The Devil's Company

CHAPTER EIGHT

Y UNCLE AND MR. FRANCO BOTH MADE THEIR HOMES IN THE parish of St. James’s, Duke’s Place. I had for some years been living in the same parish, but upon the far less fashionable street of Greyhound Alley. Here the houses were full of Jews, both my family’s sort—the speakers of Portuguese, though coming from many nations—and those whom we called the Tudescos. They had their own name for themselves, but I could not say I knew what it was. These were the people of the Eastern European nations—Poland and Muscovy and the like—and they had been coming to this kingdom in increasing numbers. This fact caused some consternation among the Portuguese Hebrews, for while we had our share of the poor among us, these Jews were poor almost to a man and, with their old clothes trade and peddling, created a poor reputation for us among the Gentiles.

Most of those who lived in my house were Portuguese Jews, and I flattered myself that I possessed the finest rooms in the establishment. Here lodgings were inexpensive, and I had little trouble taking for myself three spacious rooms, airy in summer courtesy of several working windows and warm in winter from an adequate fireplace. Indeed, I suspected my landlord went to special trouble to make certain I remained comfortable, perceiving that having a man of my reputation about kept his house safe from intrusion and crime.

I would have liked to believe the same thing, but as I entered my rooms that night, one hand clutching an oil lamp to illuminate my way, I started to see a figure sitting in one of my chairs, hands folded in his lap, waiting patiently. I thought to drop my light and reach for a weapon, but in the flash of an instant I saw he made no hostile move. Whatever he wanted, he had not come to surprise me with violence. I therefore took my time and lit a few more lights. I never took my eye off of him, but I wished to create the impression that I was indifferent to his presence.

Once the room was sufficiently bright, I turned around and saw a rather large man staring at me with a familiar smile. Here was Mr. Westerly, who had come to me some weeks ago asking if I would attempt a break-in of the East India Company house. Now he sat, plump hands resting in his lap, as though no place in the world suited him so much as my rooms and my chair. His cheeks were pink with contentment, and his overly frizzed wig had sunk low to just above his eyes, creating the impression that he had fallen asleep.

“You don’t mind that I used your pot, I hope,” he said. “Came nowhere near to filling it, but there’s some that don’t like it when another man mixes his piss with their own.”

“Of the grievances I bear against you, a man who has entered my rooms without permission,” I said, “that may be the least. What do you want?”

“You would have been better to have concluded our business differently, I think. Now look at you, Weaver. You have made a bit of a mess for yourself, haven’t you?”

“Mr. Cobb strikes me as a tolerably stalwart figure,” I told him, applying my most unnerving stare. “You, however, do not. Perhaps I could learn a great deal about Mr. Cobb by applying my attentions to you.”

“That is a distinct possibility,” he agreed, “one you might be foolish to ignore. I am not a brave man, and I should collapse under torture quite easily, I think. I hate the thought of pain. Hate it tremendous. However, the same shackles that bind you in your actions against my colleague bind you against me. Harm me, sir, and your friends suffer.”

“Perhaps you will never be found. Cobb would have no way of knowing that I was the one who encouraged you to disappear.”

“My associates know where I am at this moment, have no fear. Claim what you like, sir, but no one would believe you. Indeed, for the sake of your uncle, you must hope I stumble upon no unhappy accidents on my way home.”

“For your sake,” I returned, “you had better hope I forget not prudence and cause you to stumble upon an unhappy accident within these walls.”

He nodded. “You are correct. It is ungentlemanly of me to torment you in this fashion. I have come to deliver a message, and knowing that yours is an uneasy position, I wish to do no more. You must not think we are your enemy, Mr. Weaver. It pains us, you must know, to treat you in this style. But we need you and you would not have us, and here is the result.”

“I have no interest in your protests. Deliver your message, and next time recall that I know well how to read. Further communications would be better sent by note than by mouth.”

“This one could not wait. I am come to repeat Mr. Cobb’s warning not to inquire into his business. It has come to his attention that your uncle and your associate have both been heard to ask inappropriate questions. As you and Mr. Gordon have met with your uncle this evening, and as you have then met with Mr. Franco, I cannot but think that you continue to pursue matters that you’ve been advised to leave alone.”

I said nothing. How could it be that they had known? The answer was most obvious. I was being followed, and not by Westerly, for so large a man could not hope to travel unseen in the streets. There were more who had followed me. Who was Jerome Cobb that so many men served him?

