A Conspiracy of Paper (17 page)

What I believe is relevant, however, is that on my late-night retreat from her lodgings I met with a misadventure I could only assume to be tied to my inquiry. My actress lived not far from my own lodgings, across the Strand, in a small outlet off Cecil Street, an area I thought too isolated and too near the river for an attractive lady’s comfort. It was her habit to send me home late at night, after her landlady had gone to sleep and before she rose again, and I had no great objection to the arrangement, preferring the comfort of my own rooms. That night, having paid my tribute at the temple of Venus, I set out to make my way back to Mrs. Garrison’s. It was dark as I walked up toward Cecil Street, and not a soul stirred that I could see. I could hear the waters of the river, and I could smell its dank, fishy odor. It had begun to rain slightly, and a cool mist filled the air. I pulled my coat about me and headed into the darkness of my ill-lit way home. When I was a boy, the streets of London had been reasonably lighted with lamps, but in the few years before this tale those lamps had fallen into disuse. These dark streets had become lost to honest folk, taken over by the wretched denizens of the alleyways, gutters, and gin houses.

If my reader lives in London, he will understand that no man, no matter how formidable and no matter how well armed, can walk the dark streets of this city without trepidation. Such had always been the case, I suppose, but matters had grown far worse as Jonathan Wild’s rascals began to take for themselves the freedoms of the city. Had I lived farther from my paramour than I did, I should have sought to procure a hackney, but I would not be able to do so until upon the Strand, and from there I felt I could safely make my own way. Thus I walked cautiously, attempting to keep my wits about me, though my mind was distracted by the memories of a pleasant evening as well as a bit muddled from two or three bottles of a pleasing vintage.

I had walked only a few minutes when I heard footsteps behind me. Whoever followed was skillful, for he matched his gait precisely with my own, making his footfalls all but impossible to discern. I could only presume it was a footpad who had made his way up from the river and had been delighted to find fair game upon these streets. I kept my pace steady, not wishing to let him know that I heard him, but I grabbed the handle of my hangar with a resolve to be ready for him with my blade. I thought about bringing forth my pistol, but I had no desire to fill yet another prig with lead, and it was my hope that I could defend myself without killing my assailant. It was certainly not overly optimistic to believe that the sight of a brave man with a drawn weapon would be enough to end the matter. The city, this prig might realize, was surely full of easier prey.

I continued to walk, and he continued to keep apace. The mist began to turn into a steady rain, and a strong wind picked up from the river. I found myself shivering slightly as I walked, hearing my heart pound as if behind my ears, just as I heard the rhythmic tapping of the stalker’s footfalls. I could not tell when he would strike, but I found it strange that he waited so long. We were alone, and no footpad could hope for more favorable conditions. Indeed, he had nothing to gain by waiting, but he continued only to keep pace. I thought to turn around and challenge him to force the issue and to end the conflict, but I flattered myself that I might reach the Strand—and safety—without risking a struggle. I should have loved to have faced any ruffian of this order in a fair match, but I had no knowledge of his weaponry. He might have a brace of pistols pointed at me, and by frightening him I would only secure my demise. Perhaps, I thought, he was new at his trade and did not understand how ideal the conditions were. If so, I might keep walking until I should find company and the matter would end without confrontation or violence.

At last I saw a hackney coach up ahead, barreling in my direction. I could not imagine where it headed at such a speed, for the street went nowhere one might need to get to quickly. Despite its frenzied pace, I felt certain that if I signaled to him, the coachman would stop and permit me to ride at least to the nearest well-lit spot, where I might procure my own transportation. I feared he might not see me in the dark, so I stepped forward into the road, and drew my hangar, hoping that such light as there was would reflect off the thin blade and signal my distress.

I waved my arms as the coach drew nearer, but it did not slow down. Indeed, I realized as it approached that the horses were not going to run by me, but rather into me, and so I took myself a few steps backward, continuing to wave as I did so. As I changed my course, so too did the horses, and I could not but conclude that this madman meant to trample upon me. I hope my reader will think me no coward, but in an instant I was filled with terror, for I believed in my heart that this was the coach, and this the very coachman, who had run down my father. This terror sprang not only from the fear I now felt for my own life, although that was certainly no small part of it, but from the recognition of the enormity of what I faced. I sought to know what had happened to my father, and now his fate might well be my own. There were forces at work that I could not comprehend, and because I could not comprehend, I felt I could not defend myself.

