A Conspiracy of Paper

THIRTY

IT WAS FRIDAY AFTERNOON, and my uncle had returned from his warehouse early. I met him in the parlor and joined him in a glass of Madeira. The wine helped calm me after my meeting with Bloathwait, and it also gave me courage to ask my uncle uncomfortable questions. He had been kind to me, given me a home, offered me funds, and aided my inquiry. But I still did not know that I could trust him, nor understand why he kept information from me, or even what his motives were.

“Before he died,” I began, “my father contacted Bloathwait. Did you know that, sir?”

I looked him straight in his eye, for if he wished to lie to me, I would make that lie as difficult as I might. I watched his face, and I saw his discomfort. He shifted his eyes, as though to move them away, but I kept my gaze clenched. I would not free him from my scrutiny.

He said nothing.

“You knew,” I said.

He nodded.

“You knew what Bloathwait had been to him, to my family. You saw this notorious villain at my father’s funeral. And yet you said nothing to me. I must know why.”

My uncle took a long time to respond. “Benjamin,” he began, “you are used to saying what you wish, to being afraid of no one. In the world in which you live, you have no one to fear. That is not true for me. My home, my business, everything I have—it can all be taken away if I anger the wrong men. Were you to come into business with me, you would find yourself a rich man, but you would also understand the dangers of being a rich Jew in this country. We cannot own property, we cannot engage in certain kinds of business. For centuries they have herded us into dealing with their money for them, and they have hated us for doing what they permitted.”

“But what have you to fear?”

“Everything. I am no more dishonest than any other English merchant. I bring in a few contraband cloths from France, I sometimes sell them through sullied channels. It is what a man must do, but any public exposure of my dealings would prove a danger to this family and to our community here.” He let out a sigh. “I said nothing about Bloathwait because I feared his anger.”

He could not quite look at me. I hardly knew how to respond. “But,” I said at last, “you told me you wished me to learn the truth about my father’s death.”

“I did,” he said anxiously. “I do. Benjamin, Mr. Bloathwait did not have your father killed, but I know what kind of a man he is—vengeful, single-minded. I wanted nothing so much as that you should stay away from him, to find out who did this without crossing his path.”

“And what about Adelman? Do you not speak ill of him because you fear him as well?”

“I must be careful of these men. Surely you see that. Yet I must do justice for Samuel, too. I know you must think me a coward, but I must balance myself like a ropedancer. I want only what is right, and I shall do what I can to see that Samuel’s killers are punished. If I must appear to you and all the world a coward to do so, then so be it. I know no other way.”

There was a strange dignity in his cowardice that I could not deny. My uncle was not someone I could strive to be like, but I believed I understood him.

“Between us, then,” I said, “for I believe you know you can trust me. What do you think of Adelman? Of the South Sea Company?”

He shook his head. “I no longer know. Once I thought Adelman was a man of honor, but these schemes of his seem to preclude all honor. Tell me what you think.”

“What I think? I think that Adelman wishes me to believe that all of this villainy is a hoax perpetrated by Bloathwait. I believe that Bloathwait tells me only what he wishes me to know so that I shall investigate the South Sea further.”

“Because the inquiry itself, not necessarily the truth, injures the Company?”

“Precisely. Bloathwait has been arranging that I obtain just enough information to keep me interested. I would not be surprised if the pamphlet you gave me was a forgery.”

“It was no forgery,” my uncle assured me. “I know Samuel’s hand.”

“Let me ask you something else,” I pressed on, hoping that by involving him I might make him feel more at ease. “Sarmento—did you know that he has dealings with Bloathwait?”

My uncle laughed. “Of course. The world knows that. Bloathwait has hired him to keep an eye on Adelman, but Sarmento is so very poor at subtlety, one would need to be a fool not to see it.”

“Then why does Bloathwait continue to employ his services?”

“Because,” he said with a grin, “if Adelman is watching Sarmento watching him, then perhaps he is not watching someone else. Even if Bloathwait has no one else, Sarmento, for all his ineptitude, is a reminder of Bloathwait’s presence.”

