A Conspiracy of Paper

TWENTY-SEVEN

ONCE AGAIN I found myself facing Justice John Duncombe, and once again it was in the matter of a murder—a fact not lost on the judge. For such a serious crime, Duncombe would sometimes convene his court in the middle of the night. Murderers were tricky villains and were wont to escape, and when murderers escaped, trading justices faced more scrutiny than they liked.

Word of my adventures had already begun to spread through the streets, and the judge’s rooms, while by no means full with its usual number of spectators, held about a dozen onlookers—a sufficient audience for a midnight performance.

The judge studied me with his foggy and bloodshot gaze. His face was covered with the stubble of his thick beard, and his wig sat upon his head askew. The dark bags under his eyes suggested that he had not slept well, and I could not imagine he was pleased to be dragged from his bed at so late an hour to tend to the matter of a murderer he had himself set free so recently.

“I see I treated you with far too much leniency last time you appeared before my bench,” he intoned, as his skin flapped around his toothless mouth. “I shall not make the same mistake twice.”

If Duncombe was anxious to commit me to Newgate promptly that he might return to bed, then what appeared much like a desire to see justice served goaded him to follow correct procedures.

“I am told,” he said to the court, “that there are eyewitnesses who saw this man kill the deceased. Will such witnesses step forward?”

A moment of silence passed before I heard a familiar voice shout, “I am a witness.”

I felt an inexpressible relief when I saw Elias push his way through the spectators and, with steps unsteady and halting, make his way toward the bench. The stiffness of his movements bespoke his pain, and he looked haggard, not to mention absurd, for he still wore the robes of a Jew beggar, but with the mask removed he exposed his shaved and unwigged head before the world. His face had been spared any injury, but I winced to see him clutch at his side in pain.

“The dead man was one of a group of four men who attacked me without provocation,” Elias began in a tremulous voice. “This man, Benjamin Weaver, came to my rescue, and in the course of his efforts to save my life, one of my attackers fired a pistol. In order to defend himself, Mr. Weaver did the same, and the man you found paid the price of his villainy.”

A murmur spread throughout the court. I heard my name repeated, as well as details of Elias’s account. I sensed already that public opinion was with me, but I knew that the crowd’s desire to see me freed would have no effect on a man like Duncombe.

“The constable tells me he took of you a pistol that had been fired,” the judge said, “so that much has been confirmed. Yet at the scene of the crime there was another man who said the killing was intentional murder, is that not true?”

“It is, your honor,” the constable said.

“That man was one of my attackers,” Elias said. “He was lying.”

“And why did these men attack you, sir?” Duncombe asked.

Elias was silent for a moment. He found himself faced with a powerful dilemma—did he tell all he knew and expose our inquiry before the court, perhaps before our enemies, or did he remain as taciturn as possible, hoping a mere trickle of truths would spare me?

“I do not know why these men attacked me,” Elias said at last. “I would hardly be the first man in London to be attacked by strangers. I assume they wanted my money.”

“Were demands made for your money?” The judge pressed on. He stared hard at Elias, his face molded into a practiced mask of penetration.

“There was no time,” Elias explained. “Soon after these men forced me to follow them, Mr. Weaver attempted to assist me.”

“I see. And are you already acquainted with Mr. Weaver?”

Elias paused for an instant. “Yes, he and I are friends. I can only presume that he witnessed these men attack me and intervened with the intent of freeing me.”

“And where did this attack take place?”

“At Mr. Heidegger’s masquerade at the Haymarket.”

“So I gathered from your attire. Are you to tell me that these four men attacked you in the midst of a masquerade ball, sir?”

“They led me away from the ball, upstairs where I would be defenseless.”

“And you followed these men, whom you did not know?”

“They claimed to have important information to tell me,” Elias said hesitantly. It sounded like a question.

“And explain to me again how Mr. Weaver appeared in this exchange?”

“Mr. Weaver, who is my friend, was presumably suspicious and followed me. Once the men set upon me, he stepped in to aid me.”

