “What is it you do here?”

It took her but a moment to sort out the confusion. “You surprise me,” she said, peering from one side of my hood to the other, as if to find some fissure that should allow her to see my face. “Why did you give away so original a costume?”

I ignored the question. “Is my uncle aware that you attend such events?” I asked evenly.

She laughed it off, though I could see I had insulted her. “Oh, he works late at his warehouse tonight, you know. And Mrs. Lienzo is always asleep long before I must leave the house.”

“Have you eaten the food?” I asked her.

Her eyes sparkled underneath her mask. “You are certainly preposterous, Benjamin. What do you care if I keep the dietary laws? They are nothing to you.”

“You must go home,” I said. “This ball is no place for a lady.”

“No place for a lady? Every fashionable lady in town is in attendance.”

Elias leaned forward, sticking his enormous orange false beard between us. “She’s got you there, Weaver.”

The string band struck up with a sprightly tune, and shocking myself as much as Miriam, I set a hand upon my cousin’s elbow, and without so much as asking for her permission, I guided her to the dance floor. I astonished myself, I say, because I was no accomplished dancer—indeed, even as I approached the dozens of couples, already turning about the floor with absolute grace, my throat tightened with apprehension. This business of dancing belonged to the genteel, not to a man of action such as myself. I hoped to show Miriam that I was not without some polite skills, but I feared I would show her the very reverse.

I comforted myself with the thought that I did have some experience behind me. When I had fought under Mr. Yardley’s protection, he insisted that his boxers take dancing lessons, for he believed that from dancing one learned a kind of agility that invariably served even the most powerful man in the ring. “The strongest country blockhead you find,” he had said, “even if he could tear you in half, shall never be able to touch you if you can but cut capers ’round him.”

I could not be certain of Miriam’s response to my rather abrupt decision to serve as her partner, for her mask covered almost all of her face, but her lips parted with surprise, and speechlessly we commenced our movements about the floor. I felt a bit lumbering and oafish, and I could tell that Miriam struggled not to stumble upon my graceless motions, but she nevertheless followed my lead, and if I was any judge of these things, enjoyed herself somewhat.

“You know,” she said at last, a grin suspended beneath her mask, “that I am already engaged to a dancing partner for this night. You have committed a great social affront.”

“We shall see if he challenges me,” I grumbled, attempting to maintain my balance. “Who is this dancing partner of yours?” I asked after a moment, though I knew the answer full well.

“Is that your concern, Cousin?”

“I think it is.”

“I thought you wished to dance with me so we might have a gay time. Do you plan to spoil that by playing the father with me?”

“I would never choose to spoil a gay time,” I said, nearly colliding with a plump lady of Arabia, “but is it not my responsibility as a man and a kinsman to look after your well-being?”

“My being has never been more well,” she assured me. “It is a rare thing I am allowed to put to use the dancing skills. And what could be more delightful than the variety of the masquerade?”

I pressed onward, knowing I should spoil this dance by doing so. “Do you not risk your honor, as well as your family’s, by coming here without my uncle’s knowledge, consorting with men he knows not who?”

Miriam’s jaw tightened. She had wished to make banter, to play the free woman unconcerned with what the world thinks, and I was determined to shatter this illusion. I had angered her, but I truly feared for her reputation. From what Elias told me of this Deloney rascal she consorted with, I could not even be certain that her honor remained unbesieged. I suspected that Deloney was somewhere at the ball, and I heartily wished that he should confront me for dancing with his partner. In this way I should show Miriam that a man such as myself should protect her with honor, and the pretty talk of a spark was but a bubble.

At last she spoke. “Would you lecture me on disobedience? You left your family, almost forever, when you were younger than I. You believed yourself capable of choosing your own way in the world. You would deny me that same choice?”

I found her so perplexing it was all I could do to continue the dance. “You are being absurd. You are a lady, and cannot assume that the avenues open to a man are open to you. A man may do many things, take many risks, that a lady must never even consider. It is monstrous strange that you should even think of taking the same liberties I did.”