I took another few steps backward, away from the road, where the murderous coachman would never dare to drive his horses but at his own peril. I discovered, however, a difficulty I had not bothered to consider—that the coach and the thief were but of the same party, for the thief had managed to sneak his way behind me, and, taking advantage of his surprise, he gripped me hard upon the shoulders, twisting my body roughly before throwing me to the ground. As I landed, the coach sped by at a frightening pace, the horses screaming with what sounded like sinister pleasure. My assailant lost no time raising up and holding forth his own blade over my dazed and prostrate form.

“I thought to say ‘stand and deliver,’ ” he told me with a grin dully reflected in even the minimal light, “but in your case, delivering will be enough.”

I could not discern his features clearly in the darkness, but he was a stout, gritty-looking creature who, by the width of him, might have acquitted himself reasonably well in an honest fight. Now that he had the advantage, I thought hard for ways I might remove myself of his mercy.

“I have little money about me,” I told him truthfully, hoping to prolong the conflict that I might find a way to reverse his obvious advantage. “If you will let me return to my lodgings, I shall pay you for your consideration.”

Even in the darkness, I could see him grin. “That’s all right,” he said in a thick country accent. “My business is somewhat seriouser’n robbery. I was just hoping to get myself a little something extra.”

He thrust forward with his weapon, which surely would have pierced my heart had I not raised a leg and, with my heavy boot, stomped hard into his manly parts. It is a painful thing to be struck thus; I know so from experience, but a man who fights in the ring must learn to ignore a pain that, while distracting, is rarely harmful. This prig had never learned that lesson. He let out a howl, staggered backward, and dropped his own weapon that he might helplessly support his injured flesh.

I quickly retrieved both my blade and his own, but I was in no haste to run him through. I walked rapidly toward him as he crouched, clutching at his cod. I could discern that he was dressed not so poorly as the average prig, but I could not see the specific details of his attire, or those of his face.

“Tell me who sent you,” I gasped, my breathing having been much disordered by the adventure. I took another step forward.

I heard the clattering of hooves and the grinding of wheels, and I knew the hackney coach was returning. I had little time.

He groaned. He clutched. He said nothing. I thought I should get his attention, and do so quickly, so I kicked him again, this time in the face. He went flying backward into the street, and landed hard upon his posterior. I heard a groan and then a scraping in his throat as he struggled for air.

“Who sent you,” I again demanded. I hoped my voice conveyed the urgency of the question.

I thought that if my blow to his tenderest part had so disabled the thief, my second should have all but mastered him, but such proved not to be the case. “Kiss my arse, Jew,” he said, and then, audibly sucking in his breath as he mustered his strength, he ran after the coach. He ran slowly and awkwardly, but he ran all the same, and he kept himself just out of my reach as he jumped, or I should say threw himself, onto the back of the coach as it barreled toward the Strand. I took a step farther backward, that the coach could not threaten me, though I did not believe it would try to do so again. It sped off, leaving me standing unhurt if confused and weary.

In such moments, one wishes for some sort of dramatic resolution, as though life were but a stage play. I cannot say which I found more disorienting: the attack upon my person or the fact that, once the attack had ended, I simply continued my walk toward the Strand. And in the silence of the night I could almost believe the assault had been but a fantasy of my mind.

But it had not been. Nor had it been a simple attempt upon a man foolish enough to be caught by himself at night. The hackney coach told me that these were not poor and desperate men, for where would thieving knaves have acquired so expensive a piece of equipment? What frightened me more was that these men knew me—knew me to be a Jew. They had been set upon me, and that I had let them escape filled me with a twisting anger that I vowed to unleash upon my assailants, whom I firmly believed to be my father’s killers.

