A Conspiracy of Paper

THIRTY-THREE

IT OCCURRED TO ME as I approached the theatre at Drury Lane that I had no evidence with which to call in a constable, but I could wait no longer to confront this man. He had killed Kate Cole because she was able to identify him, and it was likely that he would kill again to keep his secret. After all, he had little to lose. Were he caught, he could be hanged but once, regardless of the numbers of dead attributed to his wickedness.

My heart hammered within my chest, and I found it difficult to think clearly. In my mind I had a vision of Sir Owen at my mercy as I beat him and beat him again until he confessed to the villainy of his actions, until he begged my forgiveness for all he had done. I knew I had to guard against my impulse to act out this dangerous fancy, for I should not find the consequences pleasant were I to attack a baronet, without clear provocation, before a crowded theatre. But what other choices did I have? I could bring him before South Sea House and ask them to tend to their counterfeiter. I could not be sure they would punish him, however. They might be content to send him out of the country with a promise never to speak of what he knew. There were certainly other options. I could ruin Sir Owen’s reputation, publish a pamphlet exposing him as a murderer and a stock-jobber. And if that approach did not prove sufficient, I knew no small number of blackguards who would gladly do far more permanent damage in exchange for a kind word, a few shillings, and a promise of a full purse to be found upon Sir Owen’s body.

I was pleased to see that the theatre was quite full, in part, no doubt, because the opening piece of German jugglers and ropedancers was a significant attraction in the city—certain unruly elements enjoyed spending their time hooting and throwing refuse at Germans, and the rest of the audience enjoyed watching the assault. For Elias’s sake I hoped that the crowd would give the evening’s comedy a warmer reception than they gave our King’s countrymen. By the time I arrived, the opening performers had completed their act, and the audience engaged itself in the pleasantries of the social world while awaiting The Unsuspecting Lover.

The lower level of the theatre was crowded with the sort who frequented the pit upon such occasions. There were, of course, many of London’s lower orders who could afford only the mean price of a pit ticket, and intermingled amongst them were the young sparks who approved of the freedom the pit gave them to make merry and to generate confusion.

Sir Owen, I knew, was of the temperament of these fellows, but hardly of an age where such diversions are acceptable. A man of his standing would no doubt seek higher ground, and I therefore sought him upon the upper levels. Rather rudely, I think, I made my way to the balconies, shoving aside all who stood in my path. Without concern for propriety, I stuck my head in many a box, looking for my man. The aisles were thick with gentlemen and beaux and ladies and coquettes who had little or no concern for what happened upon the stage, caring only for the latest gossip or the opportunity to take note of one another. The theatre was, as it remains today, a fashionable place of making and improving acquaintance. That there are men and women below who perform for their entertainment is merely an added delight—or, for some, a distraction.

I should have behaved in a subtle manner to make my approach invisible, but my frenzy and expression must have betrayed me, for the object of my search saw me at the precise moment I saw him. He was in a box across the way with another gentleman and two ladies of fashion. Our eyes locked for a moment, and I was sure at that instant that he knew what I knew, and he knew that I was in no mood to let the wheels of ineffectual justice grind over this matter.

I dashed through the hall outside the balconies—as much as the crowd would permit dashing—and boldly entered Sir Owen’s box. I must have cut a dreadful figure, my clothes somewhat disheveled, my hair awry, my face flushed from heavy breathing. The baronet’s companions stared at me with utter disbelief—as though a tiger had suddenly wandered into their box. One of the ladies, a pretty woman of copper hair in a gold-and-black gown, placed a hand to her mouth.

“How unexpected,” Sir Owen stammered. He stood up and dusted himself off awkwardly. “Did we have an appointment?” he asked in a low tone. “I must have erred terribly. I do apologize. Perhaps we can meet on another occasion.”

“We shall meet now,” I said, unimpressed by his efforts to salvage the situation from social ruin. “It is best if your friends know what you are.”

I knew I had frightened the woman in the gold-and-black gown, for she now placed two of her gloved fingers in her mouth and began to chew upon them. The other gentleman, a gouty older fellow—far too old for the young woman he held in attendance—proved no less fearful than his companions of the other sex. He pretended to look out into the audience for an acquaintance, muttering to himself that the rascal was not to be seen.