“Very commendable,” the judge said. “And rather convenient, I should think. Are there any other witnesses to this affair?” he asked. He received no answer but the murmurs of the crowd.

“And what do you have to add, Mr. Weaver?”

It would have been pointless to mention that the man I had shot had killed my father—hardly the sort of information that would exonerate me. I believed that Elias’s story might prove as effective as any. However, I did not have much hope that Duncombe would grant me freedom. I had killed a man under mysterious circumstances. A trial would be inevitable unless I could say something to make the judge more sympathetic. I could not even hope my uncle would be able to bribe him if I had been bound over for trial. Once a prisoner was committed to Newgate, the matter was quite out of Duncombe’s hands. I would have to bribe him before his ruling in order to sway his opinion, and Duncombe, it was well known, did not accept credit.

“I only acted to assist Mr. Gordon,” I explained. “When I saw that his safety, perhaps his very life, was endangered, I behaved as I think any friend, indeed, any man, would have done. While I regret the loss of life, I think you will agree that London is a dangerous city, and it should be very hard if a man were prohibited from protecting himself and his friends from the criminals that roam the streets and even, as in this case, force themselves into fashionable gatherings.”

My testimony had won over the crowd, if not Duncombe. The spectators burst out in applause and a smattering of “huzzahs,” which the judge silenced by slamming his gavel against his desk. “Thank you for that impassioned speech, which I assure you has affected me not at all. It is not my place to judge of your innocence or guilt—merely of whether or not the facts before me deserve further examination. Considering the corroborating evidence of your associate, there can be no ambiguity in the question of whether or not you were under attack. And while I do not encourage the use of deadly force, it should be very strange if I were to begin placing men on trial for protecting their own safety or the safety of other innocents. I shall therefore release you, sir, with the understanding that if further evidence comes to light, you may be brought back for questioning.”

The crowd let out a cheer, and I, flooded with a mixture of confusion and relief, went immediately to Elias to check on his condition.

“I am uncomfortable,” he said, “and should enjoy a few days of rest, but I don’t believe any of the damage was either serious or permanent.”

I clapped him warmly on the shoulder. “I am sorry so much harm should have come to you, for you were following my plan.”

“I presume you will find some way to make it up to me,” he said with an affected petulance.

I grinned, pleased that Elias was uninjured in the main and held no grudge.

“And I presume this reward you have in mind will in some way involve your cousin.”

“The moment you are circumcised,” I told Elias, “she will be yours.”

“You people do conduct a grueling business,” he sighed. “But tell me, how is it that the judge ruled in our favor? It seemed to me that the evidence of our case was but poor, and by your own admission you had shot the fellow. I feared to see you bound over for trial.”

I shook my head at the puzzle. The only explanation was that someone had paid for the judge’s verdict, but I could not imagine who had provided Duncombe with sufficient funds for him to turn free a possible murderer—a dangerous act, for a judge might bring many difficulties upon his head for winking at so serious a crime. However, this was a case well disputed, and if forced to justify himself before any of his patrons, Duncombe could argue easily that he ruled for self-defense. But Duncombe’s strategy did not help me understand who could have provided the funds—or, for that matter, to what end. “I can only presume that some unknown friend, or perhaps even an unknown enemy, intervened on my behalf,” I told Elias, as I considered the matter aloud.

“Enemy? Why should an enemy wish to offer such generous aid?”

“Perhaps it would be worse for us to stand trial and speak what we know than for us to walk the streets where we may again fall victim to their machinations.”

“You are a comforting friend, Weaver.”

It turned out that Elias and I did not have long to wonder about the identity of our benefactor. As we exited the judge’s house into the chill of the night I saw an opulent coach parked immediately in front, and as the door opened I witnessed no other than Mr. Perceval Bloathwait, the Bank of England director, step forward.

“I believe you owe me a favor, Mr. Weaver,” Bloathwait said in his dull voice. “Had my enemies at the South Sea arrived here first, they would certainly have paid heavily to keep you held over for trial. Not that they would have permitted a trial—no doubt too dangerous to allow a man like you to tell what he knows in a public forum. Once in Newgate you would certainly have been more susceptible to a variety of misadventures—gaol fever, fights with other prisoners, and so forth; I should never have seen you alive again.”

