The Devil's Company

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

HILE DISSEMBLING WITH ELLERSHAW, CONCEALING FACTS FROM Cobb, plotting with Carmichael, and perfecting my schemes with Elias, it had never occurred to me that French knaves might be so confident in my impending doom that they should make wagers upon it. The thought was disconcerting to the least, but as I had discovered at Kingsley’s Coffeehouse not long ago, even the most secure of wagers is never secure, and I had every confidence these foreign dandies would lose for their efforts.

I should have liked to have more time with Elias, for even though much of what we could puzzle out happened within the first five minutes of our conversation, there are, nevertheless, revelations that take time to sit and settle, like a good bottle of wine, before we are ready to consume them fully. This luxury of slow fermentation was not afforded to me, however, for I had an appointment to keep, and despite my uneasiness I would not be late.

It was the thing that had been in my thoughts all day, and it was now time to take myself to St. Giles in the Field. My reader certainly knows that this is not the most pleasant part of the metropolis, and while I am no stranger to the less delightful neighborhoods, this one offered particular difficulties, its winding streets and labyrinthine alleys designed to confound the most accomplished navigator. Yet I managed to find my way with reasonable alacrity, and a few coins in the palm of a garrulous whore helped direct me to the Duck and Wagon.

This was a tavern of reasonable architectural soundness, at least in light of its location. My entrance produced no considerable attention except among the gamers and whores and mendicants, all of whom sought fresh and unsuspecting purses. I have long plied my trade in these sorts of establishments, however, and I knew well how to wear a mask of menace. The unfortunates who prowled these waters in search of weak prey knew the scent of a fellow shark and accordingly kept their distance.

It took me little time to recognize that the Duck and Wagon fell into that category of tavern called a dive. Proximate to the kitchens, a massive pot, nearly large enough for a man to bathe therein, had been set forth, and surrounding it were half a score of men who had paid their three pennies for the opportunity to take two or three dives-dependent upon the rules of the house. In the hands of each was a long knife, which they plunged into this gustatory lottery, the winner to lance a piece of meat, and the drawers of blanks to find themselves impaling nothing of greater consequence than a carrot or turnip.

I took a table in a dark corner, far away from the excited and despondent shouts of the divers, and pulled my hat down, better to shade my face while sipping at a watery ale. It took two more watery ales before Miss Glade arrived, and I confess I did not know her at once. It was neither the darkness nor my slightly dulled senses that postponed my recognition, but her manner of dress. It would seem that the serving girl and the lady of business were not the only two disguises known to this intriguing creature. She came in looking like an aged and slovenly whore, so unappealing in her ersatz person that she might well have been invisible. There could be no better disguise, I realized, than to dress as a creature upon which no one wishes to gaze. These aging unfortunates, whose withered bodies are unfit for their trade, haunt the streets by the hundreds in hopes of finding a man too drunk or too desperate to care about the taint of his goods. Here was Miss Glade in tattered clothes and disheveled hair. Paint upon her face gave the illusion of age, and she had blackened some teeth and browned others, to create a sufficiently unsavory effect. But more than any of this, it was the way she carried herself. I had never before observed that old whores have a particular way of walking, but I now saw that it was so. Only her dark eyes, bright and alive and full of ravenous curiosity, betrayed her true nature.

At her request, no doubt to maintain the integrity of her disguise, she asked that I order a gin for her, and while a few of the patrons laughed at my taste in women, none thought any more of this arrangement than was natural. I was no longer fit in my senses, and this woman was lucky enough to find me.

“Very well, then,” I said, feeling unspeakably awkward. “Your masquerade has quite astonished me, but it is no matter, for we have much to discuss.”

“And yet it shall be hard to do so, for neither trusts the other.” A smile, her true smile, emerged like the sun from beneath the clouded layers of paint.

“That, madam, is a sad truth. Perhaps you would care to tell me of your business at Craven House. And perhaps, while you are on that business, you might tell me how the silk workers’ riots disturbed your plans the other night.”

Something shifted in her gaze, and I knew I had struck home. “My plans?”

“When you saw me, you said, ‘There you are,’ or some such thing, and expressed a surprise that the uprising at the gates had not hindered me. It is clear you thought I was someone else, which was why you used your true voice with me rather than the one you deploy within Craven House. Had it not been for that understanding, I presume I would never have known you were anything but the creature you pretend to be when serving the East India Company.”

