The Devil's Company

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

HY WOULD THE FRENCH CONCERN THEMSELVES WITH MY ACTIONS at East India House? I was in no way equal to the task of pondering that question, and accordingly I chose to take my leave of the lady as soon as I possibly could, that I might contemplate this development in private. I forced myself to wait long enough, however, that she would in no way understand that her outburst had revealed anything of herself.

I accompanied her—or, I should say, she accompanied me, for she knew the warrens of St. Giles far better than I—to High Holborn, where I intended to procure a hackney for her. As we walked she began to remove pieces of her costume to a small sack she carried: her wig, her tattered gloves, replaced by fresh, a cloth that effectively wiped away all her paint. She still wore clothes hardly suited to accentuate her charms, and her teeth remained stained with paint, but by the time we emerged upon the busy street, she looked not like a crone but like a beautiful woman dressed rather shabbily.

“In what manner do you prefer me?” she asked.

“Allow me to ponder the question,” I answered, “and I shall send you my response anon.” I caught the eye of a coachman, who beckoned us forward.

“I shall ignore your teasing and accept your kind assistance with the hackney. But what of yourself?” she asked.

“I must first make sure you are safely away, and then I shall find my own conveyance.”

“Perhaps we can share,” she said, not a little vivaciously.

“I do not know that we travel in the same direction.”

She leaned close to me now. “Surely we might arrange that the same direction is precisely where we go.”

I do not know that ever in my life have I worked harder to master my passions. She looked up at me, her face slightly lowered, her dark eyes wide, her red lips slightly parted so I could observe the enticing pink of her tongue. It would have been easy, so easy, to follow her wherever she wished to lead, to allow her to take me in her arms. I could have told myself that I did it for the cause—by being close to her, I would learn more of her designs. Yet I knew all that to be false. I knew that were I to succumb to her advances, to my desires, I should not be able to trust my instincts from that moment. If it had only been my life, my safety, in the balance, I should have happily thrown the dice and accepted the wager. But my dearest friend, a kindly aging gentleman, and my infirm uncle depended on me to maintain my wits and my judgment. I could not stroll blithely to what might well be the most pleasant of gallows with the lives of so many others dependent upon my success.

“I fear I have an urgent appointment I must keep,” I told her.

“Perhaps I could make an urgent appointment with you for another night,” she proposed.

“Perhaps so,” I managed, though my mouth grew dry. “Good night, madam.”

“Wait.” She very boldly took hold of my wrist with her hand. A jolt of excitement, hot as fire, passed through my flesh. I think she must have felt it too, for she let go at once. “I hope,” she said, quite apparently stammering for words, “I—well, I know I can be playful, but I hope you have some regard for me. You do, don’t you?”

“Of course, madam,” I managed.

“And yet you are so formal. Will you not be at your ease with me?”

“I should very much like to,” I said, “but I do not believe this is the time. Good night,” I told her once more, and tore myself away hastily, hurling myself into the distance.

I had told her the truth. I should like to be at my ease with her, and this was not the time. No falsehood in that. I merely neglected to mention that I did not believe relaxing my guard around her would be beneficial to my freedom—or even my life.

A NEARLY SLEEPLESS NIGHT of confusion made matters no clearer to me, so it was my good fortune that I had the opportunity to encounter Elias that very next morning. It was distressing enough that the French wished to labor upon my death, but to learn that Miss Glade, a lady to whom I was forming an attachment of no small measure, might well be one of their number left me both confused and morose.

I had some business that morning with one of the clerks of Craven House, and after the meeting I was delighted to see Elias in the building’s lobby, in close conversation with a woman. I momentarily wondered at his presence until I recollected he must be in the building on account of Ellershaw’s malady. I hurried forward, but my eagerness dissipated almost instantly, for I saw that the person with whom he spoke was none but Celia Glade.

Before I was close enough to hear a word that came from his mouth, I recognized his posture: his tall form held ramrod straight, his smile wide and dazzling, one hand pressed to his chest in a continual performance of gentlemanly poise. Elias sought his prey as surely and as single-mindedly as any predator.

