A Conspiracy of Paper

THIRTY-FOUR

I THOUGHT THAT I should be brought before the magistrate that night, but this proved not to be the case. Perhaps there were far too many witnesses to call on—witnesses of degree and rank—and the hour was too late to begin such an affair. In any case, the gentlemen who held me turned me over to the constables, who locked me in the Poultry Compter for the night. I fortunately had enough silver on me to procure a private closet on the Master’s Side that I might avoid the horrors of that jail, for the Common Side is among the most foul and wretched of places upon this earth.

My closet was small, smelling of mold and perspiration, and furnished with naught but a broken wooden chair and a hard straw bed, which, had I used, I would have been forced to share with a colony of gregarious lice. I sat down on the chair and attempted to think of some course of action. It was hard to know what to think or how to proceed, for I knew not with what I would be charged come morning. Much would depend not only on Sir Owen’s condition but also on the nature of the witnesses the constables brought forward.

My case was dire, and I concluded that I had few options other than to impose on my uncle, and ask of him to offer something to the magistrate that I might not be bound over for trial. I could in no way be sure that a bribe would work. If Sir Owen was dead, I should certainly be charged with manslaughter, if not murder—no bribe could hope to convince him to alter his ruling if it was a clear attack against a man of Sir Owen’s breeding. But if the baronet was only injured, I flattered myself that I might hope to escape a trial.

I called for the turnkey and told him I wished to procure of him some paper and a pen, and then I wished to send a message. I was not certain I would have enough silver upon me for the exorbitantly priced goods, but as it turned out the prices mattered little. “I can sell you paper and pen,” the short, greasy-skinned fellow told me as he tried to keep his stringy hair from his eyes, “but I can’t have nothing delivered for you.”

“I don’t understand,” I said, still in something of a stupor. “For what reason?”

“Orders,” he explained, as if that one word clarified everything.

“Whose orders?” I had never heard of a prison refusing to allow its inmate to send messages. I had never heard of a turnkey refusing to earn a little silver by doing so.

“I can’t say,” he replied stoically. He began to pick at some loose skin about his neck.

I believe my voice betrayed my inability to believe what I heard. “Does this apply to all the men you hold here?”

He laughed. “Oh, no. The other gentlemen are free to send such messages as they like. How else could I buy my bread? This is only for you, Mr. Weaver. We can’t let you send any messages. That’s what we been told.”

“I should like to speak to the master of the prison,” I told him in a stern voice.

“Certainly.” He continued to pick away. “He’ll be in sometime tomorrow afternoon. I don’t think you’ll still be here, but if you are, you can speak with him then.”

I considered my options for a moment. Breaking this fellow’s neck struck me as a pleasant enough method to get what I wanted, but not a very wise one. I thought on a less violent plan. “I shall make your arranging for a message to be delivered well worth your while.”

He only smiled. “It’s already been made worth my while to see otherwise. Shall I fetch you that paper and pen?”

“Who has paid you to prevent me from sending messages?” I demanded.

He shrugged. “I can’t tell you that, sir.”

He hardly needed to, for I had my suspicions. “Do you really wish to commit yourself to dealing with a man such as Wild?” I asked the guard.

He merely smiled. “Well, I reckon that in certain kinds of trade, one cannot but deal with Mr. Wild, don’t you think?”

I thought on my uncle’s words: Mr. Mendes likes to say that in certain kinds of trade, one cannot but deal with Wild. “Give my regards to Mr. Mendes,” I muttered.

He showed me a rotted grin. “You’re a clever one, aren’t you? I’m almost sorry I tangled with you, sir, but that Wild’s a mite cleverer, I suppose.”

I sent the impudent blackguard away. I could not believe my illfortune. My lines of communication had surely been severed in order to make it impossible to send precisely the sort of message I wished to send. If I should be prevented from reaching my uncle, it was almost certain that whoever plotted against me would also see to it that I stood trial. I could not imagine the South Sea Company would relish such a thing—indeed, if I were bound over for trial I should consider my life at risk at every moment, for the South Sea Company had much to lose from a trial. The Bank of England had a great deal to gain, however, and I could only assume that Bloathwait was behind this plot to isolate me.