“An idea that no doubt filled you with horror,” I said skeptically. Bloathwait had aided me only to further his own plans, and I could not quite bring myself to feel anything like gratitude.

“As you know, I want you to get to the heart of this matter. I believe you must be getting close, for your enemies are growing significantly bolder. Well done.”

I opened my mouth to respond, but my injured friend Elias forced his way past me to greet Bloathwait and bow at him profusely. “It is a great pleasure to see you once again, sir. It has been far too long since I have had the honor to serve you.”

Bloathwait stared at Elias’s costume. “Do you know this vagabond, Weaver?”

I tried to suppress a smile. “This gentleman is Mr. Elias Gordon,” I said, “who was injured tonight performing a service for me. I believe he once had the opportunity to perform a service for you as well. Something of a medical matter, if I am not mistaken.”

Bloathwait waved his hand in the air. “You are that Irish surgeon who fawned over me one night in the theatre.”

“Just so,” Elias agreed with surprising obsequiousness. I had once seen him covertly administer a triple dose of laxative to a gentleman who had made the mistake of calling him an Irishman, but for a man of Bloathwait’s wealth, Elias bore up under what he perceived as an insult.

Bloathwait turned back to me. “I hope you will use this freedom I’ve purchased.”

“I appreciate your assistance,” I said dryly, “yet I feel that you know more than you are letting on, Mr. Bloathwait, and I do not much enjoy being so toyed with.”

“I know only that the South Sea Company is somehow involved and, in ways I do not understand, so is that rascal Jonathan Wild. But I know little more.”

“What of Martin Rochester?” I asked.

“Yes, there is Rochester, is there not? Such goes without saying.”

I could barely contain my fury. Why would no one tell me anything of this phantom? “Have you any idea where I can find him?” I asked.

Bloathwait stared at me. “Where you can find Rochester? I see I have overestimated you, Weaver. I should have thought you would have reasoned that out by now.”

“Reasoned what out?” I own I snapped rather than spoke.

Bloathwait’s small mouth curled into a smile. “There is no such man as Martin Rochester.”

I felt like a man who suddenly awakens in a strange place, knowing not where he is or how he has arrived there. How could there be no Martin Rochester? For what had I been searching? I concentrated to gather in my passions and form these questions. “Every man upon the Exchange has heard of him. How can there be no Martin Rochester?”

“He is a mere apparition of a stock-jobber,” Bloathwait explained in his grand manner. “He is a shield under which another man or men do business. If you want to learn who killed your father, you do not need to find Martin Rochester; you need to learn who he is.”

I needed some time to consider this revelation. It explained why no one knew him, certainly. But how could this apparition do business with so many and still remain unknown? “Gad,” I mumbled to myself, “how very wretched.”

I noticed that Elias had stopped simpering. “This is the villainy of which I have warned you,” he said. “Our very enemy is constructed of paper. The crime is paper and the criminal is paper. Only the victims are real.”

I could not share Elias’s philosophical horror. I still believed there were such things as questions with answers, and I wished very much to believe that any veil of deceit, no matter how cleverly placed, might be torn away.

“A man of paper,” I said aloud. “Do you have any idea of his real identity?”

Bloathwait shook his head. “He could be one man or he could be an entire club. I cringe to see that you have been wasting your time seeking out a flesh-and-blood man when you could have been endeavoring to get to the bottom of this matter. I should see if I might sell you back to the judge for all you are apparently worth.”

“Regardless of who this man is,” Elias said, “should we not know more of what he is? What is his connection to the South Sea Company?”

Bloathwait flashed us a scowl. “You have not even learned so much as that?”

I thought on what Cowper had said; I had asked him of Rochester hard on the heels of my asking about the stock forgery. I told you, sir, that I would not discuss the matter. I could draw only one probable conclusion. “Rochester is the purveyor of false stock,” I said to Bloathwait.