“I met with my uncle and my friend. What of it? We were as like to meet prior to these events as after.”

“Perhaps, but you discussed the matters at hand, did you not?”

“No,” I said.

Westerly shook his head. “I cannot believe that. And you would be wise, given the fragility of your situation, not only to avoid any wrongdoing but to avoid the appearance thereof.”

“I shan’t shun my friends,” I answered.

“No, pray don’t. But you must ask them to make no more inquiries.” Westerly pushed his bulk from my chair and steadied himself with his walking stick. “We know your nature, and know these efforts were inevitable, so you shan’t be punished this time. Now, however, you see that you cannot escape our gaze. Cease looking to wiggle free of the net. Accept your generous employment and do our bidding. The sooner our goals have been met, the sooner you will be free of our demands.”

Mr. Westerly bade me good night and departed my rooms.

TWO DAYS LATER I received a visit from Edgar, who wordlessly handed me a letter and then withdrew. His contusions had healed somewhat, but he nevertheless appeared badly used and was in no disposition to make friendly conversation with me.

In the privacy of my rooms, I opened the note and discovered the instructions Cobb had promised would be forthcoming. I was now to contact Mr. Ambrose Ellershaw of the East India Company, the man whose document I had stolen, and explain that, in the course of some unrelated thieftaking activity, I had happened upon the enclosed report. Recognizing the papers to be of likely importance to their rightful owner, I now wished to return them.

I took no pleasure in jumping to do Cobb’s bidding, but I did believe that moving forward in this matter was superior to not moving at all. Perhaps I would soon have a clearer sense of what I was to do and why Cobb was so anxious that I should be the one to do it.

I situated myself in a coffeehouse where I was known and sent the note as Cobb desired, instructing Ellershaw to send any answer to that location. I would pass the afternoon, I decided, reading the newspaper and sorting through my thoughts, but I had hardly an hour to myself. The same boy I sent out returned with an answer.

Mr. Weaver,

I am delighted beyond words to hear you have the documents you mentioned. Please come see me at your earliest convenience, which I hope will be this day, at Craven House. I assure you that your delivery and your urgency will be rewarded as they deserve, being the way friends are treated by

Amb. Ellershaw

I finished my dish of coffee, headed immediately to Leadenhall Street, and once more made my way to Craven House and the East India yards, though this time my approach was more direct and less dangerous. A guardian at the door—a handsome young fellow who, by his accent, had recently arrived from the country and could count his good fortune at finding such easy employment—allowed me to enter without molestation.

In the light of day the East India house appeared to be nothing so much as an old and unlovely building. It was, as we now know, outgrowing these old quarters, and the structure would be rebuilt in not many years’ time. For the nonce, however, it was spacious and indicated little of its purpose other than the paintings upon its edifice—a great ship bordered by two smaller ones—and the outer gate, which suggested that none but those with purpose might enter.

Inside, I found the house to be full of activity. Clerks rushed from here to there with bundles of papers pressed to their chests. Runners moved from the house to the warehouses, checking on quantities or delivering information. Servants scurried this way and that, delivering food to the hungry directors who labored tirelessly in the offices above.

Though I knew well where to find Ellershaw’s office, I inquired for the sake of appearances and then climbed the stairs. I found the door closed, so I knocked, and my actions were met with a gruff call to enter.

Here was the same room I had explored under cover of darkness. Now, in bright daylight, I saw that Ellershaw’s desk and bookshelves were of the most ornately carved oak. His window offered him an expansive view not only of the warehouses below but of the river in the distance and the ships upon it that brought him riches from so far away. And while in the darkness I had seen only that his walls were covered with framed pictures, now, in the afternoon glare, I could see the images.

At last I began to gather some understanding of why Cobb had so desired that I, and I alone, should deliver to Ellershaw his missing documents. I still had no idea what Cobb wanted of me and where his manipulations might lead me, but at least I understood why he required that it should be I, and no other, who engaged with Ellershaw.

Not all his pictures, mind you—for many depicted scenes of the East Indies—but many of them had a single focus. There were some dozen woodcuts and prints upon one wall that celebrated the life and exploits of Benjamin Weaver.