I slept not at all that night, but neither did I think much on what had happened to me nor of what I had seen. I sat in my uncomfortable, broken wooden chair and tried to banish it all from my mind. But I could not quite dismiss the sight of pretty Sarah Decker. If she was Sarah Decker, who had I met earlier that day, and what could that meeting mean? I found myself, as Adelman had said, in a labyrinth in which I could not see what lay ahead or even behind. I only knew where I was—and I was trapped.

THE NEXT MORNING I was brought to the magistrate. Justice Duncombe faced me in his house on Great Hart Street. “I am astonished,” he said, and clearly he was so. “Mr. Weaver, once again, and a matter of murder, once again. Really, sir, I see I must lock you up forthwith before you depopulate the entire metropolis.”

I swallowed hard at the word murder. I must confess that the situation terrified me, for it boded ill to say the least. “Am I to understand that Sir Owen is indeed dead, your honor?”

“No,” Duncombe explained. “The physician has explained that Sir Owen’s wounds are superficial and that he is expected to make a full recovery. There is the matter of this other fellow, the footman, Dudley Roach, who is indeed quite dead. Tell me, Mr. Weaver, are you pleased or displeased about the expectation of Sir Owen’s recovery?”

“I must confess I am of mixed emotions,” I said boldly, “but in truth I should prefer him to be alive that he might be forced to confess of his crimes. I hope he will be well guarded that he might not escape.”

“It is your crimes that we are here to discuss,” the magistrate sneered, “not those of a baronet.”

I held myself straight and spoke with confidence. “I am convinced the witnesses of the event will testify that Sir Owen fired a gun at me and attacked me. It was he who shot this footman, who was but an unfortunate witness to Sir Owen’s rampage. I wished only to defend myself and to apprehend a man whose crimes should be notorious. That I injured him was an accident—no more.”

“From what I hear of the constables,” he replied, “that is not the case. It appears you attacked Sir Owen, and if he was zealous in his defense, the outcome of the conflict may justify his concern. If you incited him with an attack, and he felt the need to defend himself, the charge of manslaughter must be brought against you, not Sir Owen. Do you not agree?”

I did not agree, and I told him as much.

Duncombe asked me an endless series of questions about what had happened, and I answered as best I could without revealing anything of the forged South Sea issues. I said only that I had come to learn that Martin Rochester had committed several murders and that Sir Owen was indeed Martin Rochester. As it had the night before in the theatre, this information elicited no small surprise. Duncombe stared at me with astonishment, while the crowd in the courtroom erupted in a loud murmur. The magistrate banged his gavel and restored a respectful quiet.

“If you knew this man to be what you say,” he asked me, “why did you not seek a warrant for his arrest?”

This question surprised me, and I had no answer. I feared Duncombe believed my confusion a sign that he had caught me in a lie.

He questioned me for what felt like hours, though I believe it was not nearly so long. Duncombe then began the task of questioning the witnesses. I shall not ask my reader to endure what I endured, listening to the endless details of my conflict with Sir Owen. It is enough to say that more than a dozen witnesses offered testimony, and none of them sought to exonerate me.

Faced with the arbitrary nature of our legal system, I had cause to worry, for if someone in power wished me bound over for trial, then I could see no way to avoid that fate. And it was not without some self-condemnation that I considered the death of this innocent footman. While he had fallen victim of Sir Owen’s somewhat changeable humor, it was a humor I had provoked, and I now knew that I had provoked Sir Owen based on a deception. Someone had gone to a great deal of difficulty to make certain that I believed Sir Owen had lied to me. Someone had arranged for an impersonator to expose me to lies that could only make me believe Sir Owen a rascal. I no longer knew what to believe.

Duncombe’s questioning of the witnesses lasted more than four hours, and I was too exhausted by its conclusion even to guess how the judge would rule. I could see no reason why he would not bind me over for trial, and this prospect terrified me. At last, having heard all the witnesses, the judge announced that he was ready to make his decision.

I sought for signs in the way he held himself, wishing to know my fate before he could pronounce it, but I could divine nothing from the judge’s stern and unflinching countenance.

“Mr. Weaver, you are without doubt a dangerous and excitable man, and you clearly agitated Sir Owen, but you never obligated him to produce a weapon nor to discharge it so recklessly. I suspect you may give me cause to wish, in future times, that Sir Owen had been a better aim, but that is not our concern here today. I find no reason to charge you with manslaughter. If Sir Owen wishes to prosecute you for assault, then I fear I shall see you before this court shortly. I heartily wish you may work things out amongst yourselves. You may go.”

