A Conspiracy of Paper (39 page)

When I turned, I saw that my attackers had fled, leaving behind the man I had rendered unconscious. I thought to pursue them, but I knew my first duty was Elias, who lay on the floor motionless. I grabbed one of the only candles from a sconce and held it to Elias’s face. I could see no visible breaks in the skin, and he was clearly breathing, if in a hoarse and labored manner. I turned him over to see that his eyes were open and he winced in pain. “Phlebotomize me,” he whispered with a sickly grin. “But first, catch those scoundrels.”

I trusted in Elias’s knowledge as a surgeon, and indeed his womanish valor, not to send me away if his life was in any real danger, so I grabbed a cudgel and flew down the stairs, finding no evidence of my attackers.

Outside, a crowd had gathered about the body of the man who had fallen, and I forced my way through to see if he were still alive. He was not. He lay, his face to one side, blood trickling from his mouth as well as from the wound I had inflicted upon him. In the attitude of death his looks were quite changed, but I knew the man. I recognized him. It was he who had attacked me on Cecil Street late at night, and it was he who had fled from me at South Sea House.

I was sorry to have killed him. Not quite true, perhaps. My heart raced and my blood pounded through my veins, and I felt no remorse and no guilt. However, I was sorry that he had not lived long enough to answer some questions before expiring. My task now, I knew, was to find his companions and make them speak or to meet the same fate as their friend.

My plans were thwarted by the arrival of the constables. They were as much a pair of blackguards as ever performed the task of justice in this town. I knew them both from Duncombe’s court, but never took either when I ventured upon an arrest, for they were known villains who delighted only in random violence. One was a fat, squat fellow with a hideous purplish rash all about his face. The other was a less-disgusting creature—a normal-enough-looking man, I suppose, but for his narrow eyes, slitted just enough to reveal his cruelty.

“Does anyone know who shot this man?” the fat one shouted.

“Aye.” A man stepped forward. He wore no costume, but I knew from his voice that he was one of the men who had attacked me. He pointed in my direction. “There’s the man,” he said in the same tone he might use to ask an oyster woman for a tuppence’ worth. “I saw it all, and I’ll swear before the justice. It was cold-blooded murder, it was.”

“See that you do swear it before the judge,” I spat, as the constables approached me. “I’ll enjoy watching you hang.” I was too angry to do much but spit curses. There was nothing to be gained by running from the constables, for my attackers knew my name, and I would be apprehended in the end. I have a witness, I thought, who will clear this matter in but an instant. But it then occurred to me that I knew not where this man’s remaining conspirators were, and that Elias lay defenseless upstairs. I started to move forward, but two constables grabbed me from behind. “You’ll go nowhere,” the cruel-looking one said.

I struggled against the grip of the two men. I felt certain I could break away if I could but invoke the sum of my strength, but I was tired and dejected, and I feared for my friend, who could, even at that moment, be having his throat slit while he lay helpless. My weakened struggles only angered the men who contained me, and they forced my arms back into the most uncomfortable of positions. I scanned the crowd, as if for help, searching for someone who might speak in my behalf. As I searched, I saw none other than Noah Sarmento, who stood far back in the crowd, watching me coldly with his hollow eyes. Our gazes met for an instant, and in my moment of panic it did not occur to me to wonder what he did there, only that he was an employee of my uncle’s and he would surely help me. Instead he turned away from me, his face betraying a hardened kind of shame.

The man who had attacked me was standing and talking with one of the constables, elaborating upon his slander. “That man is the villain here,” I said, gesturing with my head toward my accuser, “and my witness is injured above and may fall victim to this man’s companion. I pray that if you will not free me, you will bring help to my friend on the upper floor.”

Murders have a curious effect on crowds. No one in the mob, you understand, has any particular desire to help—only the wish to see something truly terrible, something horrendous enough to make all the other men in the alehouse crowd around for the tale. So the revelation that there was yet another victim to be found sent the bulk of the crowd streaming into the building. I hoped their presence would be enough to protect Elias.

“Does anyone know who this man is?” one of the constables asked the remaining stragglers as he gestured toward the dead man.

“No,” said my accuser nervously, as though to speak definitively for the dozen or so people who looked on. “No one knows him.”