“So because more liberties are denied me, I should presume to take for myself even fewer?” Miriam pushed away, breaking from the dance floor in the midst of the minuet. Her anger sparked the interest of the crowd, and as I rushed after her, I did all I could to obscure our exit from the gathering. Ignoring the knot of tension that twisted in my stomach, I caught up to her as she hurried along, her Roman goddess robes rustling as she went, and led her through a maze of men identically dressed in black dominos. We emerged close to one of the large punch bowls, and by that point some other reveler had certainly behaved either badly or comically enough to create a new diversion, freeing us from the ignominy of public spectacle.

“Miriam,” I began, uncertain what to say after that. Her eyes, behind her mask, looked away, but I pressed onward. “Miriam, surely you understand that I am only concerned for your safety.”

Her eyes softened as she began to relent. “I understand your motivations entirely, but I do not think that you understand mine. Do you not know what a masquerade ball means to a woman? I can be bold and forward and coquettish, or masculine and learned in my ideas—and no one knows who I am. My reputation will not suffer. Where else could I go to indulge these freedoms and hope to escape with my name unblemished?”

I could not but see the reason of her argument, but I had no wish to admit as much. Fortunately my response was cut short by the arrival of a gentleman dressed in a Venetian-style costume, featuring a birdlike mask with an elongated beak, and a suit of varicolored robes. “Miriam?” he asked in the masquerade squeak.

Miriam remained motionless, uncertain how to respond. So I spoke for her. “The lady is occupied at present,” I told this man in a clipped tone. Neither the mask nor the squeak concealed him from me. I recognized him as Deloney, though he surely did not recognize me.

“I say!” he exclaimed in his natural voice. “You are a rude enough fellow behind that mask, but I’ll wager that if I could see your face you would not be so free with your insults.”

I took a step forward and leaned toward him, clutching the beak of his mask in my hand. “Why, you know me, Deloney,” I whispered. “My name is Benjamin Weaver, and I am available to answer your commands at any time. I trust you will repay my loan before you call me to a duel. One would not want to fight with a debt of honor upon his conscience.”

He staggered backward, as though my challenge had been an actual violence upon him. I could hardly feel comforted by Miriam’s having this weakling for an escort. “Come,” I said to her. “I shall put you in a hackney and send you home.”

She cast a glance at this fellow, whose bird mask now hung in shame, but they exchanged no words. We exited the Haymarket, and I directed a footman to procure for us a hackney, and while he did so we stood in silence until the coach rode up and the footman we had sent jumped off.

Miriam walked toward the door, and then turned to me. “I had come hoping to feel emboldened, but I only feel shamed.”

I shook my head. “The next time you wish for an adventure, I hope you will come speak to me. We shall arrange something that you will find delightful but will involve no unnecessary intrigues.”

I thought for a moment that I had won her over—that she understood and respected my concern—but when she looked up, I saw none of these things. Only anger.

“You misunderstand my shame. I would have liked to have trusted you,” she said. “I would have liked to believe you cared something of my safety and my reputation.”

I shook my head. I could not understand her, and I could not even understand my confusion. I thought hard on what I had said, what I had done. I had given her reasons to think me bold and overbearing, but not untrustworthy. “What do you say?”

“I know what you are about,” she said, just above a whisper. Through her mask I saw voluptuous tears welling in her eyes. “I know why you are in Mr. Lienzo’s house, and I know the nature of your inquiry. Is he so jealous of the insurance money from Aaron’s lost ship—money he has refused to give me, though it is in truth, if not in law, mine? Ruin me if you wish, and collect your little reward for doing it. I cannot pretend any longer to find you anything but a villain.” With that she rushed into her coach and ordered the driver to ride.

I did not even think to chase after her. I stood still in a kind of foolish stupor, wondering what I had said and done, wondering what her words could mean.

I could indulge in this wonderment only a short while, for I had left Elias, dressed as he was in his Jew costume, awaiting someone who believed he was me. I pushed Miriam from my thoughts and rushed back in.