They spanned the course of my career. Ellershaw had a print of my early days as a pugilist, when I first made a name for myself. He had a print of my final match against the Italian, Gabrianelli. He even had a rather absurd rendering of me escaping without benefit of clothing from Newgate Prison, a consequence of my unfortunate involvement with parliamentary elections from earlier that year.

Mr. Ellershaw was, in short, an aficionado of the life of Benjamin Weaver. I had met men in the course of my work who recalled me from my days in the ring, and I flatter myself by observing that more than one of these recalled my fights with reverence and regarded me with special notice. I had never before met a man who seemed to collect images of me the way some odd fellows will collect bones or mummies or other curiosities from afar.

Ellershaw looked up from his work and an expression of pleased surprise came over his face. “Ah, you’re Benjamin Weaver. Ambrose Ellershaw at your service. Do sit down.” He spoke with a curious amalgam of gruffness and amicable cheer. Observing that my eyes went to his prints, he colored not a little. “You can see I’m no stranger to your doings, your comings and goings. I know full well about Benjamin Weaver.”

I sat across from him and offered a weak smile. I felt both awkward to be engaged in this charade of returning what I had stolen and embarrassed by his enthusiasm as well. “I am gratified and surprised by your attentions.”

“Oh, I have seen you fight many times,” he told me. “I even witnessed your final match against Gabrianelli—that was the night you broke your leg, you may recollect.”

“Yes,” I said stupidly, for I wondered how he thought I might somehow forget breaking my leg in the boxing ring.

“Yes, quite a sight, the breaking of your leg. I am glad you are here. May I see it?”

I own I showed the greatest surprise. “My leg?”

“No, you blockhead,” he barked, “the report. Give it me!”

I hid my surprise at the insult and handed the documents to him.

He opened the packet and examined the contents with evident approbation, leafing through the pages as though to make sure all was in order and nothing missing. He then took from a ceramic bowl, painted in red and black in the oriental design, a hard brownish thing that he placed in his mouth and began to chew methodically, working at it as though it tasted both horrible and unspeakably delicious. “Very good,” he mumbled, through his chewing. “Not a thing out of order, which is rather fortunate. Should have been a bit of work to replace. When I discovered it missing, I thought, Here is an opportunity to see Weaver at work in his newer capacity, but I was not entirely certain I had not left these at my country house. I had a servant searching, and I was awaiting his report every moment when I received your note instead. How very fortunate. Where did you find this?”

I had a lie prepared, so I answered with easy confidence. “I was in the process of apprehending a notorious dealer in stolen goods when I came across a number of personal items. When I saw these documents, I perceived them to be of significance, and I felt their owner would be happy to see them again.”

“Indeed I am,” he said, continuing to work his brown nugget with his back teeth. “Very good of you to make so free as to bring them to me. That is the great gift of this island to the rest of the world, you know: our freedom. No arsenal and no weapon in the arsenals of the world is so formidable as the will and moral courage of free men.”

“I had not thought of that,” I told him.

“Now, what can I offer you in compensation for your efforts?”

I mimicked giving this matter great thought. “The papers have no intrinsic value of their own, and I am used to receiving a guinea for the return of such an item, but as you did not employ me to search for your papers, and as finding them took no more effort than the actions for which I was already employed, I cannot in good conscience demand payment. I ask only that if the East India Company, in future times, requires the services of a man of my skills, you will not hesitate to call upon me.”

Ellershaw appeared to chew over the matter along with the strange wad of brownness, which by now had coated his teeth with a sepia film. He twisted his face into an unhappy frown. “Oh, no, that won’t do at all. Not at all. We cannot leave things hanging this way.”

I thought he should say more, but the conversation came to an abrupt end as he suddenly stopped speaking and winced, as though in the most sudden and excruciating pain. He gripped the side of his desk, clenched his eyes, and bit his lower lip. In a few seconds, the worst of it appeared to have passed.

“The damnable trouble. I must take my emulsion.” He pulled at a tasseled rope that dangled beside him, and in the distance I heard a bell ring. “What sort of employment do you seek?” he asked me.

I laughed dismissively. “I am fortunate enough to have no shortage of men in need of my talents, sir. I did not come here to beg employment of you at this moment, only to request that if, in the future, a need should arise, you might consider me your man.”

“That won’t do at all. I am too delighted to have met you at last to let you walk away on such uncertain terms. I know you are a man of some pride, a fighting man and all that. You won’t admit your needs, but it must be of some trouble to have to live from one found employment to the next.”