We both sipped at our wine and said nothing for some long minutes. I could not guess what my uncle felt. I suppose I could hardly guess what I felt.

“How will you feel if this inquiry comes to nothing?” he asked. “If you never discover who did these things, or even if they were done?”

“A man must fail sometimes,” I said. “And my enemies here are formidable. I would not choose to fail, but if I do, I must not despair.”

“Have you given any more thought to my offer?” he asked quietly.

I considered how to respond for some time. My uncle, as near as I could tell, had acquitted himself of all villainy in the matter of the conspiracy surrounding my father’s death. He had not sufficiently acquitted himself in the matter of Miriam’s fortune, so I pressed him.

“Let us say that I took you up on your offer, Uncle, and that I married Miriam. What if something were to happen to me? What should become of Miriam?”

My uncle braced himself. It had simply been a question, but it made him think of the loss of his son. Perhaps I had been in error even to suggest such a thing.

“I understand why you might have such a concern. It is only right of you to think of such things, but Miriam has always been welcome in my home.”

“But should she not be sufficient in herself? And what of you? If you were to lose a ship full of goods, surely that would prove disastrous to your finances.”

“It would prove disastrous in many ways, but not to my finances. I always insure my shipments against such damages that in the event of tragedy, as much as one suffers, one does not suffer ruin.” He set down his wine. “You wish to know what happened to Miriam’s fortune.” There was a coolness in his voice I had not heard since he and I had set upon this inquiry. “You wish to know how many coins shall land in your pocket should you marry her.”

“No,” I said quickly. “You misunderstand me. I am sorry I did not pay you the courtesy of being plain. I wish to know what happened to Miriam’s money for her sake, not for mine.”

“For her sake?” he asked. “Why, I have it. It shall be hers again should she remarry.”

“And should she not?”

He laughed. “Then, I shall hold it for her for as long as she resides in my house. Should she remain unmarried at the time of my death, I have arranged that it should be held in trust.”

“But why do you not give it to her?” I asked.

He shook his head. “The money is no longer truly hers, except in spirit. Aaron invested in the trade, and when his ship was lost, I received the payment of the insurance. It becomes so hard to tell whose money belongs to whom. But Miriam shall never want for anything as long as she stays in my protection or marries a man of whom I approve.”

“And what if she does not wish your protection,” I continued, “or wishes to marry a man of whom you do not approve?”

“Do you think I have been sinister, Benjamin? That I have robbed the wife of my own son for the benefit of a few thousand pounds?” To my relief there was no indignation in his voice. He believed himself so free of ill motives that he could not take such suspicions seriously.

I took it seriously, however. For he was guilty, but not of malice. “I do not believe you have taken anything with ill intent,” I said. “I believe you have presumed to speak for Miriam.”

“And now you do?” Now his voice grew hot again. I had touched upon something.

“I would never do so,” I said, “but I feared you would not listen to her words. I thought perhaps you might listen to mine.”

“It is foolish for her to want such a thing,” my uncle told me. “Miriam has lived in my home for a very long time,” he said. “If I have done anything she has not liked, I have done it in the name of her greater good.”

“How can you decide such a thing for Miriam?” I asked. “Have you never consulted with her?”

“It is foolishness to consult with women in these matters,” he replied. “You saw that I withheld Miriam’s money and you thought I did so out of greed? I am shocked, Benjamin. Perhaps now you will accuse me of being illiberal, but I have seen women bring estates to ruin many a time, and I only wish to preserve for Miriam a fortune that should be hers and her children’s. Left to her own devices, she would squander her money upon gowns and equipages and expensive entertainments. Women cannot be entrusted with these matters.”

I shook my head. I felt as though he had surely never met his daughter-in-law to say such things about her. “Some women may be thus, but surely not Miriam.”