“You presume a great deal,” she said.

“I do. I will be less inclined to presumption should you provide me with facts.”

“Maybe you should provide me with facts about your own doings.”

I laughed. “We shall never achieve any goal at all if we play this game forever. Now, you invited me here; you must have given the matter some thought.”

She pressed her lips together thoughtfully. “You are right, of course. There is no advantage in dancing about, and if neither of us dares to speak, nothing will get resolved. In truth, ’tis my greatest wish that we might find ourselves on unopposing sides.”

“And why is that?” I inquired.

Her true smile emerged once more. “You must not ask a lady such questions,” she said. “But I believe you know the answer.”

Indeed, I hoped I did. And yet I could not allow myself to trust this woman. Yes, she had charm and beauty and good humor, a combination I could scarce resist, and in her all of these wondrous properties combined such that appeared nearly magical to me. Everything I had seen of her told me she had raised the art of dissimulation to new heights, so I must presume that any display of affection for me must be as false as one of her costumes.

“Sir,” she said, “I must ask you a single question. Are you interested, in your business at Craven House, in harming or aiding the Company?”

“Neither,” I said, without a moment’s hesitation. I had not anticipated this particular question, but I saw there could only be one safe answer. A neutral position is more easily swayed. “I am indifferent to the fate of the Company and shall not allow its well-being, in one way or the other, to direct my actions.”

The answer appeared to satisfy her. “I am pleased to hear it, for it means we shall have no cause to be at odds. Now, as to my business. Are you aware, sir, that unlike the other trading companies, the East India lacks a monopoly on its domain? Any company at all can trade with the East Indies if it has the capital and the means.”

I laughed. “Yes, I have heard that. It seems to be a topic of perpetual interest at Craven House.”

“As well it should be. The East India Company must always be on guard against those who would take what it believes to be its wealth. Consequently, it often takes actions to defeat potential competitors. But sometimes it does more than that. Sometimes it engages in unfair practices, outright thievery, in order to destroy some small venture that wants no more than a thimbleful of the great wealth of the East.”

“And you represent such a venture?”

“I do,” she said. “I am in the service of a trading gentleman whose ideas and contacts were stolen by East India agents. I am at Craven House to find evidence of this wrongdoing and to correct the injustice. Like you, I seek neither to harm nor help the Company, merely to see a wrong righted.”

“I doubt the men of the Company would see things as you do, but that is no matter to me. The fate of the Company does not concern me, and if your patron has been wronged as you say, I certainly applaud your efforts.”

“Thank you, sir. Now, perhaps you could tell me something of your affairs.”

“Of course.” I had given this a great deal of thought once Miss Glade had proposed our assignation, and I constructed a fiction I believed would serve my purposes admirably. “I am in the employ of a gentleman of more merit than means. He is, in truth, the natural son of Mr. Ellershaw. That worthy sired him some twenty years ago, but offered neither his child nor the boy’s neglected mother the assistance that such ill-born children depend upon. Indeed, he turned away the just mother’s calls for help most cruelly. I am there at his request, to help uncover some evidence of his patrimony so he may pursue a case against an unfeeling parent.”

“I believe I have read of this incident,” Miss Glade said.

“Indeed?” My face could not have hid my surprise.

“Yes. It was in one of those charming novels by Miss Eliza Haywood.”

I let out a nervous laugh. A man at the next table looked over to see if I was choking to my death. “You are very witty, madam, but you know those novelists pride themselves on writing stories true to life. It therefore cannot surprise when a story from life in some way resembles the thing meant to resemble it.”

“You are perhaps more clever than convincing.” She spread wide her hands, not without a dose of good humor.

“But,” I added, “if we are to be suspicious, let me inquire something of you. How does a young lady learn the considerable skills at disguise you possess? You are able not only to choose excellent costumes but also to alter the nature of your voice, even your bearing.”

“Yes.” She looked down. “I have not told you all, Mr. Weaver, but as we are in one another’s confidence, and as I believe you mean me no harm, I shall endeavor to be more honest with you. My father, sir, was a tradesman of the Hebrew nation who—”

“You are a Jewess?” It took all of my will to prevent myself from shouting. It came out as a growling whisper.