“It has never been a trouble before.”

“Of course it has,” Ellershaw explained, with an indulgent smile. “And look at you, sir. You put a good face on it with your clean suit and such, but any man can see you a Jew without too much squinting. It must be a terrible burden for you.”

“It has been a tolerable burden thus far.”

“And though it be a terrible burden, you still enjoy the freedom of an Englishman, almost as though you were one yourself. Is it not a glorious thing? Freedom is, as you must know, the right to question and change the established way of doing things. It is the continuous revolution of the marketplace, whether it be the market for Indian textiles or stolen watches, I suppose.”

“I honor your opinion on that subject.” I glanced longingly at the door.

“But as for being a Jew, I suppose that is another matter. Burdens are not part of freedom, of course. We must be free despite our burdens. Yet this whole Jew business—I am sure it prevents you from having serious congress with gentlemen, but I promise you that I am not of that sort. I don’t care about it, I tell you. I don’t care you look a Jew or have come here as little more than a beggar returning my stolen papers. It signifies nothing to me, and shall I tell you why?”

I begged that he would do so.

“Because I have seen you fight in the ring, sir. I know what sort of man you are, even if the rest of the world only spits upon you.”

“Begging your pardon,” I began.

He would not yield his pardon. “To the world, sir, you are but a lowly sneak thief, not suited to sweep their chimneys, but I see in you something far better. Indeed, I have something of an idea of what to do with you. Would you like to hear it?”

I would have to wait to hear of that idea, however, for there was a light knock, and before Ellershaw could answer the door swung open and a serving girl entered with a tray in her hands. Upon the tray rested a pot of some steaming liquid that smelled of mushrooms and lemons. I should hate tremendously to have had to drink it myself, but it was not the strange tea that held my interest. The girl caught my notice, for this creature, hunched over and meek as any female drudge in a house full of brusque East India men, was no other than Miss Celia Glade, the bold woman who had handed me the documents in that very room.

Miss Glade set the bowl on Mr. Ellershaw’s desk and curtsied at him. She gave me not a glance, but I knew full well she recognized me.

In the light of day, I observed I had underestimated her beauty. She was tall and remarkably well made, and her face was full both of round softness and sharp cheekbone. Her forehead was high, her lips red, her eyes as black as emptiness itself: a blackness to match the dark of her hair, which set off the delicate paleness of her skin. Only with great difficulty did I prevent myself from staring, either out of confusion or delight.

“Perhaps you would like to have Celia bring you something to drink,” Ellershaw said. He spat the remains of his nugget into a bucket upon the floor. “Do you take tea, sir? We have tea, you may depend upon it. We have teas you have never tried, never heard of, teas hardly a white man outside the Company has ever heard of. We have teas we import for our own use here, far too good for selling or wasting upon the general public. You would like such a tea, would you not?”

“I am quite well,” I assured him, wanting only for the girl to leave the room and give me a moment to think. I had imagined her before some kind of feminine clerk. Now she showed herself to be a mere servant. How, then, did she so handily know the location of Ellershaw’s documents, and why had she been so quick to surrender them to me?

Ellershaw, however, would not be stopped. “Of course you want tea. Celia, bring the man a pot of the green tea from the Japans. He will like it very much, I’ll wager. Mr. Weaver is famous as a great pugilist, you know. He is now a great thieftaker.”

Miss Glade’s black eyes widened and her face colored. “A thief! That’s something terrible is what that is.” She no longer spoke with the clarity and diction of a woman of education, as she had when we first met. I considered the possibility I might have mistaken the breeding in her voice during our encounter, but I dismissed the notion in a trice.The girl was something other than what she pretended, and she knew I was as well.

“No, you silly girl. Not a thief, a thieftaker. Mr. Weaver tracks down thieves and brings them to justice. Is that not right, sir?”

I nodded, and now, feeling a bit bolder, I turned to the young lady. “Indeed, that is only part of my work. I am practiced in revealing all manner of deceptions.”

Miss Glade looked at me blankly, which I supposed was the appropriate response for her. “I’m sure that’s very good, Mr. Ward,” she said, with utter obsequiousness, but not missing the opportunity to deploy the false name I’d given her during my nocturnal thieving.

“Weaver, you ninny,” Ellershaw said to her. “Now go bring him his green tea.”

She curtsied and left the room.