“Good God, Weaver.” Sir Owen cast twitchy glances between me and the people in his party. “We may discuss of this matter later, I say. I shall come pay you a visit in the morning.”

“Yes,” said the gouty man, emboldened by Sir Owen’s restraint. “Run along, I say.”

I ignored this man. “Sir Owen,” I hissed, barely able to contain my rage, “you will come with me now.”

“Go with you?” he asked incredulously. “Are you mad, Weaver, to think you may order me about? Where would I go with you?”

“To South Sea House,” I said. I had no intention of taking him there, but I wished to let him know that I knew of his connection to that place.

He laughed aloud. “I think not. I find it wisest never to go to such places, I assure you.”

“Nevertheless,” I told him, “you will attend me there.”

Sir Owen was trapped. He knew it. He wanted desperately to talk his way out of this confrontation, and he could not think how. “You have quite forgotten yourself. I am a gentleman, in the company of a gentleman and ladies. You may have business with me, but I assure you there is an appropriate time and place. I have no patience for any hot-tempered Jews just now, so get you gone and I shall call on you should I see fit.”

I felt nothing at that moment but a murderous rage. I confess, reader, that I was an eye-blink away from grabbing this pompous villain by the neck and strangling him upon the spot. For him to affront me in this way when he had committed so terrible a crime against me and my family was more than I could endure. I think that this rage I felt must have indeed shown itself upon my face, for Sir Owen saw it. He saw what was in my heart and he knew he was seconds away from feeling my wrath.

In a word, he ran.

It was well that Sir Owen was no young or sprightly man, for while my leg ached terribly, I was able to keep pace with him. He dove quite suddenly into the crowd and rudely shoved several gentlemen and ladies aside, and I suspect the moment he behaved so abominably in public he knew there was no turning back, for how could he account for this behavior? This realization only made him desperate, and he knocked patrons out of the way with increasing determination, rushing for the exit as if it were the gateway to safety itself. I, for my part, attempted to play the courteous pursuer, but there can be no doubt that I was guilty of my share of bruises and bumps.

The Unsuspecting Lover began upon the stage, but the scuffle in the balcony had already attracted the notice of the patrons in the pit. In Elias’s opening scene, his protagonist and his friend projected their voices loudly, complaining of their distresses in love, but even in my pursuit I could hear an unmistakable note of desperation as the actors sensed that something entirely unrelated to their performances had arrested the audience’s attention.

I knew not where Sir Owen hoped to go, and in truth I suspect he knew not either, for soon he found himself at the end of the balcony, no stairs in sight, and nowhere to go but toward me or thirty feet down to the stage. Panicked, he reached into his waistcoat and revealed an ornately decorated pistol of gold and pearl. I too had my pistol upon me, but I was not reckless enough as to fire it in so crowded a venue.

Seeing him remove his weapon, the ladies in our immediate vicinity let out a series of horrified and shrill cries, and this sound sent a wave of panic that spread throughout the theatre. I heard the rumble of footsteps below as half the crowd looked upward and the other half scrambled for a better vantage from which to view the commotion. Understanding the precariousness of his position, Sir Owen attempted a narrative that would shield him from the censure of others.

“Weaver,” he shouted, “why do you pursue me?” He turned to the crowd, which had begun to settle. Sir Owen placed one hand on his hip and thrust his chest outward—as now he found himself the central attraction in the theatre, perhaps he thought he should conduct himself like a tragedian. “This man is mad. It is in Bedlam he belongs, not at the playhouse.”

“Surely it is you who do not belong here,” I said calmly, “for such a poor performance would put even Drury Lane to shame.”

This quip drew a few laughs from the audience, but only unsettled Sir Owen even more. “Perhaps you should give some thought to who I am,” he said, waving his pistol about, “and what courtesies belong to me.”

Having reached an impasse, I thought it best to lay my cards on the table and see what came of it. “As you have surmised,” I shouted, for during my time as a pugilist I had learned a thing or two about projecting my voice, “I have discovered that you are indeed the same person as Martin Rochester, the most notorious and unscrupulous stock-jobber ever to live. Consequently, I know you to be responsible for several murders: those of Michael Balfour, Kate Cole the whore, very likely Christopher Hodge, the bookseller, and, of course, my father, Samuel Lienzo.”