Elias had not been molested in my absence. I found him tolerably well, if a bit overly jolly, taking refreshment at the punch bowl.

“Ah, there you are,” he chirped. “I don’t think I was aware of what a truly terrible dancer you are, but I believe I like your cousin. She’s a girl of some spirit.”

“That is the trouble,” I muttered and separated from him again, hoping that whoever had invited me to the ball would make himself known soon. I had grown weary of costumes and dances.

Elias ventured into a crowd of nymphs, but I was careful never to let my friend out of my sight. While I found myself disgusted with the gawking and laughing of the other masqueraders as they pointed to his costume with delight, I could not but be grateful the disguise was as conspicuous as it was, for it was never long out of my view. Elias very much enjoyed the notoriety the Jewish peddler costume afforded him, and danced companionably with an assortment of Chloes, Phyllises, Phoebes, and Dorindas. For my part I kept my distance, concerned only to watch Elias and those in his vicinity. Aiming to keep myself unoccupied, I was astonished to discover how many ladies approached me with an inquisitive squeak, asking if they knew me. And while I have certainly been guilty of vanity in my days, it was hard to take pride of one’s appearance when dressed in a formless black robe and a mask that covered all of one’s face. Nevertheless, these masked ladies were aggressive, and I found that responding to the “Do I know you?” introduction with “I do not believe so, madam,” only produced further unwelcome conversation. I soon discovered that “Certainly not!” did my business admirably, and I was free to watch Elias’s feet, as well as his hands, roam nimbly about the dance floor.

The night wore on, and the hall began to thin out, and I soon wondered if our enemies had somehow detected our ruse, or if our allies had been too frightened to make the connection they had thought to make. Then, as I watched Elias bow a farewell to a striking sultana, I saw four domino-clad men approach him and, after a moment of discussion, beckon him to join them. I must say that while Elias was somewhat unsuited in constitution for combat between men of grit, he knew to keep his head about him, and he demonstrated an implicit trust in my vigilance. Without straining his neck to see if I observed what transpired, Elias nodded to the men and followed along.

I was dismayed to see that they escorted him with two behind and two before, for it would make it hard for me to get to Elias should the confrontation turn vicious. Nevertheless, as inconspicuously as I could, I followed along. They led him out of the ballroom and into a hallway. Hanging back, I turned the corner to see that they were already gone, but I surmised that they had taken a staircase, which I then quietly, though with stealth, ascended. Within a moment I was not far behind these men as they spiraled upward in silence. I, too, had to be entirely silent, for if they but looked down they would see me in pursuit.

At what I believed to be the uppermost floor they removed themselves down a dark hallway. A few candles flickered, producing a confusing maze of darkness and shadow. I struggled to proceed quietly while keeping up with the rapidly advancing men ahead of me, all but invisible in the poorly lit halls. But if the dominos were indistinguishable from the shadows, Elias’s red beard glowed dimly in the candlelight.

Finally they stopped in a room at the end of the hallway. Thinking themselves alone, they did not bother to close the door, and I remained unobserved just outside.

The men in dominos circled around Elias. “We’ve a message for you,” one of them said, in a familiar-sounding country accent.

“From whom?” Elias asked. I smiled at his mangled imitation of my voice.

The one who had spoken before took a step closer to Elias. “From them what wants yer to mind yer own business,” he said. And with a fluid motion he picked up a thick, rounded stick that leaned against the wall and pushed the blunt end hard into Elias’s stomach.

My good friend collapsed like a cut sail, but his helplessness deterred the villains not at all. Soon they had sticks in their hands, and before I could reach Elias they had begun to beat mercilessly about his back and sides. I suppose they believed him to be Benjamin Weaver and felt they must incapacitate the experienced pugilist before he could respond. I cared not a fig, however, and only saw that my friend whose safety I had jeopardized was suffering prodigiously.

I threw off my mask, for the time to forsake disguise was upon me. Before my presence was even detected I had grabbed one of the larger scoundrels by the back of his neck and shoved him face-first into the exposed brick of the wall. This blow took care of him effectively, but now the three remaining men realized their error and hesitantly faced me with their sticks at the ready.