I divined that he had just spoken something meant to amuse, for Miss Glade put a hand to her mouth to stifle a laugh—a noise considered most inappropriate inside Craven House. It struck me as most inappropriate that he should try to charm her or, more horrifically, that she should be charmed by him. I told myself I could not trust Elias to maintain his defenses against such formidable female graces, but I knew better than to believe my own explanation.

Accordingly, I rushed forward, fully intending to break up this most unpropitious meeting. What, I wondered, did Miss Glade know? Was she aware of my friendship with Elias? Did she know that his fate was so closely bound to mine? The only thing of which I might be certain was that I wished she should learn nothing more than she knew already.

“Good morning, Celia,” I said to her, ignoring Elias for the moment. “Do you think it wise to advertise to all of the Company that you have need to speak with a surgeon?”

In retrospect, I realized I might have chosen a less venomous method to end their discourse, one less suggestive of what I had learned of her—now likely false—history. At the time, I was pleased enough that it did the business. Miss Glade turned red and hurried off.

Elias narrowed his eyes and pressed his lips together, a sure sign of his irritation. “I say, Weaver, that was most unkind.”

Given that I had much to discuss with him and could not do so here, I hardly hesitated before violating the rules and quitting the premises for a journey to a nearby tavern. The entire way, he complained about my ending his congress with Miss Glade.

“That girl was a delectable nugget, Weaver. I’ll not forget this outrage soon, I tell you.”

“We shall discuss it later,” I grumbled.

“But I wish to discuss it now,” he insisted. “I am far too irritated to discuss aught else.”

I ducked my head to avoid one of the metropolis’s many and notorious low-hanging shop signs we came hard upon. Elias was too distracted to see it, and indeed I was so angry I nearly let him strike himself, but in the end I could not see him take an injury, even a minor and comical one, so I reached up and pulled him down as he walked. He kept his balance and did not miss a stride.

“Oh,” he said. “That was a good turn. But it does not excuse this outrage, Weaver. Outrage, I say. I shall order something very dear and insist you pay for it.”

Once we were equipped with our pots and Elias had called for a plate of bread and cold meat, and then fortified himself with a pinch of snuff, he began once more.

“In the future, Weaver, when you see me with a pretty girl, I should very much like—”

“Your life and mine and the lives of my friends depend on what happens in Craven House,” I said, not a little harshly. “As far as concerns you, I am the lawgiver there. You do what I say and when I say, and you do not grumble about it. I’ll not let your insatiable appetites and inability to sense danger when it is under your nose lead the two of us and others into ruin. You may think being unable to govern your appetite for women is nothing but amusing, but in this case it may well prove to be nothing short of self-destruction.”

He gazed into his pot, taking the time he needed to master his passions. “Yes,” he said at last. “You are right. It is not the appropriate place to seek out pleasures, and you are right that I am not terribly good at making wise decisions when it comes to women, particularly the pretty ones.”

“Good.” I clapped my hand upon his shoulder, that he might understand it best to let the thing pass. “I’m sorry I grew so hot with you. I have been tried most sorely of late.”

“No, you need not apologize. I require a good thrashing now and again, and better it be done by my friends than my enemies.”

“I shall make an effort to recollect your words,” I said with a grin, feeling much relieved that the discomfiture had passed. “Now, tell me about your more appropriate adventures.”

I cannot say if it was with effort or if his mercurial nature allowed him to drop his resentment so readily, but he brightened at once. “Your friend Mr. Ellershaw is terribly afflicted.” The news sounded grave, but he delivered it with a grin.

“The French pox?”

He shook his head. “Not the French pox but the English malady. Madness.”

“What do you mean?”

“What I mean, Weaver, is that he believes he has an advanced and virulent case of syphilis—though at times he speaks of it as gonorrhea, not comprehending the difference—and yet he has not a single symptom. I can find no sores, pustules, rashes, or inflammations, nor can I find signs that there have ever been such.”

“Are you certain?”

He took a long drink of his ale. “Weaver, I’ve just spent the last hour handling a deranged old fat man’s privy member. Please don’t ask me if I’m certain. I must obliterate the morning from my mind, and on the spur of speed too.”

“What, then, did you tell him?”

“You know I am obligated by oath to treat my patients to the best of my ability.”

“Yes, yes. What did you tell him?”