A murmur went up in our surroundings. “What? Sir Owen is Martin Rochester?” Below I saw young men pointing upward. Women of his acquaintance gasped in shock. The words murder and stock-jobber circulated like handbills.

Sir Owen responded to this accusation about as badly as he could have. He was trapped. He could think of nothing. I had exposed him before all of London. Perhaps if what I had said was untrue and he had laughed off the accusations he might have preserved his name and his reputation, at least for that evening. Rather than countering my claims, however, he acted the part of a desperate man. He fired his pistol at me.

The crack of the pistol forged a momentary pocket of silence in the excited theatre, and the smell of burning powder hung in the air. Everyone, even the desperate players upon the stage, paused to inspect their persons for signs of penetration. It was my good fortune that Sir Owen possessed no good aim, and he missed my person, but a liveried footman who stood some ten feet behind me, gawking at my confrontation with the baronet, fared not so well. The ball of lead struck him squarely in the chest, and he staggered backward and dropped to the floor. He gaped with utter surprise at the red stain that spread across his livery. It was as though someone had tipped over a bottle of wine upon a tablecloth and no one could think of what to do. He looked upon his injury for a quarter of a minute, and then, without letting out a groan, he toppled over and expired.

I could hear nothing in the theatre but the actors haplessly intoning their lines below. This quiet passed in but an instant, however, and the panic rose from a light simmer to a boil as the patrons rushed to the exits to escape Sir Owen’s murderous rampage. Unwilling to let him pass me by in the mayhem, I plunged forward, intending I know not what—perhaps to pummel him into unconsciousness and drag him before the magistrate. The truth is that I had no plan and I knew not what to do beyond the instant.

Madly, Sir Owen arose and attempted to strike me upon the face with his hot pistol, but I dodged his blow easily and responded with a calmly executed punch to his ample belly. As I expected, he doubled over and dropped his now-useless firearm. But he did not quit. He was desperate, and he would fight until he escaped me or until he could fight no more.

The baronet took a step backward and reached for his hangar. I therefore reached for mine, and had it out and at the ready before he had even drawn his. I made the mistake of believing that I should have the clear advantage in this arena. I stepped forward, ready to drive my sword through his body.

Sir Owen took his first pass at me, a nimble and well-executed thrust aimed for my upper chest. A scoundrel like Sir Owen did not live to be his age by being a mean swordsman, and I confess I felt a tinge of fear as I hastily parried the thrust and attempted to conceive of a strategy. I had been overconfident, for I was not the master of all the arts of self-defense, and saw at once that Sir Owen could prove to be a match for me.

Despite his frenzy, Sir Owen held his blade with a kind of instinctive aplomb, and he moved it gracefully as he slashed back and forth with a few strikes meant merely to disorder me. I should like to say that the sword seemed an extension of his arm, but if that had been the case the sword should have been fat and ungainly—it was more as though the arm became an extension of his light and delicate weapon, and Sir Owen, under its spell, moved with equal parts grace and violence.

These were not conditions under which I relished taking on a skilled opponent with murderous intent. Let me assure you, reader, a strategy is a difficult matter to formulate when parrying blades with a villain in a theatre crowded with hundreds of panicked patrons screaming and fleeing for the doors.

Sir Owen launched another attack, aimed again for my chest, but at the last moment he shifted targets downward, thinking thereby to slash my leg and impair my ability to maneuver. I only narrowly blocked his thrust and then countered with a passionate jab toward his side, under his right arm, hoping he would have trouble blocking this blow. For a man his size, he maneuvered with stunning quickness, effectively avoiding my advance.

Although I was forced to concede that he was a man of exceptional swordsmanship, when I looked at his face I saw none of the pleasure that a man takes at exercising his talents—only murderous passion. I thought Sir Owen’s passions would surely provide me with a considerable advantage, but there was none to be had. He made another pass, this time at my sword arm. I blocked it, but I felt our blades lock. In my efforts to regain control of my sword, I applied far too much pressure to my weak leg, and the pain, shooting through my body, distracted me for an instant. It was an instant too long, for Sir Owen took advantage of my confusion, and spinning his hangar deftly, he deprived me of mine, which arose in a high arc and clattered to the ground some fifteen feet from where I stood.