“I know him,” a voice spoke up. An older man shuffled forward. He held himself erect only with an old walking cane, chipped and cracked and looking as though it was ready to collapse under the man’s weight. “Aye, he’s the miserable blackguard what’s ruined me niece,” he said. “He’s a thief and pickpocket, he is, and I’m not sorry to see him there with all his life gone from ’im.”

“What’s his name?” the constable asked.

“Don’t nobody know his name,” my accuser interrupted. He glared viciously at the old man. “Pay no heed to what this old one has to say. He ain’t right in his head, he ain’t.”

“You’re the one who’s not right,” the old man spat back. “I can’t say I’ve ever seen you before in me life.”

“What’s his name?” the constable again asked the old man.

“Why that miserable shitten sod is Bertie Fenn, it is.”

And as the constables took me away, and as I fretted anxiously for the safety of Elias, I took no small satisfaction in the knowledge that I had just killed the man who had run down my father.

TWENTY-SEVEN

O
NCE AGAIN
I found myself facing Justice John Duncombe, and once again it was in the matter of a murder—a fact not lost on the judge. For such a serious crime, Duncombe would sometimes convene his court in the middle of the night. Murderers were tricky villains and were wont to escape, and when murderers escaped, trading justices faced more scrutiny than they liked.

Word of my adventures had already begun to spread through the streets, and the judge’s rooms, while by no means full with its usual number of spectators, held about a dozen onlookers—a sufficient audience for a midnight performance.

The judge studied me with his foggy and bloodshot gaze. His face was covered with the stubble of his thick beard, and his wig sat upon his head askew. The dark bags under his eyes suggested that he had not slept well, and I could not imagine he was pleased to be dragged from his bed at so late an hour to tend to the matter of a murderer he had himself set free so recently.

“I see I treated you with far too much leniency last time you appeared before my bench,” he intoned, as his skin flapped around his toothless mouth. “I shall not make the same mistake twice.”

If Duncombe was anxious to commit me to Newgate promptly that he might return to bed, then what appeared much like a desire to see justice served goaded him to follow correct procedures.

“I am told,” he said to the court, “that there are eyewitnesses who saw this man kill the deceased. Will such witnesses step forward?”

A moment of silence passed before I heard a familiar voice shout, “I am a witness.”

I felt an inexpressible relief when I saw Elias push his way through the spectators and, with steps unsteady and halting, make his way toward the bench. The stiffness of his movements bespoke his pain, and he looked haggard, not to mention absurd, for he still wore the robes of a Jew beggar, but with the mask removed he exposed his shaved and unwigged head before the world. His face had been spared any injury, but I winced to see him clutch at his side in pain.

“The dead man was one of a group of four men who attacked me without provocation,” Elias began in a tremulous voice. “This man, Benjamin Weaver, came to my rescue, and in the course of his efforts to save my life, one of my attackers fired a pistol. In order to defend himself, Mr. Weaver did the same, and the man you found paid the price of his villainy.”

A murmur spread throughout the court. I heard my name repeated, as well as details of Elias’s account. I sensed already that public opinion was with me, but I knew that the crowd’s desire to see me freed would have no effect on a man like Duncombe.

“The constable tells me he took of you a pistol that had been fired,” the judge said, “so that much has been confirmed. Yet at the scene of the crime there was another man who said the killing was intentional murder, is that not true?”

“It is, your honor,” the constable said.

“That man was one of my attackers,” Elias said. “He was lying.”

“And why did these men attack you, sir?” Duncombe asked.

Elias was silent for a moment. He found himself faced with a powerful dilemma—did he tell all he knew and expose our inquiry before the court, perhaps before our enemies, or did he remain as taciturn as possible, hoping a mere trickle of truths would spare me?

“I do not know why these men attacked me,” Elias said at last. “I would hardly be the first man in London to be attacked by strangers. I assume they wanted my money.”

“Were demands made for your money?” The judge pressed on. He stared hard at Elias, his face molded into a practiced mask of penetration.

“There was no time,” Elias explained. “Soon after these men forced me to follow them, Mr. Weaver attempted to assist me.”

“I see. And are you already acquainted with Mr. Weaver?”

Elias paused for an instant. “Yes, he and I are friends. I can only presume that he witnessed these men attack me and intervened with the intent of freeing me.”

“And where did this attack take place?”

“At Mr. Heidegger’s masquerade at the Haymarket.”