“Who sent you?” I demanded.

“Those you’ve made angry,” one of them said. Perhaps seeing me prepared for combat, with their companion insensible and bleeding upon the floor, they were hesitant to take me on. And I knew this hesitation gave me as much of an advantage as I could expect of three armed men. I was, as always, armed myself. I had no hangar about me, for a sword would have been difficult to carry under the costume, but I had my pistol by my side. Yet, with one shot, and three adversaries, I thought it foolish to brandish the firearm, and I always believed that the pistol was the weapon of last resort. I also had no desire to kill anyone if I could avoid doing so. With the case against Kate Cole to be tried in a matter of weeks, I wished more than anything to remain out of the public eye.

I crouched down quickly and grabbed the stick belonging to the man I had felled, keeping my eyes on my assailants at all times. This movement dissolved the surprise of my manifestation and, in an effort to take back the advantage, one of the men took his stick and hit the groaning Elias hard about the knee. I fear I was as predictable as he had hoped, and stepped in to stop further beating. With my stick raised in my left hand, I threw a hard punch with my right to the man’s head, and it connected most satisfyingly, but I soon felt the harsh blows of heavy wood about my back. These blows preyed upon a weakness caused by Jonathan Wild’s men, and I went black for a moment. In my confusion, I lost my stick, but recovered my senses before I hit the ground. Holding out a hand to the wall to steady myself, I saw that the man I had hit sat on the floor, rubbing his skull, and that he had let go of his weapon.

With an abrupt jerk, I grabbed his stick and swung it wildly at the two remaining rascals. I succeeded in scattering them away from Elias, but I soon realized my mistake; before, they had been close together, and I might have struck one quickly and then evened the odds. Instead they now had the advantage, for one could hit me from behind while the other took me on directly.

I shifted my position, hoping to place myself in a corner, for while it would give me no chance to exit, it would limit my enemies’ paths of approach. This I did, and saw that I faced more danger than I had realized, for the man I had struck was now on his feet, and in the light of the moon from the window behind him, I saw that he held a pistol aimed toward me.

“Drop the cudgel, Jew,” he spat, “or you’re pig meat for sure.”

This man clearly misunderstood me if he thought this tack would prove persuasive. With the stick still in my left hand, I reached into my costume for my own pistol, which I pulled out in a fluid motion. In the dark of the room I could see the villain’s firearm flash, and, acting upon pure animal instinct, I fired my own. It was not an irrational action, but I saw immediately that it had been unnecessary, for his pistol had misfired and burst into flame in his hand. He let out a scream, as much of anger as of pain, and dropped the gun just as the ball from mine struck him slightly below the shoulder, forcing him backward, as though he had been tackled. The weight of the blow pressed him hard against the window, and he penetrated the fragile and, I suspect, already cracked glass. I could not see what happened, but as I turned to face my other enemies I heard him shriek with terror as he slid down the roof and dropped to the ground no small distance below.

When I turned, I saw that my attackers had fled, leaving behind the man I had rendered unconscious. I thought to pursue them, but I knew my first duty was Elias, who lay on the floor motionless. I grabbed one of the only candles from a sconce and held it to Elias’s face. I could see no visible breaks in the skin, and he was clearly breathing, if in a hoarse and labored manner. I turned him over to see that his eyes were open and he winced in pain. “Phlebotomize me,” he whispered with a sickly grin. “But first, catch those scoundrels.”

I trusted in Elias’s knowledge as a surgeon, and indeed his womanish valor, not to send me away if his life was in any real danger, so I grabbed a cudgel and flew down the stairs, finding no evidence of my attackers.

Outside, a crowd had gathered about the body of the man who had fallen, and I forced my way through to see if he were still alive. He was not. He lay, his face to one side, blood trickling from his mouth as well as from the wound I had inflicted upon him. In the attitude of death his looks were quite changed, but I knew the man. I recognized him. It was he who had attacked me on Cecil Street late at night, and it was he who had fled from me at South Sea House.