I realized later that I should have felt myself awash with relief, but perhaps I was too disordered. I knew not how to understand his decision. I could only presume that Duncombe had been bribed on my behalf, but who had interceded for me? Had my uncle been informed of my danger in time to intervene? If so, why was he not in the court?

I made my way through the crowd, wanting only to remove myself from that horrid building—before the magistrate changed his mind, I thought. Elias later told me that he was there and grabbed my arm as I passed him, but I have no recollection of seeing him. I shoved my way forward, moving with the plodding determination of a dull ox until I escaped from the confines of the judge’s court and breathed in the foul-smelling and misty air of the London afternoon. As bad an odor as was in the air that day, and as cloudy and unwelcoming was the weather, I basked in it with a satisfaction I cannot describe. It was a moment of relief, and the knowledge that the relief would be but fleeting made it all the more sweet.

My reverie lasted but a minute, and when the world crystallized before me, as it does after one rubs his eyes, I immediately recognized the coach and the East Indian servant boy as belonging to Nathan Adelman. I stared at the chair for a moment until Adelman poked his head out the window and invited me in.

I stared blankly. I felt as though uttering any sound should take more strength than I had.

“We have won the day, I see.” He was not quite grinning, but he glowed with satisfaction. “No easy man, that Duncombe, but he saw reason in the end. Climb in, Weaver.”

“I am astonished,” I said as I stepped up into his coach, “to see you emerge as my ally. I should have thought the Company would be nothing but delighted to witness my ruin.” I took a seat across from the great financier, and the coach heaved forward, headed to I knew not where.

Adelman smiled at me, as though we were to go for a charming ride in the country together. Indeed, his plump little form had every appearance of the proper English gentleman. “I believe that before last evening we would have delighted in your ruin, but things have now changed, and I can assure you that you should be grateful that we struck a bargain with the justice here before our friends at the Bank of England. You can be certain they would have seen to it that you stood trial.”

“Of course.” I nodded. “I would have been forced to explain my actions, and this explanation would involve the public revelation of Sir Owen’s involvement in the forging of South Sea issues.”

“Precisely. In the end, I am grateful for your involvement, for we have learned the identity of Rochester, and he will no longer cause the Company any difficulties.”

I breathed in deeply. “I am no longer convinced that Sir Owen is Martin Rochester, only that someone has gone to great lengths to make me believe it so.”

Adelman stared at me. “I have no doubt that Sir Owen is the man. The Company, I can assure you, has no doubt. And it seems that there are others that have no doubt.”

“How do you mean?” I inquired.

“Sir Owen,” he said slowly, “is dead.”

I am not ashamed to own that I grew disoriented, and I grasped at an armrest inside the coach. “I was assured his wounds were superficial.” I could not understand what Adelman told me. If Sir Owen was dead, why had I not been charged with murder?

“The wounds he received from his fall were superficial,” Adelman explained. His voice was calm, controlled—almost soothing. “But he received other wounds. As he left his physician’s house this morning, he was set upon by a ruffian who stabbed him quite mercilessly in the throat. Sir Owen survived this attack by only a few minutes.”

I knew not if I felt anger or elation, fear or joy. “Who was this ruffian?” I demanded.

“The villain quite escaped.” He flashed me a smile, a look of unrestrained mischief. I should have liked to have seen villainy, but there was something boyish, pranksterish about his look. Adelman wished me to know that the South Sea Company had disposed of Sir Owen. “It’s rather shocking he could have gotten away, with all those people there,” he said, smirking. “Sir Owen was a man with many enemies, and I suppose we shall never know the truth of it.”

“I quite believe it,” I said, conveying more to Adelman with my looks than my words. “We shall never know a great deal, I have begun to realize.”

“But there were papers found upon Sir Owen’s body that suggest unequivocally that he was the man known as Martin Rochester. There was even a draft of a letter, written to one of the South Sea directors.” Adelman handed me several folded pieces of paper.

I opened them to find a difficult hand, but I scanned the pages quickly. The letter was as Adelman claimed. “I seek now only to allow the Company to proceed with its plan,” it said. “In exchange for the consideration of thirty thousand pounds, I shall quit this isle, never to return nor speak of what has passed here.”