“So I gathered from your attire. Are you to tell me that these four men attacked you in the midst of a masquerade ball, sir?”

“They led me away from the ball, upstairs where I would be defenseless.”

“And you followed these men, whom you did not know?”

“They claimed to have important information to tell me,” Elias said hesitantly. It sounded like a question.

“And explain to me again how Mr. Weaver appeared in this exchange?”

“Mr. Weaver, who is my friend, was presumably suspicious and followed me. Once the men set upon me, he stepped in to aid me.”

“Very commendable,” the judge said. “And rather convenient, I should think. Are there any other witnesses to this affair?” he asked. He received no answer but the murmurs of the crowd.

“And what do you have to add, Mr. Weaver?”

It would have been pointless to mention that the man I had shot had killed my father—hardly the sort of information that would exonerate me. I believed that Elias’s story might prove as effective as any. However, I did not have much hope that Duncombe would grant me freedom. I had killed a man under mysterious circumstances. A trial would be inevitable unless I could say something to make the judge more sympathetic. I could not even hope my uncle would be able to bribe him if I had been bound over for trial. Once a prisoner was committed to Newgate, the matter was quite out of Duncombe’s hands. I would have to bribe him before his ruling in order to sway his opinion, and Duncombe, it was well known, did not accept credit.

“I only acted to assist Mr. Gordon,” I explained. “When I saw that his safety, perhaps his very life, was endangered, I behaved as I think any friend, indeed, any man, would have done. While I regret the loss of life, I think you will agree that London is a dangerous city, and it should be very hard if a man were prohibited from protecting himself and his friends from the criminals that roam the streets and even, as in this case, force themselves into fashionable gatherings.”

My testimony had won over the crowd, if not Duncombe. The spectators burst out in applause and a smattering of “huzzahs,” which the judge silenced by slamming his gavel against his desk. “Thank you for that impassioned speech, which I assure you has affected me not at all. It is not my place to judge of your innocence or guilt—merely of whether or not the facts before me deserve further examination. Considering the corroborating evidence of your associate, there can be no ambiguity in the question of whether or not you were under attack. And while I do not encourage the use of deadly force, it should be very strange if I were to begin placing men on trial for protecting their own safety or the safety of other innocents. I shall therefore release you, sir, with the understanding that if further evidence comes to light, you may be brought back for questioning.”

The crowd let out a cheer, and I, flooded with a mixture of confusion and relief, went immediately to Elias to check on his condition.

“I am uncomfortable,” he said, “and should enjoy a few days of rest, but I don’t believe any of the damage was either serious or permanent.”

I clapped him warmly on the shoulder. “I am sorry so much harm should have come to you, for you were following my plan.”

“I presume you will find some way to make it up to me,” he said with an affected petulance.

I grinned, pleased that Elias was uninjured in the main and held no grudge.

“And I presume this reward you have in mind will in some way involve your cousin.”

“The moment you are circumcised,” I told Elias, “she will be yours.”

“You people do conduct a grueling business,” he sighed. “But tell me, how is it that the judge ruled in our favor? It seemed to me that the evidence of our case was but poor, and by your own admission you had shot the fellow. I feared to see you bound over for trial.”

I shook my head at the puzzle. The only explanation was that someone had paid for the judge’s verdict, but I could not imagine who had provided Duncombe with sufficient funds for him to turn free a possible murderer—a dangerous act, for a judge might bring many difficulties upon his head for winking at so serious a crime. However, this was a case well disputed, and if forced to justify himself before any of his patrons, Duncombe could argue easily that he ruled for self-defense. But Duncombe’s strategy did not help me understand who could have provided the funds—or, for that matter, to what end. “I can only presume that some unknown friend, or perhaps even an unknown enemy, intervened on my behalf,” I told Elias, as I considered the matter aloud.

“Enemy? Why should an enemy wish to offer such generous aid?”

“Perhaps it would be worse for us to stand trial and speak what we know than for us to walk the streets where we may again fall victim to their machinations.”

“You are a comforting friend, Weaver.”

It turned out that Elias and I did not have long to wonder about the identity of our benefactor. As we exited the judge’s house into the chill of the night I saw an opulent coach parked immediately in front, and as the door opened I witnessed no other than Mr. Perceval Bloathwait, the Bank of England director, step forward.