“As I’m under no obligation to refrain from pretending to treat a well man who believes himself ill, particularly if doing so will bring him peace, I informed him that I knew of some very particular cures, recently brought back from the Barbadoes, that I had no doubt would relieve his symptoms. I let a small quantity of his blood, purged his bowels, and left with him a rather violent diuretic. When I am done with you, I shall write my apothecary and have him send over a variety of mixtures that will have no other effect than to calm his agitation. And, as he appears to believe in my cure, perhaps it shall settle his spirits.” He held up a shiny guinea. “Certainly he appeared most obliged.”

“I should think. And will you continue to treat him?”

“As best I can, but he may grow agitated when I refuse to apply mercury, and I should rather avoid doing so since he does not require exposure to so strong a property as it contains.”

“Give him whatever he likes, so long as it keeps you in his employ.”

“Mercury is marvelous effective against the pox, but it has unwholesome effects. It is hardly ethical to give a man a cure he does not need that will engender a sickness he need not suffer.”

“Is it ethical to allow you to spend the remainder of your years in debtor’s prison to protect the health of a rapacious madman?”

“You make a compelling case,” he said. “I’ll consider my options when the time comes.”

I nodded. “A wise course, though consult with me before doing anything, please.”

“Of course. Now, if you’ll permit me to bring up the matter of the girl one last time. Have you considered that if I could strike up an amour with her, it would give me a reason to return more often, and then there should be two of us inside who might more effectively than one—”

“She’s a French spy,” I said, ending his discourse with the suddenness of a fired pistol.

I regretted it at once. Even if my knowledge and his will could tame Elias’s predatory impulses, I doubted he would be a match for the lady’s own skills. If she pressed him, I feared his knowledge of her true nature would be legible upon his face as clearly as if written in ink.

Nevertheless, I had began and had no choice but to continue. “There is a French plot here somewhere, Elias. I know not if it be the most villainous of the schemes that surround the Company, but it is a plot. First we find that there are Frenchmen investing in my death as though it were a fund upon the ’Change, and now I find a French spy contriving to discover all about the Company and about me.”

I proceeded to tell him of my encounter the previous evening with Miss Glade, and though I was careful to disguise the more amorous elements, Elias had known me too long and was too good a student of human nature not to suspect something.

“I say, have you an affection for this treacherous creature?”

“She wishes me to have one,” I answered.

“And given that she is beautiful and charming, you find it difficult not to comply.”

“I am master of my passions,” I assured him, “and I have no desire to form a connection with a woman whose motives we must presume to be malicious. You need not worry about me on that score.”

He took a moment to stare at his closely cut fingernails, a clear indication he wished to say something awkward. “I trust you have accepted that you shall never be successful with your cousin’s widow.”

I shook my head in disbelief. “Do you really believe that a longing for Miriam stands as the only obstacle between myself and true love with a deceitful spy?”

“I know you have long loved Miriam Melbury, and she has quite dashed your heart to bits, but I admit when you phrase it in such a way that my theory does not appear valid.”

“I am relieved to hear you say as much.”

“Still, you are reaching the age where a man ought to seek out a wife.”

“Elias, if I wished to have this conversation, I might as well visit my aunt Sophia, who could make the case far more eloquently while irritating me far less and probably serving me something quite pleasant to eat. Besides which, I might make the same claim of you, yet I hardly see you seeking out a bride.”

“Oh, I am not the marrying kind, Weaver, and if I were I should require a woman with a massive dowry who would overlook my relative financial difficulties. You, on the other hand, are a Hebrew, and your people cannot help but marry. If you wish to hear my opinion, I think a wife would do you good.”

“Perhaps,” I said, “I should ask Mr. Cobb to send you to debtor’s prison now.”

“Those who speak the truth must face the brickbats of resentment.”

“Yes, and your lot in life is to suffer. May I suggest we confine our time to discussing the meaning of the French involvement?”

He let out a sigh. “Very well. I have never heard of the French sending agents to work against the great companies, but it does not surprise me that they would think to do so. After all, these companies produce prodigious wealth for the nation, and the East India Company is also an arm of exploration and expansions. There could be any number of reasons why the French should wish to infiltrate Craven House.”

That, unfortunately constituted the extent of Elias’s analysis. By this time I had finished my pot and thought it advisable to return to the East India yard, lest my absence be noted. I did not think any great harm would come of such an observation, but it served my interests well enough that I should draw no attention to myself.