TWELVE

W
ITH THE CLARITY
that comes with the light of morning, I realized precisely the gravity of my situation. If my assailants had desired to murder me, they had certainly failed miserably, and if their desire had been to frighten me away, I resolved that they should fail just as thoroughly on that score. I took this assault as incontrovertible proof that my father had been murdered, and that men of violence and power wished to keep the truth of his death a secret. As a man well used to danger, I determined only to exercise more caution and to continue upon my course.

My thoughts were interrupted by the arrival of a messenger, who brought me a letter addressed in a feminine hand I did not recognize. I tore it open and found myself astonished by the following communication:

Mr. Weaver,

I trust you can easily imagine the extraordinary discomfort at imposing upon you, particularly as we have met but recently. I call upon you, however, because though you and I are but newly acquainted, I can see that you are a man of both honor and feeling, and that you are as generous as you are discreet. We discussed briefly the limitations with which I find myself in your uncle’s house, but I hoped to spare you the discomfort and myself the mortification of mentioning that these limitations are both urgent and real. I find myself short of ready money and threatened by villainous creditors. I dare not risk Mr. Lienzo’s disapproval by begging his assistance, and with nowhere else to turn I am forced to reveal myself to you in the hopes that you will have both the means and the willingness to advance a small amount that I shall repay in silver upon the earliest possibility, and repay in gratitude immediately and eternally. The sum of £25 will perhaps not be missed by a man of your station, but it will save me from a shame and discomfort I hardly dare imagine. I hope you will give this note all due consideration, and take pity on a most desperate

Miriam Lienzo

My response to this note was a mixture of surprise, perplexity, and delight. Having been reimbursed by Sir Owen for what I had advanced in the service of Kate Cole, I could scarcely have endured myself if had I let Miriam suffer under the threats of her creditors. I had no doubt that my uncle would never allow her to visit the inside of a debtor’s prison over so niggling a sum, but I believed that she had reasons for wishing to keep him ignorant of her troubles.

I immediately collected the sum she required from my hidden store of silver and dispatched Mrs. Garrison’s boy with the coins and the following note.

Madam,

I shall long remember this day as a great one, for on it you have given me the opportunity to perform for you some small service. I ask that you consider this insignificant sum as a present and think no more of it whatsoever. The only consideration I require is that should you again find yourself in need of assistance of any kind, you will think first to call upon

Ben. Weaver

I spent much of the next hour wondering about what sorts of debts Miriam could have accrued and how she might show me her gratitude. Unfortunately, I soon had to turn to other matters. This was the day I had appointed to meet with Sir Owen at his club, so after concluding some routine business about the metropolis, I returned to my home in Mrs. Garrison’s house to wash my face and change into my best suit of clothes. I even briefly considered wearing a wig, that I might endeavor to appear as one of these men, but I quickly laughed at my own foolishness. I was not a fashionable gentleman, and my pretending to be one should only earn their contempt. And it was with a certain amount of pride that I reminded myself that I did not require a wig as most English gentlemen do, for I, being mindful of cleanliness, washed my hair several times each month and thus avoided the plague of lice. I did not neglect to wear a hangar, however, even though most men consider a fashionable sword to be a sign of gentility. Indeed, it was not many generations ago when the laws of the Kingdom would have forbidden a man such as myself from wearing a weapon, but despite the harsh looks my hangar at times brought me, I never thought to leave it behind. Its protection proved far too valuable, and no stranger ever dared to express his disapproval with words uttered above a whisper.

It was nearly nine o’clock, the time I was engaged to meet with Sir Owen at his club, and after my adventures the previous night, I could feel the dull torpor of exhaustion in the core of my muscles. I considered Sir Owen’s invitation a fine opportunity, and I certainly had no wish to insult him by not acknowledging it as such, but as I approached his club, located in a beautiful white town house of Queen Anne’s time, I wondered why precisely he had invited me to join him there. I could not but think that in a club to which Sir Owen belonged I might expect to find no shortage of men to raise their eyebrows at a Jew guest. Did Sir Owen want to do me a good turn, or did he have another motive? I wondered perhaps if he might have enemies within his club, people whom he hoped to intimidate by flaunting his connection with me. Was it possible that he thought there would be some sort of prestige in showing he had a man of my stripe in his orbit? Or was it no more than that an exuberant gentleman like Sir Owen felt that I had done him a good turn and wanted to do me one as well—even if such a good turn were in bad taste? Based on what I knew of him, this explanation was hardly unlikely, so I chose to believe in his goodwill, and I knocked heartily upon the door.