My heart beat heavily as I felt the thrill and panic of having escaped—but escaped what, I hardly knew. I could not concern myself with the matter for now, however. I had first to discover what it was that Ellershaw would do with me, though I operated under the severe disability of not knowing what Cobb would have Ellershaw do with me. What if I should do the wrong thing? I could not worry myself with that, for if Cobb had not told me he could not hold me responsible.

Ellershaw took a sip from the steaming bowl the girl had brought him. “This is monstrous stuff, sir. Absolutely monstrous. But I must take it for my condition, so you shan’t hear me complain, I promise you, though it tastes as though brewed by the very devil.” He held out the bowl. “Try it, if you dare.”

I shook my head. “I dare not.”

“Try it, damn you.” The tone of his voice did not quite match the harshness of the words, but I misliked it all the same, and I should never have endured this treatment were I in possession of the freedom Ellershaw so extolled.

“Sir, I have no wish to try it.”

“Oh, ho. The great Weaver afraid of a bowl of medicinal herbs. How the great have fallen. This bowl is the David to your Goliath, I see. It has quite unmanned you. Where is the girl with that tea?”

“It has only been a moment,” I observed.

“Already taking the sides of the ladies, are you? You’re a wicked man, Mr. Weaver. A very wicked man, in the way I have heard that Jews are wicked. Removing the foreskin, they say, is like removing the cage from the tiger. But I like a man who likes the ladies, and that Celia is a rather tasty morsel, I think. Do you not agree? But let us stop this foolishness, for you won’t advance in Craven House if you can think of nothing but getting under the skirts of serving girls. Do we understand each other?”

“Absolutely,” I assured him.

“Let us turn our attention to the matter at hand. I have not had much time to consider it, but tell me, Mr. Weaver, have you ever thought of working for a trading company rather than being an independent such as you are, struggling from day to day, wondering where the next bite of bread might be found?”

“I had not thought of it.”

“It has just come to my mind, but I wonder how it is that these papers could have gone missing. You know, there was a riot of rotten silk fellows the other night, and my guards were all occupied in jeering at the ruffians. It might be that, in the excitement, one of those rogues could have slipped in and taken this.”

Ellershaw cut too close to the truth for my comfort. “But why should they take these papers? Was anything else taken?” I asked.

He shook his head. “I know, it hardly sounds plausible, but I can think of no other explanation. Even if I am wrong, it little alters the fact that we have dozens of low types guarding the premises, but no one who truly supervises them. The ruffian who inspects a departing laborer to make certain he has stolen nothing is himself the next day inspected by the very fellow he previously examined. The Company, in a word, is vulnerable to the treacheries and inadequacies of the very men charged with protecting it. Thus, I have the idea, at this very moment, that you might be the fellow to be head of the guard, if you will, to keep your eye upon them and make sure they are up to no mischief.”

I could hardly think of anything I should like to do less, but I understood my place was to seem agreeable to Mr. Ellershaw. “Surely,” I proposed, “a former officer in the army might be a better man. It is true I have some experience with thieves, but I have no experience in commanding underlings.”

“It hardly signifies,” he said. “What do you say to forty pounds a year in exchange for your services? What say you to that, sir? It is nearly as much as we pay our clerks, I promise you. It is a fair rate for such an office. Maybe too fair a rate, but I know better than to haggle over price with a Jew. I shall pay your people that compliment with all my heart.”

“It is a very tempting offer, for the stability of the work and the steadiness of the income should be quite a boon to me,” I told him, having no wish to make any decision without first consulting Cobb. “But I must think on it.”

“You must please yourself in that regard, I suppose. I hope you will inform me of your conclusions. It’s what I hope. But you’ve kept me long enough, I believe. I have much to do.”

“The girl is coming with the tea,” I reminded him.

“What? Is this a public house that you can order this and that at your leisure? Sir, if you are to work here, you must first understand that it is a place of business.”

I apologized for my error, while Ellershaw glared at me with the utmost hostility, and I made my way out of Craven House. I maneuvered around rushing clerks, servants with trays of food and drink, self-important and generally—though not always—plump men in close conversation, and even a few porters, all of whom moved about with such determination as to give the building the feel of a center of government rather than a company office. I both lamented and celebrated that I managed to see nothing more of Miss Glade, for I knew not what to make of that lady. I knew, however, that were I to return on a regular basis, that matter must come to some sort of head.