I came in through the main gate, therefore, and proceeded to the warehouses, but I had not advanced more than a few feet before I heard my name called quite briskly.

“Mr. Weaver, pray you stop.”

I turned to find Carmichael chasing after me. He ran forward, holding his straw hat to his head. “What is it?”

“Mr. Ellershaw come down here not half an hour past. He appeared most grieved that no one knew how to find you.”

I nodded and headed back toward the main house and proceeded directly toward Ellershaw’s office. He called for me to enter when I knocked, and when I stepped in, I found Mr. Forester sitting across the desk from him, several samples of cloth draped across the desk. Neither man, I soon observed, appeared happy to see me.

“Weaver.” Ellershaw spat out some of the brown kernel on which he chewed. “Where have you been? Do I pay you for your leisure time or for your labors?”

“I’m sorry to have missed you,” I said. “I was about an inspection of the warehouses when you called upon me.”

“If you were inspecting the warehouses, how is it that no one knew of your whereabouts?”

“Because I did not wish for them to know. Inspections are most effective when they are a surprise to those inspected.”

Ellershaw pondered this suggestion for a moment and then nodded slowly while he worked at the mass in his mouth. “Just so.”

Forester held in his hand a piece of blue fabric, which he studied most attentively. Indeed, he tried most assiduously to keep his eyes from wandering from the cloth. I suspected he did not trust himself to contain his expression should our eyes meet, and I thought that a useful detail. Forester believed himself unskilled at dissimulation.

“What is it you want?” Ellershaw now inquired of me.

“I only wanted to attend to you, as you called upon me, sir,” I said.

“I haven’t the time for you now,” he answered. “Can you not see that we are busy with things that are none of your concern? Is that not your opinion, Forester?”

Forester continued to cast his eyes downward. “It is. A man of his sort can have nothing to add to our discussion.”

“I say,” Ellershaw blurted out, “that is rather a harsh assessment. Weaver may not be a Company man, but he’s a sharp fellow. Do you think you have something to say to us, Weaver?”

“I do not know what you discuss,” I said.

“Nothing of interest to you,” Forester murmured.

“Only these cloths. What you see before you, Weaver, are the fabrics the Parliament, may it rot in hell, will permit us to sell domestically after Christmas. As you see, it is devilish little. Most of our trade on these islands will now be in these blues”—he held up a piece of light blue cotton—“and I fear what trade we do with it will be a mere shadow of our former enterprise.”

I said nothing.

“As you can see,” Forester said, “he has neither the experience nor interest for these matters. I mean no insult to the fellow, but he is not a man whose opinion you must solicit.”

“What is the cloth used for now?” I asked.

“Scarves,” Ellershaw said. “Stockings, cravats, other such accessories, and, of course, dresses for the ladies.”

“Then would it not be wise,” I suggested, “to encourage men of fashion to mold their suits out of this material?”

Forester let out a loud laugh. “A suit, you say? Even the most absurd of fops would not wear a suit of so feminine a color. The very idea is laughable.”

“Perhaps so,” I said with a shrug, “but Mr. Ellershaw has observed that the key to success is to allow the warehouses to drive fashion and not fashion the warehouses. You may sell as much of this material as you wish, so ought not the Company work to change the public’s perception rather than mold your product to their perceptions? As I have been made to understand it, you need only provide suits of this color to enough fashionable gentlemen in order for it to seem absurd no longer. Indeed, if you succeed, by next season no one will remember a time when suits of this shade of blue were unpopular.”

“Nonsense,” Forester said.

“No.” Ellershaw let out a breath. “He is right. This is the very thing. Begin to send notes to your associates in the world of fashion. Make appointments to have a tailor pay them a visit.”

“Sir, this is but the squandering of time and effort,” Forester answered. “No one will wear a suit of so foolish a color.”

“The world will wear these suits,” he answered. “Well done, Weaver. With only two weeks left before the Court meets, I may yet preserve myself. Now, back to your appointed tasks. I shall have more to say to you anon.”

I bowed to both men and departed, certain from the look on Forester’s face that I had done nothing more than fan the flames of the hatred for which he bore me.