After but a moment I was greeted by a very young footman—perhaps no more than sixteen—who had already learned to affect the snobbish manner of his employers. He peered at me, no doubt noting my darkish skin tone and natural hair, and screwed up his face into a foppish disgust. “Can it be that you have some sort of business here?”

“It can,” I said with a tight sneer. Five years earlier, perhaps, I would have been considering whether or not to provide the spark with a painful lesson in manners, but age had tempered my passions. “My name is Weaver,” I told him wearily. “I am a guest of Sir Owen Nettleton.”

“Oh, yes,” he droned, his face not yet ready to abandon its conviction of superiority. “Sir Owen’s
guest.
We’ve been told about you.”

The “we” I thought an adventurous touch on his part. I was sure if I mentioned it to Sir Owen the boy would have received a good beating for presuming to number himself with his betters, but reporting the spark’s insolence was a task I would leave for another man. Instead I followed this servant into an exquisite hall paneled with a dark wood the likes of which I had never seen before. On the floor was a rug of Indian origin, and no inexpensive one I guessed from the intricacy of the work. Not knowing much of the arts, I could not offer an opinion of the paintings on the wall, but they were pastoral scenes of fine workmanship—Italian, I guessed, based on the costumes of the figures. It was clear that Sir Owen kept sophisticated company.

I followed the boy through an equally exquisite drawing room, where three men sat drinking wine. Their close conversation broke as I passed, for they took the opportunity to stare hard at me. I smiled and offered them brief bows as I moved to the main room. This was a large area with perhaps four or five tables, several sofas, and countless chairs. Here a good twenty or so men were engaged in a variety of activities—playing card games, conversing gregariously, and reading the papers aloud. One man stood in the corner, making water into a china pot. The furniture was all of the highest quality, and the wood-paneled walls were decorated with the same style of Italian paintings as I had seen outside. Toward one wall stood an enormous fireplace, but only a small fire burned within.

Sir Owen spotted us before we saw him. The baronet had been sitting at one of the card tables, his face invisible as he contemplated a hand. As he saw us he made some brief apologies to the men with whom he had been playing and stood to greet me.

“Weaver, so good of you to show.” Sir Owen’s affable face was bright with portly good cheer. “So very good. A glass of port for Mr. Weaver,” Sir Owen shouted at a liveried servant across the room. The footman who had led me in had already melted away.

I felt the hum of conversation die down to a quiet whisper; all eyes were upon me, but Sir Owen either did not note the suspicion with which I was regarded or he did not care. Instead he clapped his arm about my shoulder and led me over to a group of men seated in a few chairs arranged to face one another. “Look here,” Sir Owen nearly bellowed at these men, “I want you to meet Benjamin Weaver, the Lion of Judah. He’s helped me out of a tight spot, you know.”

The three men rose. “I should think,” one of them said dryly, “you refer to just this moment, for Mr. Weaver’s arrival saved you from your ill luck at play.”

“Quite so, quite so,” Sir Owen agreed jovially. “Weaver, these men are Lord Thornbridge, Sir Robert Leicester, and Mr. Charles Home.” All three men greeted me with rigid politeness as Sir Owen continued to talk. “Weaver here is as brave and stout a man as you’re likely to meet. Here’s a fellow who’s a credit to his people, helping folks rather than tricking them with stock and annuities.”

Sir Owen’s was a sentiment I had certainly heard before. Men who did not know that I was the son of a stock-jobber frequently felt free to compliment me for having nothing to do with finance or Jewish customs, which were often imagined to be one and the same. I wondered if Lord Thornbridge knew of my family connections, for he took what I believed an ironic amusement at Sir Owen’s raillery. He was of about five-and-twenty years, I guessed—a striking-looking man, astonishingly handsome and ugly simultaneously. He had strong cheekbones, a manly chin, and striking blue eyes, but his teeth were rotted black within his mouth, and he had a distracting red and bulbous growth upon his nose.