He stared at me and nodded very slowly. “You may yet serve,” he said.

I ignored his reserved praise. Did he think me a dog he might pat upon the head?

“You know where you may call upon me should you require anything further,” Bloathwait said. He then entered his carriage, and his horses slowly trotted off, leaving me and Elias perhaps more confused than ever.

ELIAS MET WITH ME the next morning. The hesitation in his walk suggested that pain still hindered his movements, but he appeared otherwise quite well. He informed me that he had pressing business at the theatre, but he was happy to lend me such time as he had. We sat in my uncle’s parlor, sipping tea, trying not to think of the disasters we had narrowly escaped the previous night.

“I cannot think of how to continue,” I said. “There are so many men involved, and I have so many suspicions. I know not how to sort it out, who to visit, nor what questions to ask.”

Elias laughed. “I believe you have struck upon the problems of conspiracies. There are men who wish to keep you from uncovering the truth about this particular matter, but there are others who are only privately villainous and have their own little truths to hide. When you confront a conspiracy it becomes monstrous hard to distinguish between wretched villainy and ordinary, common lies.”

I nodded. “Last night Bloathwait confirmed my suspicion that Rochester, whoever he might be, is the vendor of the false stock. Several men have suggested that it was Rochester who had my father run down, which would certainly make sense if my father threatened the false-stock trade. It is therefore likely that Rochester is responsible for the various assaults upon my person, and indeed now your person.”

“Soundly argued,” Elias agreed.

“We further know that Rochester will go to seemingly any length to stay hidden, but our greatest chance of concluding this inquiry is in bringing Rochester to light. If we cannot locate him, as indeed it seems we cannot, perhaps we can locate his other victims.”

Elias clapped his hands. “I believe you may be on the verge of striking a very sound blow.”

I smiled. “Is it not probable that we might find some of his enemies—the holders of false stock, or those who have had violent dealings with him? When I attempted to deliver my false message at Jonathan’s, many a man looked up when the boy cried out the name of Rochester.”

“I hardly think you can question every broker upon the ’Change,” Elias observed.

“Not the brokers, but what about his buyers? As you say, the ones who have no idea that they have been wronged. They are the ones, Elias, because not knowing they have been wronged, they know not that they have something to fear.” My heart began to race. I saw at last a solution. “We must find them. They will lead me to Rochester.”

I could not tell if Elias was more excited by the idea or by my enthusiasm. “Good Gad, Weaver. That look upon your face is one of inspiration. I hardly know you any longer.”

I told him of my idea, and Elias helped me work out the details. We then traveled to the offices of the Daily Advertiser, and placed the following advertisement:

To Any and All Persons

Who have bought stock from, or sold stock to,

Mr. Martin Rochester

You are asked to attend

Mr. Kent’s Coffeehouse, in Peter Street, near Bloomsbury Square

this Thursday between the hours of noon and three,

at which time you will receive compensation

for your time

After conducting our business, we returned to the street to make our way home. Elias and I both covered our noses with handkerchiefs as we passed a pauper pushing a cart of spoiled mutton. “It is an audacious stroke,” I mumbled, as we hurried past this foulness.

“Rather,” Elias agreed, “but I believe it cannot fail. Your enemies, sir, know who you are and what you are about. They have been able to make you come to them, and they have been able to find you. Now you, sir, must expose their weaknesses. This rascal Rochester has gone to great lengths to protect his identity, but no one can be so careful as to be undetectable. He has made mistakes, and we shall find them soon enough.”

“It cannot but be otherwise,” I agreed, fired by the thrill of decisive action. “I suspect this false identity of his was never meant to withstand the degree of scrutiny we shall unleash upon him.”

Elias nodded. “You begin to understand the theory of probability,” he said. “From the general necessity of the existence of victims, you will find the particular of the villain.”

“If only we still had my father’s pamphlet.” I could not easily estimate the loss of that document. “If we still had it in hand, I imagine we might have done some pushing here and there with a very powerful tool.”

“I believe you did,” Elias pointed out. “Is that not why the document was stolen?”