Once I was clear of Craven House, I had no choice, then, but to visit Mr. Cobb and report at once on everything I had seen. This necessity pained me, for I hated more than anything the feeling of fleeing to my master to tell him how I had served him and to inquire how I might best serve him next. However, I once more reminded myself that the sooner I discovered what it was that Cobb wanted, the sooner I would be free of him.

I had no desire, however, to deal with his injured and malevolent serving man, so I took myself to an alehouse and sent a boy to Cobb, asking that he should meet me there. I thought it a small imposition for him to come to me when he was so eager to treat me as his puppet. And, in truth, ordering him this way or that felt to me a pitiful sort of lubricant but a lubricant nevertheless, to help me swallow the bitter medicine of my servitude.

As I drank my third pot of ale, the door to the tavern opened, and in came, of all people, Edgar the servant, his bruised face hard with rage. He strolled toward me like an angry bull whose baiting had not yet started and stood over me with an air of menace. He said nothing for a moment and then raised his hand and opened it over my table. I was rained on at once by two dozen tiny pieces of shredded paper. It took no close examination to determine that this was the note I had sent.

“Are you such an idiot as to send notes to us?” he asked.

I took one of the pieces of paper and acted as though examining it. “Apparently.”

“Never do so again. If you have something to say, you come to us. Do not send a boy from an inn. Do I make myself understood?”

“I’m afraid I don’t understand you,” I answered.

“Play games to amuse yourself in private,” he sneered. “Not upon Mr. Cobb’s time nor within his sphere.”

“What does it matter if I send a boy?”

“It matters because you are not permitted. Now get up and follow me.”

“I am finishing my pot,” I told him.

“You are done with your pot.” He struck out at once, knocking my pot from the table so it hit the wall, spraying a few patrons who had been hunched over their own drinks. They stared at me and the good manservant. Indeed, everyone stared at us: the patrons, the barman, the whore.

I fairly leaped from my chair and grabbed Edgar by his shirt and thrust his back down on my table. I raised one fist over him that he might know my intent.

“Ha,” he said. “You’ll strike me no more, for I believe Cobb shan’t permit it. Your days of terrorizing me have passed, and you’ll come meekly or your friends will suffer. Now let me up, you filthy heathen, or you’ll know more of my wrath.”

I thought to tell him that Cobb had assured me I might beat Edgar as I like, a term of employment that the good patron had clearly been remiss in articulating. Nevertheless, I held my tongue, for I did not wish to sound like a child quoting paternal sanction. What shred of power I could reserve for myself, I would have. I therefore justified myself upon my own terms.

“We face a difficulty,” I told him. I spoke quietly and with a calm I did not possess. “These people here know me, and they know I would never allow a bootlick such as you to treat me thus. Therefore, that I might better protect Mr. Cobb’s secret designs, I have no choice but to thrash you. Do you not agree?”

“One moment,” he began.

“Do you not agree that it must appear to the world that I am the same man I have been?”

“Yes,” he said.

“Then what must I do?”

Edgar swallowed hard. “Strike me,” he said.

I held myself still, for it occurred to me that to strike him when he showed himself in a position of surrender might not prove satisfying. Then I struck him—to find out for certain. I hit the good footman two or three times about the head until he was too disordered to stand. Tossing a bit of silver to the barman for his trouble, I took my leave.

If Cobb thought it strange that I had arrived without the footman in tow, he did not say so. Indeed, he said nothing of the note and the boy, and I wondered if that had been Edgar’s fabrication, an effort to try to lord some power over me. More likely, Cobb wished to avoid a confrontation. That appeared to be, at all times, his inclination.

His nephew, however, seemed to me a man who delighted in nothing so much as discord. He too sat in the parlor, and he stared at me with malice, as though I had dragged mud through his house. He remained quiet, however, and made no comment or gesture as I entered the room. Instead, he watched my interaction with Cobb, watched with reptilian dispassion.

I returned Hammond’s cool gaze, then faced Cobb and spoke of everything that had happened with Ellershaw. He could not have been more pleased. “This goes precisely as I’d hoped. Precisely. Weaver, you are doing a remarkable service, and I promise you that you will be rewarded.”

I did not respond. “Shall I presume, then, that you wish me to take this position at Craven House?”