I was sorry to have killed him. Not quite true, perhaps. My heart raced and my blood pounded through my veins, and I felt no remorse and no guilt. However, I was sorry that he had not lived long enough to answer some questions before expiring. My task now, I knew, was to find his companions and make them speak or to meet the same fate as their friend.

My plans were thwarted by the arrival of the constables. They were as much a pair of blackguards as ever performed the task of justice in this town. I knew them both from Duncombe’s court, but never took either when I ventured upon an arrest, for they were known villains who delighted only in random violence. One was a fat, squat fellow with a hideous purplish rash all about his face. The other was a less-disgusting creature—a normal-enough-looking man, I suppose, but for his narrow eyes, slitted just enough to reveal his cruelty.

“Does anyone know who shot this man?” the fat one shouted.

“Aye.” A man stepped forward. He wore no costume, but I knew from his voice that he was one of the men who had attacked me. He pointed in my direction. “There’s the man,” he said in the same tone he might use to ask an oyster woman for a tuppence’ worth. “I saw it all, and I’ll swear before the justice. It was cold-blooded murder, it was.”

“See that you do swear it before the judge,” I spat, as the constables approached me. “I’ll enjoy watching you hang.” I was too angry to do much but spit curses. There was nothing to be gained by running from the constables, for my attackers knew my name, and I would be apprehended in the end. I have a witness, I thought, who will clear this matter in but an instant. But it then occurred to me that I knew not where this man’s remaining conspirators were, and that Elias lay defenseless upstairs. I started to move forward, but two constables grabbed me from behind. “You’ll go nowhere,” the cruel-looking one said.

I struggled against the grip of the two men. I felt certain I could break away if I could but invoke the sum of my strength, but I was tired and dejected, and I feared for my friend, who could, even at that moment, be having his throat slit while he lay helpless. My weakened struggles only angered the men who contained me, and they forced my arms back into the most uncomfortable of positions. I scanned the crowd, as if for help, searching for someone who might speak in my behalf. As I searched, I saw none other than Noah Sarmento, who stood far back in the crowd, watching me coldly with his hollow eyes. Our gazes met for an instant, and in my moment of panic it did not occur to me to wonder what he did there, only that he was an employee of my uncle’s and he would surely help me. Instead he turned away from me, his face betraying a hardened kind of shame.

The man who had attacked me was standing and talking with one of the constables, elaborating upon his slander. “That man is the villain here,” I said, gesturing with my head toward my accuser, “and my witness is injured above and may fall victim to this man’s companion. I pray that if you will not free me, you will bring help to my friend on the upper floor.”

Murders have a curious effect on crowds. No one in the mob, you understand, has any particular desire to help—only the wish to see something truly terrible, something horrendous enough to make all the other men in the alehouse crowd around for the tale. So the revelation that there was yet another victim to be found sent the bulk of the crowd streaming into the building. I hoped their presence would be enough to protect Elias.

“Does anyone know who this man is?” one of the constables asked the remaining stragglers as he gestured toward the dead man.

“No,” said my accuser nervously, as though to speak definitively for the dozen or so people who looked on. “No one knows him.”

“I know him,” a voice spoke up. An older man shuffled forward. He held himself erect only with an old walking cane, chipped and cracked and looking as though it was ready to collapse under the man’s weight. “Aye, he’s the miserable blackguard what’s ruined me niece,” he said. “He’s a thief and pickpocket, he is, and I’m not sorry to see him there with all his life gone from ’im.”

“What’s his name?” the constable asked.

“Don’t nobody know his name,” my accuser interrupted. He glared viciously at the old man. “Pay no heed to what this old one has to say. He ain’t right in his head, he ain’t.”

“You’re the one who’s not right,” the old man spat back. “I can’t say I’ve ever seen you before in me life.”

“What’s his name?” the constable again asked the old man.

“Why that miserable shitten sod is Bertie Fenn, it is.”

And as the constables took me away, and as I fretted anxiously for the safety of Elias, I took no small satisfaction in the knowledge that I had just killed the man who had run down my father.