He was quite correct. I would have to learn to think more as he did if I was to outwit these villains.

THE IDEA OF THE advertisement filled me with a glowing pleasure in my own ingenuity, and I longed to inform my uncle of what I had done. The door to my uncle’s study sat ajar, and I approached in the hope of finding him unoccupied, but I soon saw my mistake. Several voices came from within, and I should have turned away, thinking only to return at a more convenient time, but I discovered something that sat ill with me. One of the men who spoke was Noah Sarmento, and while I had no love for the man, I could feel no surprise to find him in my uncle’s presence. No, it was a second voice that struck me, for it belonged to none other than Abraham Mendes, Jonathan Wild’s man.

I quickly retreated—too quickly, for I heard hardly more than a word or two of their conversation, but I dared not linger where I might be caught spying so boldly upon my own kinsman.

Instead I walked outside and waited upon the street, pacing up and down for the better part of an hour until I saw Sarmento and Mendes leave the house together. Perhaps I should say they left simultaneously, for there was nothing cooperative, or even congenial, about the way these two men acted with each other. They merely departed from the same place at the same time.

I stepped forward before they could part, however. “Ho, gentlemen,” I said with affected gaiety. “How good to see you both. Especially you, Mr. Mendes, emerging so unexpectedly from my uncle’s house.”

“What do you want, Weaver?” Sarmento asked sourly.

“And you,” I continued, now driven by nothing but bluster. “You, my good friend, Mr. Sarmento. I have hardly seen you since—when was it now?—ah, yes. It was after the masquerade where you lurked in the crowd just after a failed effort to assassinate my person. How do you do, sir?”

Sarmento clucked disgustedly, as though I had mentioned something ribald in polite company. “I neither understand you nor wish to,” he said, “nor shall I spend any more time with a man who speaks nonsensical stuff.” He spun sharply and affected to walk off with dignity, but he repeatedly turned to see if I pursued, and did not stop straining his neck until he rounded the corner and disappeared from sight.

I thought to give chase, but Mendes went nowhere, as though he dared me to inquire into his business. I had no doubt I should be able to break Sarmento at the time of my choosing, but Mendes was quite another matter.

“I am pleased to see you in so fine a mood, sir,” he said to me. “I hope your inquiry treats you well.”

“Yes,” I said, though my good spirits had now dissipated. “At this moment I inquire into a very curious matter indeed. I inquire into your presence in my uncle’s house.”

“Nothing simpler,” he told me. “I had a matter of business to resolve.”

“But the details, Mr. Mendes, the details. What matter of business might that be?”

“Merely some fashionable cloth that Mr. Lienzo found upon his hands and that a sometimes too-zealous government would not let him easily dispose of. He entrusted me with these goods some months ago, and having found a buyer, I only wished to pay your uncle what he was owed.”

“And Sarmento’s role in all of this?”

“He is your uncle’s factor. You know that. He was with your uncle when I arrived. Surely,” he added with a grin, “you do not suspect your uncle of some mischief, do you? I should hate to see you break with him as you broke with your father.”

I stiffened at these words, which I knew he meant most provocatively. “I should be careful, sir. Do you in truth wish to test whether or no I am a match for you?”

“I meant no challenge,” he told me, in a voice of oily mock-conciliation. “I speak only out of concern. You see, I, who have lived many years in this neighborhood, saw the pain your father felt at having lost his son to the plague of pride. Both his and yours, I believe.”

I opened my mouth to respond, but I could think of nothing to say, and he proceeded apace. “Shall I tell you a story of your father, sir? I think you might find it most interesting.”

I stood silent, hardly able to guess what he would say.

“Not more than two or three days before the accident that took his life, he called upon me in my home and offered me a handsome sum of money to perform a task for him.”

He wished to make me ask, and so I did. “What task?”

“One I thought strange, I promise you. He wished me to deliver a message.”

“A message,” I repeated. I could hardly hide my confusion.