I handed him back the letter. “It looks enough like what little of Sir Owen’s hand as I have seen,” I said. “But then the matter before us is forgery.”

“You can rest assured that the man who murdered your father has been punished.”

I shook my head. “How did you get this letter from his person?”

“We could take no chances.”

“I see that,” I said dryly.

“Surely you do not believe that the South Sea Company had him murdered,” Adelman said with a gregarious smile. He wished to make certain I had no ambiguity in my mind. I think, however, the look upon my face was one of confusion—though of a moral rather than a factual nature. “Weaver,” he said in response, “I would have thought you might be happier at having found your justice.”

My stomach churned. I knew I should feel that this unpleasant affair had reached a resolution, but I could not quite believe it. “I wish I knew that I had,” I said quietly. “I assume, sir, that you still wish to deny any involvement in the attacks on my person?”

Adelman’s face flushed a bit. “I shall not lie to you, Mr. Weaver. We took measures that we found distasteful because we believe the good of the nation depends upon it. When the South Sea Company receives approval from Parliament to launch its plan to reduce the national debt, I do not doubt but that we shall be applauded throughout the Kingdom for our ingenuity in aiding the nation and our investors.”

“And yourselves, I am certain.”

He smiled. “We are public servants, but we wish to enrich ourselves as well. And if we can do all these things, I cannot see why we should not. In any event, the exigencies of the moment forced us to behave in ways that we wished avoidable. The attacks upon you on the street and at Heidegger’s masquerade were regrettable, but I can assure you we never wished you any real harm—only to convince you that the cost of looking into this nasty business would prove too dear. I see now that these attacks only drove you on. In my defense I must tell you that I argued against any efforts to intimidate you with violence, but in the Company I am but one voice.”

I was speechless for a moment, but I found my voice soon enough, though my teeth gritted together. My mouth grew suddenly dry. “In those attacks I was set upon by the very man who ran down my father. Surely you cannot expect me to believe—”

“We can only imagine,” Adelman interrupted, “that Sir Owen exerted his influence with the desperate fellows we employed—for how can men of that order be aught but desperate, and therefore infinitely corruptible—to insert his element within the gang. The blackguard you killed—the man who killed Samuel—was none of our hiring, I can assure you. As for the rest, I presume that Sir Owen swayed the ruffians in our employ that he might have use of them on occasions such as these. Nevertheless, for the small harm we intended, I must apologize to you. I believe we owe you much, and you, indeed, owe us much. For as you have relieved us from the threat of a pernicious forger, we have rescued you from the consequences of your actions and from the clutches of those who would have forced a trial that I need not tell you could easily have concluded with your hanging. Is it not time for us to reach a rapprochement?”

“A rapprochement,” I observed, “that I am certain will involve a promise on my part of silence.”

“Indeed, and I do not think it much to ask. You have, after all, uncovered the identity of your father’s murderer, which is what you desired, and this fiend has surely paid the ultimate price for his crimes. I cannot think but that your reputation will grow of this. Further, we shall pay you one thousand pounds in company stock. I think this a most amicable offer.”

I shook my head. “How can I trust what you say, Mr. Adelman? Did you not, in the South Sea House, look me in the eye and tell me things you knew to be utterly false—that the Bank had deceived me, that you knew of no connection between Rochester and my father’s death?”

Adelman’s jowly face quivered as he sighed. “Alas, lying to you then was necessary. It is no longer so.”

“So you say. But how am I to know that? Your word is meaningless. You have rendered it so. Now you tell me to believe you, but there is no basis for that belief.”

He smiled. “You need only choose to believe, Mr. Weaver. That is your basis.”

“Like the new finance,” I observed. “It is true only so long as we believe it to be true.”

“The world has changed, you know. You can either change with it and prosper or shake your fists at the heavens. I prefer to do the former. What about you, Mr. Weaver? What do you prefer?”

I thought that I should not hold myself indebted to the South Sea Company and that a man of principle would reject their bargain, but I needed the money. Part of me wished to ask for more, for what was the harm in asking for more of something that could be printed for the mere cost of paper yet exchanged for real money, assuming there existed such a thing. In the end I accepted this offer and I kept silent of their secret for as long as it mattered, and perhaps even longer. I suppose it no longer matters who knows of these things, and in light of the disaster that the South Sea Company was yet to face, I think hardly anyone would care now that once false stock circulated among murderers and their victims.