THAT NIGHT, AT THE APPOINTED time, Carmichael met me behind the main warehouse. The sky was unusually dark—cloudy and moonless with the occasional fluttering touch of snow—and though the grounds were well lit, there were ample swaths of shadow in which to make our silent way. The dogs, by now, knew my scent and would not remark upon it, and we knew well the times of patrols and the routes the watchmen would take, so it was no difficult thing to move unseen in the cold darkness.

Carmichael took me toward the northernmost edge of the East India yards, where stood the building called the Greene House. It was four stories in height, but narrow, and in none the best shape. I had heard tell that it was scheduled to be brought down some time in the next year.

The door was naturally locked, as the watchmen could not be entrusted with access to the interior, not when they would be tempted to help themselves to whatever they could find inside. But as master watchman I was granted full access, and after waiting for one of the patrolling men, who had the staggering gait of one who’d been drinking too much small beer while at work, we made our way inside.

I had taken the precaution of hiding candles and tinder where I knew I would be able to retrieve them, after which, in the dark and echoing space, I turned to Carmichael’s flickering face.

“Where to?”

“Up,” he said. “It’s on the top floor, which has fallen into disuse because it’s such horrible bad trouble to carry crates to and fro. And the stairs ain’t great, so we’ll have to be right careful. Also, stay away from the window with that light of yours. You don’t want anyone to see. No telling who is Aadil’s fellow and who ain’t.”

It was undeniably good advice, so I handed him the candle and determined to place my safety in his hands. It was entirely possible that Carmichael might not be what he appeared; that he might not be trustworthy or eager to help me at all. I had already encountered more double-dealing than was the norm, even in institutions like these companies, which bred backstabbing the way workhouses bred whores. For all that, I had no choice but to move forward, so I did, keeping close to my guide.

When we reached the top floor, Carmichael turned to me. “Here’s where it gets a bit thorny.”

When he held out the candle, I knew at once what he meant. The stairs were crumbling and broken, with no sign to indicate which parts would withstand the weight of a man and which would crumble under my feet. I presumed they could not be as fragile as they looked, for how else could Aadil and his followers haul crates up to the fourth floor? Nevertheless, I followed closely in Carmichael’s footsteps.

When we reached the landing, he led me left, down a dusty corridor, until we stood before a door. I tried it and found it to be locked. I had come prepared, however, and removed from my pocket a set of picks that glistened in the light of Carmichael’s candle. He, however, was not one to be outdone. In the spare light I saw the flash of a grin, and then he reached into his coat to hold up a key.

“I’m sure you’re right skillful with those picks, sir, but this here will do our business a mite more simple.”

I put the picks away, nodding in agreement. Taking the candle, I watched as he inserted the key and turned the knob and pushed open the door. Then with a grand gesture, originating in something I suspected other than politeness, he indicated that I should go first.

I did so, holding up my candle to illuminate a large, if not massive, room filled with crates of a variety of sizes. Some were stacked nearly to the ceiling; some lay scattered here and there as if with no reason. All were shut.

I set the candle down when I spied an iron bar, which I then gripped and approached the nearest container.

“Hold,” Carmichael called. “You can’t break it open. They’ll know we’ve been here.”

“They’ll know someone’s been here, that much is likely. But they won’t know it was us. And we did not come up here to have an appraising look at the contents of the room. I must know what they are hiding.”

He gave me an accepting but unenthusiastic nod, and so I broke open the nearest crate. Inside, it was full of thick rolls of cloths of bright floral patterns. I held the candle closer.

“What is it?” I asked Carmichael.

He took a piece of cloth in his hands, rubbed it between his fingers, stroked it, and put it near to the candle. “It ain’t nothing,” he said quietly. “It’s just the same cloths they bring into the other warehouses.”

We opened half a dozen more at random; again, nothing but standard East Indian cloth imports. Carmichael shook his head. “I can’t make sense of it,” he said. “Why would they go to the trouble of playing these freaks with hidden meetings and late night secreting away of deliveries. This ain’t nothing but the ordinary.”

I took a moment to consider why it was that a member of the Court of Committees would trouble himself to collect a clandestine network in order to warehouse goods that might as well be stored anywhere. “Is this a matter of stealing?” I asked. “Do they plan to sell the contents of this room for their own profit?”