“Yes. I thought it most incomprehensible, and with every effort to avoid appearing to put on airs, I told Mr. Lienzo that I thought it somewhat beneath my station to deliver messages. He appeared embarrassed, and he explained to me that he feared someone might intend him harm. He thought a man of my stripe might be able to deliver the message both safely and inconspicuously.”

This story hurt far more than I would have anticipated. Mendes had been hired to perform a task that I might have done had my father and I been upon speaking terms. My father had needed a man upon whose strength and courage he could depend, and he had not called upon me—perhaps he had not even thought to call upon me. If he had, I wondered, how should I have responded?

“I brought the message to its recipient,” Mendes continued, “who was, at that time, at Garraway’s Coffeehouse in ’Change Alley. The man opened the note and muttered only, ‘Damme, the Company and Lienzo in the same day.’ Do you know who this recipient was?”

I fixed my gaze hard upon him.

“Why, the very man you asked Mr. Wild about. Perceval Bloathwait.”

I licked my lips, which were now quite dry. “Did Mr. Bloathwait have a reply?” I asked.

Mendes nodded, strangely pleased with himself. “Mr. Bloathwait asked me to tell your father that he thanked him for the honor he did him by sharing this information, and that he should keep it to himself until he, Bloathwait that is, had a chance to reflect upon it.”

“Wild denied any knowledge of Bloathwait—now you tell me this story. Am I to believe that you defy Wild? More likely, this conversation between Jews is all part of his plan.”

Mendes only smiled. “So many puzzles. If only you had attended more to your studies as a boy, you might now have the intelligence to make some order out of chaos. Good day, sir.” He tipped his hat and walked off.

I stood for a moment, contemplating what he had told me. My father had sought out some contact with Bloathwait—the very man I had spied meeting secretly with Sarmento. Now my uncle meets with Sarmento and Mendes together. What could it mean?

I would wait no longer to learn. I reentered the house and walked boldly into my uncle’s study. He sat at his desk, reviewing some papers, and smiled broadly as I walked in.

“Good day, Benjamin,” he said cheerfully. “What news?”

“I thought you might tell me,” I began in a voice I hardly tried to modulate. “We might begin with your business with Mr. Mendes.”

“Mendes,” he repeated. “I have told you of my business with him. He merely wished to pay me for some cambrics which he had sold for me.” His keen eyes determinedly measured my expression.

“I know not why you would conduct business with such a man,” I said.

“Perhaps not,” he replied, his voice showing just a hint of hardness. “But it is not your place to understand my affairs, is it?”

“I believe it is,” I retorted. “I am engaged in an inquiry which involves the mysterious dealings of your brother. It has led me to form suspicions of Mendes’s master. I believe that I am within my rights when I express my concern.”

My uncle arose from his chair to meet my gaze upon my level. “I do not disagree,” he said carefully. “But I should prefer you do so in a less accusatory tone. What is it you wish to say to me, Benjamin? That I am involved in some sort of scheme with Jonathan Wild into tricking you into doing—I cannot even imagine what? I urge you to recall who I am.”

I sat down, controlling my passions and having no desire to inflame my uncle’s. Perhaps he was right. He had a long-standing business with Mendes. I could hardly ask him to suspend it because I liked neither him nor his master. “I believe I spoke hastily,” I said at last. “I never meant to suggest anything about your conduct, Uncle. It is merely that I know not whom to trust, and I mistrust almost everyone—particularly those associated with Jonathan Wild. It troubles me greatly to see you with Mendes. You may believe you simply engage in some old business, but I should be surprised to believe that he does not have more on his mind.”

My uncle relented as well. He sat down and allowed himself to soften. “I know you wish only to uncover the truth behind these deaths,” he said. “I delight in your dedication, but we must not forget that while we try to do justice for the dead, we must remain among the living. I cannot discontinue my affairs because of this inquiry.”

“I would not suggest you do.” I sighed. “But Wild, Uncle. I do not believe you fully understand how dangerous he is.”

“I am certain in matters of theft and suchlike he is dangerous indeed,” my uncle said complacently. “But this is a matter of textiles. Your mind is set upon a conspiratorial path, Benjamin. Now everything appears suspicious to you.”