“Oh, yes. We cannot miss the opportunity. You must do everything he requests of you. Take his position, of course, but you were wise, oh, so wise, to claim to need to think on it. Gives it a bit of verisimilitude, you know. But you must go to him in a day or two and take what he has to offer.”

“To what end?”

“That doesn’t matter just now,” Hammond said. “You will learn when we wish you to learn. For the moment, your only task is to get Ellershaw to like you and trust you.”

“Perhaps we should be more particular now,” Cobb said. “I should hate for Mr. Weaver to lose an opportunity because we have not told him the reason for his presence.”

“And I should hate for our plans to crumble to dust because we have spoken too soon,” Hammond replied.

Cobb shook his head. “It is more dangerous to leave so important an agent directionless.”

Hammond shrugged at this point, more a condescension than a concession “Tell him, then.”

Cobb turned to me. “You will have many tasks to accomplish while at Craven House, but perhaps the most significant is to discover the truth behind the death of a man named Absalom Pepper.”

It would seem that they had hired me to conduct an inquiry. For some reason, this revelation cheered me. At least now I was upon familiar ground.

“Very well,” I said. “What can you tell me about him?”

“Nothing,” Hammond snapped. “That is the difficulty of it. We know virtually nothing of him, only that the East India Company arranged for his death. Your task is to find out what you can of him, why the Company viewed him as a threat, and, if possible, the names of the particular people who committed the crime.”

“If you know not who he is, why should you care—”

“That,” Hammond said, “is not your concern. It is ours. Your concern is to do what you are told and keep your friends from languishing in prison. Now that you know what you must do, listen well to how you must do it. You may not ask questions of this matter, not in Craven House or anywhere. You may not speak the name of Absalom Pepper unless someone raises the name unbidden. If you violate these rules, I will hear of it, and you may depend that I will not let the crime go unpunished. Do you understand me?”

“How am I to discover anything of this man if I may not conduct an inquiry?”

“That is for you to sort out, and if you wish to redeem your friends I suggest you work hard at making that discovery.”

“Can you tell me nothing more of him?”

Hammond let out a sigh, as though I tried his patience. “We are led to believe that the East India Company arranged to have him attacked late at night, and accordingly he was beaten most likely to death. If not so, then it was the drowning that killed him, for he was tossed into the Thames and there abandoned to his fate. As is often the case with such unfortunates, he was undiscovered for many days, and by the time he was retrieved, the water creatures had nearly devoured his extremities, though his face remained sufficiently intact and he was accordingly identified.”

“By whom?”

“Damn you, Weaver, how am I to know? What little information I have is based upon intercepted correspondence. It is all I know.”

“Where was he found?” I asked. “I should like to speak to the coroner.”

“Are you deaf? I told you we know nothing more. I cannot say where he was found, where he was buried, or any other such detail. Just that the Company had him killed and we must know why.”

“I shall do what I can.”

“See that you do,” Hammond said. “And do not fail to recall your restrictions. If we learn you have spoken this man’s name aloud, we shall declare our business with you finished, and you and your friends may all live happily together in your imprisoned state. Do not forget this warning. Now, go off and do as you are told.”

I hardly knew how I could do as I was told, but I had no choice, so I took my leave and returned to my rooms for the afternoon. The confinement did little to soothe my anxiety, but I had nowhere to go and nothing to do, and the entire metropolis had begun to feel alien and dangerous to me.

As it grew dark, I went outside to St. Mary Axe, where there was an inn that catered to the dietary requirements and preferences of Portuguese Jews, and there I ordered my dinner, for though I was not hungry I was determined to eat in order to maintain my strength and wits. Several of my fellows called to me that I might join them, but I dismissed their offers with requisite politeness, declaring that I wished to dine alone. These men knew my character well enough and understood that though I could be a merry and sociable fellow, I might also be of a brooding disposition, and no one deployed excessive effort to force me to be good company. For this consideration, I was most grateful.

I had not been sitting five minutes when a gentleman entered who caught the attention of the whole room. He was an Englishman, dressed in a plain suit and prim little wig, and he kept clutched to his side a leather envelope. He appeared quite out of his element and, indeed, frightened to be surrounded by so many Jews. He spoke a word to the proprietor, and that good man, with evident hesitation regarding my desire for solitude, pointed toward me.

The Englishman hurried over. “You are Mr. Weaver, yes?”

I nodded.

“Your landlord, sir, said I might find you here.”