“Stealing?” Carmichael let out a laugh. “To what end? In another month, the market for these cloths will be gone.”

“A black market, perhaps? They mean to continue to sell the material clandestinely?”

Again, Carmichael shook his head. “No, the law don’t forbid the trade in calicoes, only the wearing of them. If they wish to keep on selling the cloth, they can, but there won’t be anyone to buy it. Come Christmas, they won’t be able to give it away. Here in England, all this will be worth less than nothing.”

“And you are certain that the cloth is ordinary?”

He nodded most solemnly. “’Tis but ordinary calico.”

I felt certain I must be overlooking something of some significance. Carmichael, too, kept a puzzled look upon his face. “Maybe if you could get a look at the manifests,” he suggested. “Could it be that there’s some meaning not in the crates themselves but in from where they come or whither they’re bound?”

It was a good suggestion, and I was about to say as much when we heard the unmistakable sound of a door opening on the first floor and muffled though agitated voices.

“The devil’s arse,” Carmichael cursed. “They must have seen the light through the window after all. You’ve got to get out of here.”

“How?”

“The window. That one there. That side of the building has rugged stones, so that if you’ve got a good purchase you can get yourself up to the roof and hide.”

“And what about you?”

“I’ll have to close the window behind you. Now, don’t worry about me, Mr. Weaver. I know these warehouses like a child knows his own street. They’ll not find me, I’ll warrant.”

“I can’t leave you to fend for yourself.”

“There ain’t no choice in it. We can’t risk them finding you, for both our sakes. And trust me, they’ll never know I was here. I’ve got a few minutes to put all back in order, lock the door, and slip into a crevice where they won’t look. Come find me tomorrow, but for now you’ve got to get out that window.”

I did not love to do it, but I saw the sense of his plan, and I understood Carmichael had proposed it not out of an altruistic impulse but because it was the soundest course. So I allowed him to lead me toward the window he had in mind. It was stuck with disuse, but I managed to pry it open and have a look out. The stones were, indeed, quite rough. A man afraid of heights or unused to handling himself in awkward situations—such as the uninvited entry or exit from premises not his own—might have trembled at this sight, but I could only think that, in the past, I’d managed far worse and in rain and snow too.

“I’ll leave the window open just enough to give you something to grip when you return,” he said. “But I’ll have to lock the door behind me, so those picks of yours had better be good.”

It was not the picks that would be tested but the picker, but I had my share of experience, so I merely nodded. “You are certain you wish to remain?”

“’Tis the best course. Now off with ye.”

So I was off, out the window. Balancing on the thankfully ample ledge in the darkness of night, I caught hold of a jutting rock and forced myself up to a ledgelike protrusion, and then another, and then, with an ease I found almost troubling, I was on the roof. There I pressed myself flat where I might have a good view of the door. I could hear from the building a muffled commotion, but no more than that. And then nothing but the sounds of London at night: the distant cries of street vendors, the squawks of eager or outraged whores, the clatter of hooves on stone. Across the courtyard I heard the coughing and cackling and grumbling of the watchmen.

A light rain soaked my greatcoat and clothing through to my skin, but still I remained until I saw a group of men depart from the warehouse. From my lofty position I could not hear their words or determine who they were, except that there were four of them and one, from the size of the bulk under his coat, I believed must be Aadil. Another must have hurt himself on the stairs, I thought, because one of his fellows helped him along.

I continued to wait for some hours until I feared that light would soon destroy my cover, and so, with much greater difficulty and trepidation than on my ascent, I carefully made my way back down the ledge of the wall to the window sill and pried open the window—already ajar as Carmichael had promised. I then found that my picks were unnecessary, for the door had been left closed but unlocked. I knew not if my ally had done this by mistake, as an aid to me, or if the men come to inspect the premises had been careless. At the time I hardly cared. I should have cared, I later realized, but at the time I did not.

Now, without benefit of a candle, I made my careful way down the stairs, wondering all the while if Carmichael would rejoin me or if he had somehow managed to slip out without my noticing. There was no sign of him, however, and once on the ground floor, I studied the premises through a window until I felt certain I could leave undetected. It was then a matter of another half an hour of snaking through shadows to avoid the watchmen and make my departure. I arrived home in time to sleep an hour before rising once more to greet the day and the terrible news it would bring.