He laughed softly. “When you have your own wife, your own children, we may again have this conversation.” He rose and left the room. I could hardly tell if he had dismissed me or yielded.

MY UNCLE ASKED NOTHING of me, for he had promised he would ask nothing, but I understood that he would have preferred for me to suspend my inquiry for the Sabbath. I did so in order to show respect for his house and also because I needed some time to consider all that had happened. He said nothing to me of our conversation about Miriam, and I said nothing to him. I had not the heart to bring up a matter of conflict with him. Not yet, at least. It was strange for me to think that I had come into my uncle’s house in the hopes that he would be the man that my father had never been. I suppose I had expected too much of him—that is to say, I had expected he would think like me on all accounts. I took some comfort, however, in the knowledge that he withheld money from Miriam not out of villainy but out of a prejudice against her sex.

For our Friday-night meal, my uncle wisely chose to invite neither Adelman or Sarmento, but he did invite a neighboring family—a married couple of about my uncle and aunt’s age and their son and his wife. I was pleased for the company, for it was a much-needed distraction and the presence of the women relieved me of the uncomfortable burden of attempting conversation with Miriam.

After prayer at the synagogue the next day, I once again found myself in conversation with Abraham Mendes. It was so strange to me that this man who appeared nothing but a mindless ruffian when with his master, Jonathan Wild, could prove himself socially competent in other circumstances. To my surprise, I felt something like pleasure when I saw him approach.

Mendes and I exchanged the traditional Sabbath greeting. He inquired after the health of my family, and then turned his attention to me. “How does your inquiry progress, if I may ask?”

“Does it not violate the law of God to discuss such matters on the Sabbath?” I inquired.

“It does,” he agreed, “but so does theft, so I think it best not to pick over our sins.”

“The inquiry goes badly,” I muttered. “And even if you care not about disturbing the Lord, you might care about disturbing me. I am in no mood to discuss the matter.”

“Very well.” He smiled. “But if you like, I might mention your difficulties to Mr. Wild. Perhaps he might offer some assistance.”

“You will do nothing of the kind. Mendes, I am not entirely convinced of the scope of your villainy, but I have no uncertainty about your master. You will please not mention my name to him.”

Mendes bowed and departed.

Once back at my uncle’s house, I again found myself avoiding Miriam. She and I had gone to great lengths to elude one another since our unfortunate conversation. On Saturday, after synagogue, Miriam announced she had a headache and spent the rest of the day in her room. I cannot claim I was anything but relieved.

That night, as I climbed the stairs, I found her hovering in the hall, just outside her door. She was waiting for me.

“Benjamin,” she said softly. My uncle and aunt were asleep one flight upward. Our voices would carry if we were not careful.

I could not think if I should take a step toward her or away. It seemed foolish to remain still, but for the moment it was easier than making a decision.

“There’s something I want to say to you,” she whispered, almost inaudibly.

I moved forward, hand outstretched. She backed up a step. “It’s about your father.”

This pronouncement stopped me in my tracks. My limbs tingled. I had been through too much not to be terrified by that pronouncement. “What is it?”

“There is something I want to say—something I think you should hear. Your father—” She paused, pressed her lips together, and sucked in air through her nose like a sailor filling his lungs before diving into the sea. “Your father was not a nice man.”

I almost laughed—indeed I should have cackled if I had not been so confused. “I believe I knew that.”

She bit her lip. “You don’t understand. You told me once that you feel guilt, you feel remorse, you feel as though you have made mistakes. Maybe you should feel those things; maybe you did err horribly when you ran away and even more so when you didn’t return. But that does not mean you were in the wrong—at least not entirely. You may blame yourself if you wish, but you must blame him, too.”

I shook my head over and over again, only partially aware that I was doing so.

“Your father knew where you were. He had only to read the papers to see where you fought. He could have gone to you, and he didn’t. He didn’t because he knew not how to be kind. I have seen him with your brother, and he was no warmer to José than he was with you—only more satisfied. Your memories of him are not a fabrication—they are the truth. Perhaps the qualities that made him a good businessman made him a poor father. But I think . . .” Her voice trailed off for a moment. “You have too many regrets,” she said. “More than you ought.”