I nodded again. I concluded at once that this fellow had come to hire me for my thieftaking services, and by Cobb’s decree I would have no choice but to send the fellow off.

It was soon revealed, however, that I need perform no such task. “My name is Henry Bernis, sir. May I impose upon you for a moment?”

I again nodded, keeping my face sullen and hard, for I had no desire that he think me in too convivial a humor.

Bernis studied me for a minute. He stretched out his neck to look at one side of my head and then the other. “Might I beg you to stand for me.”

“What is it you want, sir?”

“Come, now. On your feet. Let’s have a look at you.”

I don’t know why I complied, but I felt a strange curiosity, so I stood. He asked me to turn around, but I refused. “I shan’t dance for you,” I told him.

“Oh, heavens. No dancing. None of that. No cutting capers or prancing about. I just wish to make certain you are healthy. To protect the investment. May I view your teeth?”

“You haven’t hired me yet,” I pointed out. “You have not yet told me what you want, and a thieftaker is not a horse, sir. I shan’t be used as such, not even if the king himself wishes to hire my services.”

“Hire you? Heavens, no. I haven’t any desire to hire you. What should I want with a thieftaker?”

I sat down. “I haven’t any idea, but you are starting to irritate me, Mr. Bernis, and if you don’t make yourself better understood, you are going to be in need of a surgeon to set your bones.”

“Please, no threats,” he said. “I hate them. And no violence whatsoever, if you please. Any time you engage in violence, you risk your own safety, and we cannot have that. You must protect yourself from harm, good sir, I beg of you.”

“By the devil, what do you want?”

“You shan’t offend me by swearing, sir. It offers no harm to you or to me, and if a man be damned for swearing, what of it? The next life is no business of mine. I care only for your well-being in this one. Now, you have not been sick of late, I trust?”

“No, but—”

“Any injuries of a permanent sort? I am aware of the broken leg that took you from the ring, but that was some years ago. Anything of a similar nature since?”

“No, and I don’t think—”

“You are not planning any trips abroad, are you?”

“No, and that’s the last question I’ll answer until you tell me what you want.”

“I merely wish to ascertain your health.”

“Whatever for?”

“I am sorry. Did I not say? I work with Seahawk Insurance Office. I am merely making certain we haven’t made a mistake.”

“Insurance? What do you tell me?”

“No one quite knew it was happening—a matter of too many clerks not speaking to one another—but it seems we have sold three insurance policies with your name attached in the past few days. We merely wished to make certain that there was nothing deceptive planned against us. But I must say that you seem in remarkable health.”

“What sort of policies?” I demanded.

Mr. Bernis wrinkled up his face. “Why, life insurance, of course.”

I knew well the business of insurance, for my uncle used it to protect his shipments. I knew less of life insurance, but I had heard something of it. I knew it to be a form of gambling in which people might bet on the longevity of a famous person, such as a pope or a general or a king. I also knew that policies were bought to protect an investment, so that if you were a merchant who sent an agent abroad, and this agent had particular skills, you might insure his life, so that if he were killed or stolen by Turk pirates, the merchant could be compensated for his loss. I hardly knew why anyone would buy a policy against my death.

“Who bought this?” I demanded.

“I cannot tell you that, sir. I don’t know myself, to be honest, though if I did, I could not reveal that information. I merely wished to ascertain your health, which looks to me quite good. I thank you for your time.”

“Wait a moment. Do you mean to tell me that there are men, multiple men, who have laid out money to the effect that they will benefit if I die?”

“Oh, no, heavens, no. Nothing like that. No one should have invested in your death. That would be monstrous, sir, most monstrous. No, these men have laid out money so that they will not suffer losses if you die. That money is not a wager, sir, but a protection of their investment in you.”

I could ascertain from his simper that this was mere fluffery. I had hit it right the first time.

“Who holds these policies?”

“As I mentioned, I do not know. In any event, I am made to understand that the policyholders wish to keep their business a secret. I respect that, and I think you should too.”

“I think I shall be paying your offices a visit,” I said.

“I don’t think you ought to waste your time. It is all quite legal, and you’ll find it is our policy not to reveal such things.”

“So one man may take out such a policy on another man and not have to answer for it? That is diabolical.”

“How can it be diabolical when it is the law?” he asked.

And, indeed, his question contained such oceans of absurdity that I had no answer for him.