The Devil's Company

CHAPTER ELEVEN

TOOK MYSELF TO MR. COBB’S HOUSE, THINKING I HAD BETTER INFORM him of what I’d done with Elias’s name. As he did not want me plotting with my friend, I suspected he might be angered that I had recruited my near associate and fellow victim. On the contrary, Cobb regarded my decision with approbation.

“I trust you can control your friend,” he told me. “He must get a sense as quickly as possible of what it is Ellershaw wants to hear, and he will tell him that. Placate the man in any way you can. Earn his love through your surgeon. Do not think of discussing other matters with him, however. No matter how private you believe yourself to be, I can assure you I will know of your conversation.”

I said nothing, for there was nothing to say.

OVER THE NEXT TWO DAYS, I began to make something of a routine of my work at the East India House. After the first day, when I wandered in at ten in the morning, Ellershaw informed me that I was expected to keep company hours, from eight to six, like everyone else, but otherwise my work was unsupervised. I began by obtaining from the fastidious Mr. Blackburn a list of every watchman hired by the Company. Once I explained that I wished to establish an organized schedule of work and routine, he warmed to me considerably and praised my sense of order.

“What do you know of that East Indian fellow, Aadil?” I asked him.

Blackburn spent a few moments looking through some papers before announcing that he earned twenty-five pounds per annum.

I realized I had to clarify the question. “I meant to say, what sort of man is he?”

Blackburn looked at me, the vaguest hint of puzzlement on his face. “He earns twenty-five pounds per annum,” he repeated.

I saw that I should not get very far with this matter, so I attempted to shift to another area of inquiry. I had not forgotten my curious encounter with the gentleman from the Seahawk Insurance Office, and I thought perhaps Mr. Blackburn might be able to help me in that matter. Accordingly, I asked what he knew of them.

“Oh, yes. They have their offices at Throgmorton Street, near the bank. Mr. Slade, the director, lives above the office. They run a good business, indeed.”

“And how do you know that?”

He colored slightly. “I own that my services are in demand, sir, and not only by the gentlemen of Craven House. On occasion I am contracted by various concerns to set their records in order, and my reputation is well known in both the mercantile and insurance worlds. Last year, in fact, I spent several consecutive Sundays restoring order to the books at the Seahawk.”

Here was good news indeed, but I could not appear overly eager and thereby raise his suspicions. “Can you tell me how you went about such a thing? I am marvelous ignorant of how a man might reorder a set of records.”

No question could have made the gentleman happier, and while it meant that I listened to an astonishingly dull tale that stretched out over the most expansive hour I have ever endured, I learned a number of highly valuable details—namely, that the records of the company’s interactions were kept on the main floor, in the offices of a Mr. Samuel Ingram, one of the principal figures in the office, generally charged with making assessments of the riskiest propositions.

Having obtained that information, the moment I could politely extricate myself, I did not fail to do so. I could see, however, that my inquiries, rather than incurring the suspicions of Mr. Blackburn, had instead endeared me to him.

THE ROUTINES OF MY NEW life took only a day or two to puzzle out, and I began then to post a schedule at the main warehouse. It indicated who worked when and for how long, what patrol each man was to take, and so forth. Those men who could read were obligated to inform those who could not of their requirements. While the newness of the system produced some consternation in its offing, the men soon discovered that they would work fewer hours if they all attended to their duties. Only Aadil and a small band of some three or four sour-looking fellows, who appeared to be his inner circle, indicated any displeasure with the new arrangement.

Despite the hardly insignificant fact that he continued to earn five pounds per annum more than his underlings, I could hardly be surprised that Aadil resented my intrusion in his little kingdom. Nor could I be surprised that he had gathered a following to himself, for men of force are wont to do so. What did surprise me, however, was that his circle appeared to extend beyond the limit of the rough laborers. On my second day at the warehouses, I wandered down a bit early to find two figures standing directly in front of the main warehouse, huddled together, ignoring the cold and the light precipitation of frozen rain. It was the East Indian himself, in close conversation with none other than Mr. Forester, the young member of the Court of Committees who appeared to hold Mr. Ellershaw in such contempt. The two men stood talking quietly. Aadil, who was tall as well as large, stooped like a giant speaking to a mortal.

I had no desire to intrude upon them, and while I could not imagine what these two worthies might have to say to each other, I hardly thought it my place to impose upon them. I therefore turned away, as though I had business in one of the smaller warehouses. They observed me, however, and while Aadil took only a moment to glare at me with evident displeasure upon his scarred face, I could see that Forester was rather alarmed, either by my presence or my having discovered him with the ruffian. He blanched and turned away hurriedly, dusting from his greatcoat the tiny chunks of ice that had landed upon him and melted.

Aadil marched over toward me, looking less like a man than a bull at a baiting. “You say nothing of him,” he told me. “It not your business.”

“I should hardly have given it any thought,” I observed, “had you not told me to ignore it. If you wish for people not to remark about your doings, you must treat them as though they are unremarkable.”

“You say anything, you be sorry,” he responded, and then marched off, his heavy boots crunching into the thick crust of ice on the soil.

Later in the day, I found an opportunity to take aside the plump and good-natured Mr. Carmichael, who—after my refusing to beat him—had become my closest confederate in the world of the guards. I could have had a worse, since he appeared to have a fair amount of influence with his fellow warehouse workers. When I knew Aadil was occupied with some task on the far end of the yard, I asked Carmichael about what I had seen with the East Indian and Forester.

“As to that,” he said, “you’d be advised to take no notice of it.”

“That’s what Aadil said.”