I thought that he would now surely flee, but his own rage and terror clouded his judgment. I have rarely in my life seen anything so horrific and yet comical as his face, now deep red—almost purple—in color, except for his lips, pressed together so hard as to be ghastly white. He stared at me, holding his blade outward. “You have ruined me,” he said in a low growl, barely audible over the noise of the terrified crowd.

He intended to run me through. I was sure of it. I could have escaped, I suppose. I might have gotten away unscathed, but I could not bear the thought of fleeing, of running from this villain whom I had labored so hard to find. So I did what he no doubt never imagined an unarmed sane man would do to a sword-bearing adversary; I rushed him.

I lunged forward, ignoring the sting that made me feel as if my limb should snap in two. Surprised at first by my dash toward him, Sir Owen held forth his sword in the hopes of running me through, but I was on no self-destructive course. Instead, using a trick I had learned fighting upon the streets, I dropped downward and tackled his legs, hoping to topple him as one does pins upon the bowling green.

Sir Owen dropped his sword and, propelled by his efforts to flee, fell backward. He escaped my grip and scurried back upon his legs like a crab, reaching his feet again at the time I did. Now, against the rail of the balcony, he stepped up, I suppose to gain greater leverage, and aimed a blow at me. We had been reduced to two men, deprived of rank and station, matching our strength in a contest of rage. And it is no idle boast, reader, that, in a contest of this order—of fist and brawn and willingness to take punishment—a lazy, well-fed baronet stood not a chance against me.

Sir Owen swung and missed.

Unbalanced by the exertion of the blow, he propped himself up against the railing of the balcony. He swung again—recklessly and aimlessly. He knew not what he did, and he flailed about wildly. In the confusion caused by this mad offense, and the further force of the impressive blow with which I responded, the baronet lost his balance, and with a fearful yelp, fell backward, thirty feet down, onto the stage where the actors had been intrepidly continuing with Elias’s play. Their efforts had been valiant, but I suppose even those most disciplined of players could not ignore the arrival of a large baronet flung from the heavens.

I remained still, breathing heavily, my heart pounding and, indeed, my limbs shaking. I could not think of what to do next. I think but a moment passed, though it felt to me an endless expanse of time, before it occurred to me to determine if Sir Owen still lived.

I leaned over the rail to see if Sir Owen was dead, merely unconscious, or perhaps unharmed and ready to flee. But before I could gather a look, I was grabbed by countless hands who forced me to the ground and held me immobile. I was no longer Sir Owen’s accuser. I was no longer the man who stood between a deranged fool with a pistol and the innocent theatre-goers. I was now a Jew who had attacked, perhaps killed, a baronet.

Two stout-looking gentlemen held me in place. They struck me as capable-enough bucks, but I could probably have evaded them if I chose. But I did not so choose. I should have to face the law sooner or later, and I had no desire to risk an injury in an attempt to escape.

Around me the crowd swarmed violently. Some ran to view the form of Sir Owen on the stage below. Others milled about, looking as dazed as cattle. The copper-haired woman in gold and black who had sat in Sir Owen’s box screamed violently while a young gentleman attempted to comfort her. She cried out for some minutes and then she began to sob more gently. The young gentleman wisely began to move her closer to the stairway that he might deliver her of the theatre.

“You must be calm, Miss Decker,” he said. “You must not agitate yourself.”

I stared. I knew not what to think. “Decker,” I said aloud. “Sarah Decker?”

One of the men who held me looked at me quizzically. He surely found my curiosity as unaccountable as it was inappropriate. “What of it?”

“Do you know her?” I asked him. “Do you know that woman?”

“Yes,” he said, his face wrinkled with confusion.

“That is Sarah Decker?” I asked. I began to feel disoriented, even a little dizzy.

“Yes,” he repeated, somewhat irritably. “She is to marry the very man you have tried to murder.”

I could do nothing but let the men lead me away.