Her eyes widened with amusement. “Does that so astonish you?”

“Yes,” I answered bluntly.

“Of course. Our women must stay at home and prepare meals and light candles and sacrifice their lives to making certain that fathers and brothers and husbands and sons are well tended. Only British women should be permitted to roam the streets.”

“I meant no such thing.”

“Are you certain?”

Indeed, I was not, so I avoided answering the question. “We are not so populous upon this island that I should expect a charming stranger, such as yourself, to be among our number.”

“And yet,” she said, “here I am. Allow me, please, to continue with my story.”

“Of course.”

“As I said, my father was a tradesman—skilled in the art of stoneworking—who left the city of Vilnius when he was a young man and went out in search of a more prosperous life. Such men often find themselves in this kingdom, for it is surely the most agreeable place in Europe for Jews to live. It was here he met my mother, also an immigrant, who had been born into poverty in a place called Kazimierz.”

“You are a Tudesco?” I said.

“So your kind chooses we should be called,” she said, not without bitterness. “You do not love us.”

“I can assure you, I am without prejudice.”

“And how many of my species of Hebrew do you count among your friends?”

I found this line of questioning most unpleasant, so I suggested she continue with her tale.

“Owing in part to the bigotry of the English race, and in part to the bigotry of your own people, he found it excessively difficult to ply his trade here, but after many years of effort, he managed to earn a comfortable living. Sadly, when I was of only seventeen years, he died in an accident involving his labors. I am told that such accidents among men who work with stone are all too common. My mother had no means to support us, and we had no remaining relatives in the country. We thus came to depend upon the charity of the synagogue, but that institution, unlike your own, is so poor it could little afford to buy us bread or keep a roof over our heads. This shame was far too much for my mother, who had never been of a strong constitution, and she followed my father to the grave within six months. In my grief, I found myself alone in the world.”

“I am very sorry to hear of your troubles.”

“You cannot know my misery. Everything I knew had gone, and I had nothing to which to aspire but penury and illness. In such a state, however, I chose to narrowly examine my father’s records and discovered that a man of some prominence yet owed him three pounds, so I traveled across the metropolis, making the journey on foot and enduring all manner of abuse you can imagine. I ventured out and suffered so, all in search of this debt, knowing the foolishness of the venture, for I had long since come to understand that such men will never pay when they can avoid doing so. I fully anticipated a rude refusal, but I met with something else entire. Despite the rags upon my back and disheveled appearance, the gentleman saw me himself and delivered silver into my hand at once with the most profound apologies and concern for my sorrows. Indeed, he paid double what he owed me out of consideration for my suffering. And he offered me more, Mr. Weaver. He suggested I might continue to associate with him in the form of his companion.”

I struggled to keep my face from betraying emotion. “You must not be ashamed of doing what you must to survive.”

“I have not spoken of shame,” she told me, meeting my eyes boldly. “I had six pounds in my hand. I was in no danger of starving for months, perhaps. And yet I accepted his offer, for why, I thought, should I not have clean clothes, a place to live, and food enough to exist beyond the lofty state of eluding death? I know something of your story, sir, for it has been written of in the papers. In your youth, when you were penniless, you took to the ring. You lived, therefore, upon the merits of your body. I did the same, yet when women do so, they are called all manner of unsavory names. If a man takes it upon himself to care for a woman-attends to her needs, her clothes, her food, her housing, and in return she is obligated only to accept the attentions of no other men—in some lands they would style that arrangement marriage. Here it is called whoring.”

“Madam, I assure you, I offer no judgments.” “You offer none with words, but I observe your eyes.” I could make no answer, for she had correctly observed my expression. I had lived upon the streets long enough to know the foolishness of judging a woman for using what advantages she has to keep from death—or from a state not much more desirable. I knew also that it was only because men wished to hold dominion over the behavior of women that we were so quick to give scurrilous names to their taking liberties with their own bodies. And yet I felt a disappointment, for I suppose I wanted her to be pure and innocent, and I knew this desire on my part was foolishness. It was, after all, her sense of freedom, her wit, her sense of being at ease in the world—nay, of being the mistress of the world—that so drew me to Celia Glade.