Her words left me as though frozen. I felt such a torrent of emotions I could not sort one out from another.

“I wish us to be friends, Benjamin,” she said after a moment, perhaps weary of my silence. “Do you understand that?”

I nodded dumbly.

“Then tomorrow we may speak as we used to.” She smiled so sweetly, so shyly, I thought my heart should burst. And then she climbed up the stairs and left me in the hall, where I remained until I heard a clock chime below, and then I staggered to my room like a drunkard.

IT WAS JUST AFTER one in the afternoon when I reached Sir Owen’s house, and I was pleasantly surprised to find that he was awake, fully dressed, and ready to see me within a quarter hour of my arrival. Far from the harsh man I had encountered the last time I had seen him, he now appeared for all the world his old self.

“Weaver,” he shouted with some pleasure as he walked into his drawing room. “So good to see you. What can I do for you? A glass of something?”

“No, thank you, Sir Owen,” I said as he poured himself a port. I was too agitated, too confused, I thought, even to swallow.

“I have learned that Scottish surgeon of yours, Gordon, is to dazzle the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane, with a new comedy. I never miss a new comedy, you know—and if it is written by a man who has cured me of the clap, so much the better. Please tell him that I shall be there for the first night.”

“I think he should like it better if you were there for the author’s benefit night,” I said with reflexive warmth. If I was to gain anything with Sir Owen, he could not know my state of mind.

He laughed. “Well, if it is a worthwhile endeavor, I shall return for the third night. I always believe in supporting the authors’ benefits, you know. It is the least one can do for a good play.”

“He will be gratified to hear that.” I was quiet for a moment, and Sir Owen joined in the silence and contented himself with twirling his morning port about his glass. “I have come with some news that I thought you should know of,” I continued. “It would appear that Kate Cole has been murdered.”

“Murdered!” He nearly dropped his wineglass. “Gad, sir, I have heard she hanged herself.” He began to set his port down and then changed his mind and took a long drink.

That he had heard anything at all astonished me. “Then you know of it?”

“Oh yes, oh yes,” he said. He finished his glass and poured himself another. “You are sure, now? No? Well, you see, the matter of her trial was something that touched on me very nearly, and, as you know, I am not without some connections. I received a message from a friend I know not unconnected with the governor of Newgate prison; he told me of her death. He clearly indicated that the woman had hanged herself. I am astonished to hear you speak of murder.”

“In truth, I but suspect she was murdered,” I admitted, “because of another matter that concerns me.”

“What is this other matter?” he asked. “This business with your father? How should it involve this woman?”

“It is hard to say,” I said. “I can hardly piece it together, for there are so many players.”

Sir Owen squinted. “Is there any way I can assist you? You know I am not without connections, and if I can provide you with any service at all, you need but ask me.”

I could not help but be disgusted with such a friend as Sir Owen, who had been pleased to sacrifice me when there was some small danger to his reputation, but now that he had nothing to lose, he was eager to show his influence. “You are certainly kind.” I thought on this for a moment. That Sir Owen’s character was flawed was perhaps not sufficient reason not to take advantage of his connections. “I do not wish to involve you, for I have come to learn that it is a dangerous matter, but there is one thing you might be able to help me with, and indeed, it would be an enormous help. Have you ever heard the name of Martin Rochester?”

“Rochester,” he repeated. He took a moment to think on the name. “I have heard of him, I believe, but I know not who he is. Perhaps a name I have heard in the gambling houses?” He screwed up his eyes and then took a drink. “Is he connected with this whore’s death?”

“Yes,” I said. “I believe Rochester had her killed because she could identify him. You see, I have come to learn that Rochester is but a pseudonym, and that he is behind some shocking acts. If I can find out who he is, then I can discover the truth behind the crimes into which I inquire.”