I thought on this for a moment. Elias had observed that the danger of inquiring into conspiracy is that all manner of misdeeds seem equally implicit. It was surely conceivable that I made too much of my uncle’s business with Mendes.

“I have never had any dealings with Wild,” he continued. “And I have always known Mr. Mendes to behave honorably. I understand your concern, but I could hardly refuse to allow him to pay me what he owes me because you mislike the man. But if you prefer, I shall engage him for no more business until this matter is resolved.”

“I would be most appreciative.”

“Very well, then,” he said cheerfully. “I am glad we resolved this business. I know you did not intend to be overly harsh, but you have worked far too hard upon this matter. I know you do not wish to abandon your inquiry, but you might set it aside for a few days and allow your thoughts to clear.”

I nodded. Maybe he was right, I thought. A few days’ rest might do me some good, but whether they did or no, I thought, I should have little choice, for I could not think of how to proceed until I found out what my advertisement might yield.

Believing the tension had passed, my uncle arose and poured us both a glass of port, which I sipped with some pleasure. I had finished nearly half of it before I realized that I had said nothing about my business at the Daily Advertiser and that I had no intention of doing so. It was not that I misbelieved my uncle when he described his dealings with Mendes, but I was not sure I precisely believed him either. He could be the victim of deception as much as any man, and his insistence upon conducting his affairs as he saw fit could blind him to certain truths.

I spoke cheerfully with my uncle, and I enjoyed his conversation, but I declined to inform him of many things: of my suspicions of Sarmento, of Miriam’s wayward and inexplicable behavior, of the attempt upon my life, of the advertisement I had placed, and now of Mendes’s revelation of my father’s communication with Bloathwait. I did not wish to believe that my uncle’s behavior stemmed from anything more than a lifetime of having his own way indulged, but for the nonce my silence felt disturbingly wise.

I LIVED UPON THE rack until the next Thursday, when I should see who appeared to respond to the advertisement I had placed. I could ill think of how to occupy my time in this inquiry, and I had no desire to accept new business. Instead I spent my time brooding incessantly over what I already knew and watching the swelling about my face subside. I took notes and made lists and drew diagrams—all of which helped me to understand better the complexity of my search, and none of which, I feared, brought me any closer to a solution.

I chastised myself viciously for not having fully read, fully understood, my father’s pamphlet while I had the chance. I convinced myself all the answers had been therein contained, but even if that were not so, it did contain the words of my father, speaking, if only indirectly, upon the matter of his own death. Now it was lost to me.

At Elias’s invitation I passed one of my free mornings at the theatre at Drury Lane, where I found myself almost entirely distracted. While I watched one scene of Elias’s comedy rehearsed perhaps fifteen times until I felt I could have played each part myself, I found it witty and cleverly acted. Elias strutted about the stage as though he were the theatre manager himself, suggesting to the players different poses and different deliveries. When I was leaving, he gave me a copy of the play, which I later read and found strangely delightful.

I spent that afternoon with my Aunt Sophia, attending her on her social calls and meeting other prominent Iberian Jewesses of Dukes Place. Some of these women were quite young and quite unmarried, and as I spent these stressful hours attempting to make myself understood in Portuguese, I could not but wonder if my aunt was trying to settle me in marriage.

In an effort not to let my investigation run cold in this period of waiting, I visited Perceval Bloathwait’s town house on several occasions, but each time his servant denied me. I left several messages for the Bank of England director, but I received no replies. I greatly wished to know more of this message that Mendes had told me my father had sent to his old adversary, but Bloathwait, it would seem, had decided to have no more to do with me.

I ruminated on how to remedy that situation while I kept myself busy in more mundane tasks: news of my move to Dukes Place had circulated, and a few men made their way to my new home to ask for my help. So I distracted myself by finding a few debtors while I awaited what I hoped, and hoped correctly, would be a fruitful return of our advertisement.