“Like you, I am but a product of the world in which I live,” I offered. “I have been trained since my earliest youth to form such judgments upon women who make the choices you have. And if, in my more mature years, I wish to reject those ideas, there nevertheless remains within my mind a contrary voice.”

“Yes,” she said. “I have made decisions, and I knew they were the best decisions available, but I hear the contrary voice too. As I would have you not condemn me, I must not condemn you. Now, to continue with my history. I lived in a very high style while I was his favorite, and he very much enjoyed my natural tendency toward mimicry. At first he would only encourage me to imitate associates, but then he began to purchase disguises and have me assume all sorts of shapes; a gypsy mendicant, an Arabian courtesan, a peasant girl, even an old woman. For this gentleman’s pleasure, I learned the skills you have observed. Then, as so often happens in these circumstances, he met another woman who was younger and newer and therefore more suited to his fancy.”

“He must be the greatest fool in the world to have preferred another woman to you.”

I saw a distant pleasure gleam in her eye, but she chose to ignore my flirtation. “Even though I was no longer his favorite, this gentleman, whom I shall not name, believed he understood his duty—unlike Mr. Ellershaw, as you describe it—and continued to assist me in my needs. And then, after some two years of this kind neglect, he contacted me and told me he wished me to apply my skills in his service. As he had been so kind to me in the past, I could hardly say no, particularly since to do so would be to sacrifice my future comfort. And so I have come to Craven House as his eyes and ears, to discover what I can about the Company’s illicit practices, that the Eastern trade might be more open to all men of business. The night I met you, I thought you were one of my patron’s servants come to collect some papers I had copied for his purposes, and that was why I inadvertently revealed myself.”

I thought to say that I was not alone in telling fabulous tales fit for a novel, but I understood that to do so would be unkind. I merely nodded sympathetically. And then, when a hint of a tear appeared in her eye, I reached out to pat her hand. In so doing, I knocked over her tumbler of gin. It had sat neglected since arriving upon our table, and far from the fire as we were, I had every reason to believe it would grow enormous cold, in the way of such liquors. I could only imagine the startling sensation as it poured onto her lap.

“Oh, it’s cold!” she cried out in her natural voice—not that of an aging whore at all—as she jumped back and began to wipe at the spilled drink. Fortunately, she was not too soaked, and though the other patrons of the tavern enjoyed the spectacle, no one seemed to notice that she cried out like a young lady, not like a used and withered baggage.

“I do beg your pardon,” I said. I dashed at once to the counter, where I convinced the barman to lend me a relatively dry towel. I allowed Miss Glade to return to her seat thereafter.

“I am truly sorry for my clumsiness,” I said, once I had returned the towel. “I must have been so dazzled by your beauty that I forgot to keep my wits about me.”

“Your charming words would be more compelling were I not dressed this way,” she said with a wry smile, but I knew I was forgiven. Indeed, the accident helped to leaven the tension between us.

I had much to think about, and I knew not how much of this discovery I should share with Mr. Cobb. It had been obvious to me that Miss Glade’s story had been a lie—at least that part of attempting to aid a wronged merchant. Her narrative was too much like my own, a tale of minor justice pursued at no great cost. No one could object to or condemn her cause—no one but a Company man, of course—and whatever she suspected of me, she knew I was not that.

What of Miss Glade, though? If she was not what she said, what was she? I had my suspicions, for I had not believed her story of dressing up for her lover. I presumed she had not been upon the stage, for she would have said as much if it had been true. Then who would have the skills to so disguise herself?

It was in pursuit of such answers that I had spilled the drink upon her. The room was cold, and I knew the drink would be close to freezing, so I hoped she would cry out, and that her cry would be true and undisguised. It had been but three words, three syllables, but it had been enough for me to hear the trace of accent in those words. The o long and extended, the h clipped, hardly there at all, a period more than a sound, the i sounding more like an e than is common among the British. It was neither the accent of a lady born on these shores nor the speech of one born to Tudesco Jews. Oh, yes, I knew that accent, even from so few words.

Miss Glade was a Frenchwoman pretending to be otherwise, and I could think of no reason why she should do such a thing if she were not a spy in the service of the French Crown, in service to the very men, I must presume, who had staked their wagers upon my death.