“Do you feel yourself to be a credit to your people?” asked Lord Thornbridge, as he sat down. The rest of us followed suit.

“I think, my lord,” I said, choosing my words with the utmost care, “that any man of a foreign nation must serve as an ambassador among his hosts.”

“Bravo,” he said, with a slight laugh that appeared to me as much out of boredom as appreciation. Then he turned to his friend. “I should like if your brother Scots felt thus, Home.”

Home smiled with pleasure at the opportunity of contributing. He was approximately Lord Thornbridge’s age, and I sensed the two were companions, if not friends. He was more fashionably dressed than the nobleman, and his handsome appearance was unmitigated by any defect whatsoever. The confidence that Thornbridge derived from his nobility, Home derived from his appearance. Both, I quickly surmised, derived confidence from money. “I think you do not understand the Scots, my lord,” Home droned. “Mr. Weaver perhaps feels that his fellow-Jews must be careful not to disoblige their hosts, for they know their hosts may all too readily feel disobliged. We Scots, however, feel a more fraternal obligation to teach the English in the areas of philosophy, religion, medicine, and manners in general.”

Lord Thornbridge affected amusement at Home’s repartee. “Just as we English teach the Scots how to—”

Home cut him off. “How to learn from French dancing masters, my lord? Really, you must know that any culture England boasts of comes from the north or from across the Channel.”

Lips pursed petulantly, Lord Thornbridge muttered something about Scottish barbarians and rebels, but it was clear who was the wittier man. Thornbridge opened his mouth to begin speaking again, no doubt with the intent of recovering some of his honor, but he was cut off by Sir Robert, a much older man of fifty or more who sat with the stony superiority of someone who had never been in want of anything. “What think you then, Weaver, of the Shylocks of your race?”

“I say, Bobby,” Sir Owen cut in, “let us not roast our friend upon the fire. He is my guest, after all.” His tone bespoke more amusement than censure, and I could not think his words were calculated to have any effect upon his friends.

“I see it not as roasting,” Sir Robert replied. He turned to me. “Surely you must acknowledge that many of your people are schemers who seek to trick Christians of their property.”

“And their daughters?” I asked. I hoped to defuse this topic with a bit of humor.

“Well,” Lord Thornbridge chimed in, “it is no secret that the circumcised among us have a voracious appetite.” He laughed heartily.

Certainly I felt uncomfortable, but I had long understood what such men thought of my race. “I cannot speak for all Jews, as none of you could speak for all Christians. But we have the honest and dishonest among us as you do.”

“Diplomatic but false,” Sir Robert said. “Any man who has lost money in the funds knows he can follow the trail of his loss to the hand of a Jew—or a man in a Jew’s service, to be sure.”

The sophistry of this argument fairly filled me with rage. I knew not how to counter such nonsense. I was therefore shocked to hear Home respond for me. “What rubbish is that, Sir Robert? To say that any transaction might be traced to a Jew is the same as saying that, as you have made it a habit to attend the opera, I can trace you to a buggering Italian, and thus you must be a sodomite.”

“Clever wordplay from a Scot,” Sir Robert said, visibly angered by Home’s analysis. “But I’ve often wondered about you Scots—refusing to eat pork as you do and clinging so tightly to your funds. I have heard it said that you yourselves are one of the Lost Tribes of Israel.”

“Let us not give Mr. Weaver the wrong idea of friendly commerce among Christian gentlemen,” Lord Thornbridge proposed cautiously, in an effort to keep tempers in check.

Sir Robert coughed into his hand and then turned to me. “I do not mean to insult your people. I suppose there are reasons—historical reasons—that explain why you are the way you are. The Popes never permitted members of the Romish faith to engage in usury,” he explained to the others, perhaps believing that I was familiar with all aspects of Christian history that related to Jews. “And thus Jews gladly took the trade for themselves. Now, Weaver, your race seems tainted by that trade. And here your people are, working your stock-jobbery in this country. One wonders if you are not trying to take the very nation itself away from us. Must we say farewell to Britain and greet instead Judea Nova? Shall St. Paul’s be turned to a synagogue? Are we to see public circumcisions in the streets?”