My relations with Miriam had continued to be cool, especially after her inexplicable accusation at the masquerade. I attempted on several occasions to speak with her, but she always assiduously avoided me. One day, after a silent breakfast with her and my aunt, I followed her from the table and into the parlor.

“Miriam,” I began, “tell me why you are angry with me. I do not understand how I have betrayed you.” The only explanation I had summoned was that she was angry that I had discovered her relationship with Deloney, but as I had not circulated the information or used it to harm her, that knowledge could hardly stand as a betrayal.

“I have nothing to say to you,” she announced, and began to depart.

I grabbed her by the wrist—as gently as I could. “You must speak to me. I have searched my memories for something I did that may have hurt you, but I can think of nothing.”

“Do not attempt to deceive me.” She tore her arm from me, but did not move away. “I know why you are here in this house, and I know the nature of your inquiry. Are a few guineas from your uncle—or is it perhaps Mr. Adelman?—worth having established a false intimacy with me? I thought you had returned to your family for some greater purpose than to expose it.”

She ran out of the room; I might perhaps have followed her if I had been able to formulate some idea of what to say. I could think of no reasons or explanations, and I wondered if I should ever understand. I could not have known then that my next conversation with Miriam would clarify far more than the reasons for her anger with me.

AT LAST THURSDAY was upon me. The weather had turned significantly cooler, and in the crisp morning air that smelled of impending snow, I made my way to Kent’s Coffeehouse. I arrived an hour earlier than the advertisement indicated that I might establish myself before anyone came to call. I let the servants know who I was, and I sat down with the papers to busy myself until I should be called for, but I found myself too distracted to read with any absorption. I must say that the events at the masquerade had left me apprehensive, for I saw that there was nothing these villains would not do to protect themselves, and there was certainly something reckless about my publishing my defiance of them in the Daily Advertiser. Yet I knew that Elias was right, for if I followed up only on the evidence that they had left behind, they would know my thoughts even before I did. Here, at least, was something they had not anticipated.

Every few minutes I looked up to see if someone sought me out, and on one of those occasions I noticed a grim gentleman at another table. He held a paper before him, but it was obvious that he did not read it. Although this man dressed neatly, there was something about the way he wore his wig, the way his coat hung upon his shoulders, and, most strikingly, the fact that he wore thick leather gloves inside the coffeehouse, that made him conspicuous and strange. I felt certain that if I were to remove his wig and look square into his face, I would see someone I had encountered before.

Feeling bold, and perhaps overly animated by a bit too much of Mr. Kent’s coffee, I approached the table and sat down, and as I did so, I knew the man at once. I recognized the hard, cruel, stupid look, as well as the left eye that sat useless in a sea of yellowish rot. For his part, he knew not how to respond to my direct assault and pretended to continue with his reading.

“How is your hand, Mr. Arnold?” I asked. He no longer appeared the same ruffian from whom I had so violently retrieved Sir Owen’s amorous letters. He had cleaned himself up considerably, but the mark of villainy still stained him thoroughly. I was certain he felt no small amount of fear of me, and his fear was not misplaced. We both knew that the violence I had once visited upon him I would not hesitate to repeat.

I sought in my mind to recall if it had been the right or the left hand I had stabbed, for that was the hand I wished to grab. Arnold, however, took advantage of my moment of contemplation, leapt to his feet, tossed a chair at me to slow me down, and ran out the front door. I followed, only a few seconds behind him, but those few seconds were sufficient for him to take the advantage. When I emerged onto the street he was nowhere in sight. With little to lose, I picked a direction and ran, hoping that fortune would favor my search, but such was not the case, and after a quarter of an hour of fruitless searching I abandoned the cause and returned to the coffeehouse.

It was well that I had engaged in that frustrating encounter with Mr. Arnold, for when I returned, winded and looking all askew, I saw the coffee girl in conversation with a young lady, and I overheard her conversation just enough to learn that she was describing my appearance. Had this young lady entered the coffeehouse and seen me in waiting, she would certainly have departed before I knew she had been there, but now I stood, breathing deeply, absently dusting off my coat, while our eyes made contact.

Miriam had come in response to my advertisement.