“He’s the reason you should take no notice of it. He and that Mr. Forester are about something.”

“What sort of something?”

He looked around to make certain we were unobserved. “I oughtn’t to tell you as much as this, but if it will keep you from inquiring further, maybe it is for the best. I don’t know exact what they’re on to, but it’s got to do with the third floor of the south warehouse, the one they call Greene House, on account of it being bought once, long ago, from a spark called Greene.”

“What do they do on the third floor of the Greene House?”

“I can’t say, as ain’t no one allowed there. Any deliveries or removals have to be done by Aadil’s men and no one else, and every time he brings something in or takes something out, Mr. Forester ain’t too far behind.”

“Have you asked him about it?”

“No, I haven’t done that any more than I would stick my head in the mouth of a wolf. You only have to look at the cove to see he don’t want you asking, and as you value your place here, you’ll stay away from the business.”

“Is not anything that happens in the warehouses now part of my business?” I asked, with deliberate obtuseness.

He laughed. “I’ve worked here now the better part of these twenty years, Mr. Weaver, and I can tell you as much as this: Craven House is a place of secrets and hidden alliances and graspings for power that would do any stage play proud. That’s how it’s always been. The men what want to get ahead have to plot and sneak to destroy their betters. That’s all. You ain’t got anything to gain by discovering what those two are up to, but on the other hand you got nothing to lose by not discovering it. To my mind that means it’s best left alone whilst you attend to your own duties.”

As for those duties, I was unsure of what I was to be doing with myself for ten hours a day. Once I had worked out the details of the schedule, I saw it would only be a matter of a few hours’ work each week to maintain it. Other than wandering about the warehouses and making certain the men appeared to remain vigilant and keep to their posts, I was at a loss. I mentioned as much to Mr. Ellershaw, but he told me only that I should continue my fine work.

Elias informed me that he had, as of yet, received no word from Ellershaw, and I thought it imprudent to pursue that matter as well, so I wandered about the grounds, chatted amiably with the watchmen, and listened to their gossip, hoping to stumble upon some reference to Cobb’s mysterious Absalom Pepper. No one spoke the name, and I dared not raise it myself.

On my second day, the same in which I observed the strange interactions between Aadil and Forester, I stayed late at night, on the pretense of observing the men as they went about their later rounds, and I attempted once more to search through Ellershaw’s papers. But to find a reference to a single man among so many documents would have required an astonishing amount of luck, and luck did not serve me in this cause. I remained awake nearly the entire night and discovered nothing, obtaining for my efforts only a headache from straining my eyes against a single candle.

ON THE THIRD DAY, however, I had an encounter of particular importance to these events. Late in the morning, I abandoned the warehouses for the kitchens of Craven House, where I hoped to take a glass or two of strong wine to fortify my fatigue against the further obligations of the day. When I entered that room I found it devoid of all servants save one, the lovely Miss Celia Glade, whom I had seen only at a distance or in crowded spaces since our encounter in Ellershaw’s office. She was in the process of setting up a tray of coffee dishes, no doubt destined for some director or other. I smiled at her when I entered the room, but I felt my stomach drop, as though I had been tossed from a great height. Here was a woman who knew my dark secret, or at least knew I had one. I was protected from her only because I knew she had one as well.

“Good morning, Miss Glade,” I offered.

She turned to me, and in an instant I felt a terrible fear wash over me—a fear that I was not in entire command of my own sensibilities. She was naught but a woman, a remarkable pretty one, yes, and no doubt a remarkable clever one too. But what of it? Was not London full of these? Had I not enjoyed my share of them? Nevertheless, as I stood in her presence I felt that there was something else about her, far beyond beauty and perception. She played a game, as I did, and she played it well. I believed I was in the presence of someone quite capable of undermining my efforts.

She curtsied at me and lowered her face deferentially, but she nevertheless kept her dark eyes fixed upon mine. “Oh, it ain’t right to address me in such lofty terms,” she said, deploying the accent of daylight hours, not the ladylike voice she’d used during our late-night encounter. “All the folks here calls me Celia—or Celie, those what are my friends.”

“And am I your friend, Celie?” I asked.

“Oh, la! I hope so, Mr. Weaver. I don’t want to make no enemies.”

She frittered about so busily, her brow furrowed in concentration, that for the most fleeting of instants I had to question whether my late-night encounter could have been with this same woman. I could see nothing about her that revealed she was not what she wished the world to believe.

I pressed on. “As I recall, when we first spoke, your voice had a slightly different quality.”

“When I brung Mr. Ellershaw his medicine drink? I must surely have been taken with my work, or some very like thing.”

“As you say, Celie.”

“I must be about my duties, Mr. Weaver,” she told me. But as she brushed by, she nearly stumbled with her tray, and I had to reach out to help her right herself. In the confusion, she very deftly whispered two sentences in my ear. She said, “They’re always listening,” so softly I could scarcely hear it over the rattling china on her tray. And then she said, “The Duck and Wagon in St. Giles—tonight.”

“I cannot tonight,” I whispered back.

She nodded. “Of course. The dinner with Mr. Ellershaw. Two nights from now?”

“Two nights from now,” I assured her.

For a fleeting instant, she took my hand in her own. “Good.”

My heart thudded with buoyant pleasure as I watched her leave the room. I had forgotten, it would seem, that I had not been invited to an assignation. I felt a twinge of surprise that she knew I was to eat with Mr. Ellershaw. I had no idea of what it could mean, nor did I know if meeting Miss Glade at the place of her choosing was a sound idea. At best, I would receive some sort of explanation for her duplicitous nature. At worst, I would enter some manner of trap.