Sir Owen sipped his port. “Should that be so very difficult?”

“Rochester is clever, and he has both friends and enemies who cover his tracks for him. It is one thing to use a false name as a matter of convenience, but with Rochester it seems something else entirely. He has created a false self,” I said, reasoning this matter out as I spoke, “a representation of a jobber, much like paper money is a representation of silver.”

“Sounds a rather tricky business,” he said cheerfully. “I cannot tell you how relieved I am to have this unpleasantness with the whore behind me, Weaver, and I wish I could show you my appreciation. Perhaps if you told me more of what you know about this Rochester, it might help. One meets and hears of so many men, it is hard to keep them all clear in one’s mind.”

I wasn’t sure how much I wanted to tell Sir Owen. “I cannot imagine what kind of contact you could have had with him,” I said at last. “He is a corrupt jobber who has probably had some dealings with the South Sea Company.”

Sir Owen appeared to make a connection. He screwed up his face and rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. “And all of this has some relationship to that matter with Balfour and your father?”

“Yes.”

He leaned forward. “May I ask how this Rochester fits in?”

“I know not,” I said cautiously. “I can only say that his name is frequently mentioned in connection with these deaths, and until I meet him and speak to him, I shall know no more.”

“As he appears to be such a villain, I can only wish you luck. Although perhaps it is he who needs the luck, for I have come to have nothing but respect, sir, for your skills in these matters.”

“You are too kind,” I said with a formal bow.

Sir Owen then snapped his fingers and looked at me excitedly. “Gad, I just recalled something. As you know, your inquiry into these deaths is being talked about all over town. Needless to say, I was interested whenever I heard the business discussed, for our fates have been of late so nearly connected. And now that I think on it, it was in one of these conversations that I heard Rochester’s name mentioned. I cannot quite think of the context, for I am not now even certain that I had heard the name before. But some fellow I did not know was speaking of him, and the deuce if I can remember what it is he said, but he mentioned him in connection with another. It was a Jew named—oh, what was it now—Sardino? Salmono, perhaps? Something rather fishy, I believe.”

“Sarmento?” I said quietly.

He snapped his fingers. “The very name! I wish I could say more, but by Gad it is all I can recall. I hope that is of some assistance.”

“So do I,” I said, and politely made my exit.

· · ·

IT WAS NOT A task to which I looked forward, but I knew it had to be done. So I made a trip to Sarmento’s lodgings off Thames Street, almost in the shadow of St. Paul’s. He took rooms in a pleasant enough, if plain, house an inconvenient distance from my uncle’s warehouse.

When his landlady showed me into the sitting room, I saw that there was someone already waiting—I presumed for another lodger, for it was a cleric of the Church of England. He was a youngish fellow, apparently not long out of school, for he had the enthusiastic air of a man who had recently taken orders. I had not been without some contact with churchmen in my day, though I had normally found them to be either bland, empty men or more of the wild sort who considered religion not at all except when their duties absolutely demanded it. In either case, I had often thought that the Church of England produced a system that encouraged its clerics to think of their positions much as clerks in stores thought of theirs—as a way to make money and little else.

“Good morning, sir,” he said with a wide, happy smile.

I bade him good morning and took a seat. He reached into his pocket and produced a watch, quickly noting the time. “I have been awaiting Mr. Sarmento for some time now,” he said. “I know not when he will step down.”

“You await Mr. Sarmento?” I asked with clear astonishment.

I realized that it was a rude way to speak, but it was intentional—not because I have any particular dislike of priests, but because I wished to goad the man into saying more than he might have otherwise. The cleric, however, took my rudeness in his stride. “He is a dear acquaintance of mine and a good student.” He smiled. “I have been encouraging him to write his memoirs. I find conversion stories most inspirational.”

I felt myself reeling with astonishment. “I am quite certain I do not understand you. Do you mean to say Mr. Sarmento is a convert?”