“I believe you owe me a favor, Mr. Weaver,” Bloathwait said in his dull voice. “Had my enemies at the South Sea arrived here first, they would certainly have paid heavily to keep you held over for trial. Not that they would have permitted a trial—no doubt too dangerous to allow a man like you to tell what he knows in a public forum. Once in Newgate you would certainly have been more susceptible to a variety of misadventures—gaol fever, fights with other prisoners, and so forth; I should never have seen you alive again.”

“An idea that no doubt filled you with horror,” I said skeptically. Bloathwait had aided me only to further his own plans, and I could not quite bring myself to feel anything like gratitude.

“As you know, I want you to get to the heart of this matter. I believe you must be getting close, for your enemies are growing significantly bolder. Well done.”

I opened my mouth to respond, but my injured friend Elias forced his way past me to greet Bloathwait and bow at him profusely. “It is a great pleasure to see you once again, sir. It has been far too long since I have had the honor to serve you.”

Bloathwait stared at Elias’s costume. “Do you know this vagabond, Weaver?”

I tried to suppress a smile. “This gentleman is Mr. Elias Gordon,” I said, “who was injured tonight performing a service for me. I believe he once had the opportunity to perform a service for you as well. Something of a medical matter, if I am not mistaken.”

Bloathwait waved his hand in the air. “You are that Irish surgeon who fawned over me one night in the theatre.”

“Just so,” Elias agreed with surprising obsequiousness. I had once seen him covertly administer a triple dose of laxative to a gentleman who had made the mistake of calling him an Irishman, but for a man of Bloathwait’s wealth, Elias bore up under what he perceived as an insult.

Bloathwait turned back to me. “I hope you will use this freedom I’ve purchased.”

“I appreciate your assistance,” I said dryly, “yet I feel that you know more than you are letting on, Mr. Bloathwait, and I do not much enjoy being so toyed with.”

“I know only that the South Sea Company is somehow involved and, in ways I do not understand, so is that rascal Jonathan Wild. But I know little more.”

“What of Martin Rochester?” I asked.

“Yes, there is Rochester, is there not? Such goes without saying.”

I could barely contain my fury. Why would no one tell me anything of this phantom? “Have you any idea where I can find him?” I asked.

Bloathwait stared at me. “Where you can find Rochester? I see I have overestimated you, Weaver. I should have thought you would have reasoned that out by now.”

“Reasoned what out?” I own I snapped rather than spoke.

Bloathwait’s small mouth curled into a smile. “There is no such man as Martin Rochester.”

I felt like a man who suddenly awakens in a strange place, knowing not where he is or how he has arrived there. How could there be no Martin Rochester? For what had I been searching? I concentrated to gather in my passions and form these questions. “Every man upon the Exchange has heard of him. How can there be no Martin Rochester?”

“He is a mere apparition of a stock-jobber,” Bloathwait explained in his grand manner. “He is a shield under which another man or men do business. If you want to learn who killed your father, you do not need to find Martin Rochester; you need to learn who he is.”

I needed some time to consider this revelation. It explained why no one knew him, certainly. But how could this apparition do business with so many and still remain unknown? “Gad,” I mumbled to myself, “how very wretched.”

I noticed that Elias had stopped simpering. “This is the villainy of which I have warned you,” he said. “Our very enemy is constructed of paper. The crime is paper and the criminal is paper. Only the victims are real.”

I could not share Elias’s philosophical horror. I still believed there were such things as questions with answers, and I wished very much to believe that any veil of deceit, no matter how cleverly placed, might be torn away.

“A man of paper,” I said aloud. “Do you have any idea of his real identity?”

Bloathwait shook his head. “He could be one man or he could be an entire club. I cringe to see that you have been wasting your time seeking out a flesh-and-blood man when you could have been endeavoring to get to the bottom of this matter. I should see if I might sell you back to the judge for all you are apparently worth.”

“Regardless of who this man is,” Elias said, “should we not know more of
what
he is? What is his connection to the South Sea Company?”

Bloathwait flashed us a scowl. “You have not even learned so much as that?”

I thought on what Cowper had said; I had asked him of Rochester hard on the heels of my asking about the stock forgery.
I told you, sir, that I would not discuss the matter
. I could draw only one probable conclusion. “Rochester is the purveyor of false stock,” I said to Bloathwait.