The priest reddened. “Oh, my goodness. I hope I have not spoken out of turn. I did not know that his acquaintances were unaware he had been a Jew. Please do not hold this against him.” He leaned forward and lowered his voice, as though sharing a secret. “I can assure you his conversion is entirely sincere, and it is my experience that converts are always the most devout Christians, for they must think about their religion in ways that the rest of us need not.”

I must admit I was stunned, perhaps even horrified. It was one thing to be a Jew lax in observance, such as myself, but even a man as negligent as Adelman was not bold enough to consider conversion seriously. My Christian readers will perhaps not understand that among your denominations—the Anglican and the Papist and the Presbyterian and the Dissenters—are all Britons alike, but to be a Jew is to be a member of a nation as well as a religion. To convert is to deny one’s self in a way I found utterly shocking. It was to say not I shall be this no longer, but rather I have never been this. At that moment I believed Sarmento capable of anything. “When did this conversion take place?” I asked, forcing a polite smile upon my lips.

“Not more than six months ago, I am sure,” he explained happily. “But Mr. Sarmento had been coming to me for instruction long before that. Like many of his tribe, he was hesitant to cast aside his old superstitions. These things often take a great deal of time.”

I did not know what this meant, and I had little time to think on it, for Sarmento entered the room. He stood in the door and stared at the two of us, saying nothing, attempting to assess what damage had been done. Finally he turned to me. “Weaver, what do you do here?”

“I have come to speak to you on a matter of business, sir.” I could not help taking pleasure in his confusion. “But if you wish to speak first with your confessor . . .”

Sarmento’s mouth opened, and then closed. He knew the advantage was mine, and he hated me for it. Perhaps he hated the cleric as well. “Mr. Norbert,” he said at last, “I do not wish to be rude, but I must speak to Mr. Weaver in private.”

The priest appeared immune to insult, though he may have felt some discomfort at having spoken of what he now knew should have been kept a secret. He smiled and stood, collecting his hat. “I shall return at a time more convenient, sir.” He offered us both a bow and was gone.

I had not stirred from my chair. Sarmento remained standing. I enjoyed the feeling of power his distress gave me. “I did not know you to be a member of the Church of England,” I said in a relaxed and easy voice. “What thinks my uncle of this?”

Sarmento clenched and unclenched his fists. “You have me at a disadvantage, Weaver. You are correct to assume your uncle does not know. I do not think he would understand, but I have found a home in the Church, and I need not feel judged by you, who adher to no religion at all.”

“I remember quite clearly,” I mused, “that you accused me of speaking too much like an Englishman. ‘We do not speak thus,’ you said to me. A mere deception to confuse me?”

“Just so,” he said blandly.

“I am interested to have settled that you are comfortable deceiving others. Please understand that I did not come here to discuss religion with you, sir. I care not for what you believe nor whom you worship, though I do care of your playing games with my uncle’s confidence.” He attempted to interrupt me, no doubt to say something insulting, but I would not have it. “I came to learn why you were in that crowd the other night, sir, outside the masquerade ball.”

“For what reason,” he snapped, “should I answer any of your impertinent questions?”

“Because,” I said as I stood to face him, “I wish to know whether or not you have played some role in the murder of my father.”

His face turned ashen. He took a step back as though I had slapped him. He looked much like a puppet at a Smithfield droll—his mouth opened and closed without making a sound and his eyes grew absurdly large. Finally he began to sputter, “Surely you don’t think . . . you cannot mean that . . .” Then something in him clicked like the gears of a machine. “What reason could I possibly have to kill Samuel Lienzo?”

“Then what were you doing in the crowd outside the Haymarket?” I demanded.

“If you suspect everyone in that crowd,” he stammered, “then you will have much work to do speaking to all of them. And what has that crowd to do with your father’s death?”

“It’s not the crowd that concerns me,” I said harshly. “I suspect you.”

“I think much of this Kingdom would be shocked to learn that it is a Jewish belief that any man who would become a Christian would commit a murder.”

“Do not play the Jew-hater with me, sir.” I felt myself redden. “I know that rhetoric far too well to be intimidated by it, particularly when it comes from the mouth of one such as you. What were you doing there, Sarmento?”

“What do you think I was doing there? I was looking for Miriam. I knew she was placing herself at risk with that rake, and I was merely there to make sure he tried nothing that would dishonor her. It was happenstance that I became separated from her and came upon the crowd surrounding the man you felt inclined to kill. I saw you had been seized by the constables, but it would have done no good for me to step forward. I could hardly have vouched for your character, when I think so little of it.”

“Are you certain that is the only reason you were at the Haymarket that night?”

“Of course I am certain. Don’t be irritating.”

“Your presence there had nothing to do with my inquiry?”

“Damn your inquiry, Weaver. I care not whether it is your inquiry into the South Sea or into Miriam’s money. Why can you not mind your own affairs?”

I then understood his agitation. “Miriam told you that she believed me to be inquiring into her finances.”

“Quite so,” he said proudly, as though he did not understand the words, “it was I who told her that your business with your uncle was to discover what had happened to her money.”

“Why did you tell her that?”

“Because I believed it to be true. The stories about you and the South Sea Company and such had not yet begun to circulate about the ’Change. I could imagine no other reason for your uncle to welcome you back.”

“Why do you follow Miriam, Sarmento? Is it not clear that she cares nothing for you? Do you really believe that you can win her?”

“It is none of your concern, I promise you, for she will never consent to a marriage with a ruffian like you. And to win her, I only need her to give me one more chance.”

“One more chance at what?”

Sarmento opened his mouth to speak, but stopped himself. A heavy blush began to spread across his face like a ruddy shadow.

“One more chance at what?” I repeated.

“To get her money back.” He nearly shouted. “She’d been asking me to manage her investments, and I did well at first. But I made some foolish moves.”

“How much did you lose?”

He shook his head. “More than a hundred pounds.” He let out a long, almost comic sigh. “After that she had me relinquish all control over her funds. One foolish move, one stupid mistake, and ’Change Alley unmanned me in a single day. She entrusted her money to Deloney. I tried to warn her that he was a profligate rogue, but she would not listen.”

“She listened to me,” I told him. “I’ve exposed Deloney.”

Sarmento gasped. “Then where is her money now? Perhaps I can reclaim it.”

“Her money isn’t the same thing as her heart. You seem to forget that.”

Sarmento laughed. “You may believe what you wish.”

I waved my hand in dismissal. I had not come here to learn of Sarmento’s feelings for Miriam. “I have more important business with you—and that is your connection to Martin Rochester.”

“Rochester?” he asked. “What have I to do with him?”

“What do you know of him?” I demanded, raising my voice and taking a step forward.

Sarmento was clearly shaken. “I know nothing of him, Weaver. He’s a jobber. I’ve heard his name, and that is all. He and I have had no dealings.”

I did not misbelieve him. Sarmento was an unpleasant man, but he was a transparent one. I did not believe he could lie to me on this matter and convince me. I took a few steps back to indicate that I would not harm him.

“I came here because a man I know told me he had overheard you speaking of me in connection with Rochester,” I told him.

A strange look of pleasure spread upon Sarmento’s face, as though he had been waiting all along to tell me what he now had to say. “I believe I might have mentioned your name. There was some betting to be done—whether you would survive your inquiry. A gentleman offered to bet that you would be dead before the end of December. I put down fifty pounds that you would yet live.”

This news truly astonished me. “I am gratified by your confidence,” I told him blankly.

“Don’t be. I was merely handling the odds as I have been taught to in ’Change Alley. You see, it is a perfect bet, Weaver. Either way, I win something.”

“Tell me,” I said as I opened his door, “for I really wish to understand. I have lived among the Christians for ten years now, but I have never felt compelled to become one of them. What is it that has driven you to do so?”

“You have lived among them,” he said as he turned to leave the drawing room. “I should like to do the same.”