A Conspiracy of Paper (40 page)

He stared at me and nodded very slowly. “You may yet serve,” he said.

I ignored his reserved praise. Did he think me a dog he might pat upon the head?

“You know where you may call upon me should you require anything further,” Bloathwait said. He then entered his carriage, and his horses slowly trotted off, leaving me and Elias perhaps more confused than ever.

E
LIAS MET WITH ME
the next morning. The hesitation in his walk suggested that pain still hindered his movements, but he appeared otherwise quite well. He informed me that he had pressing business at the theatre, but he was happy to lend me such time as he had. We sat in my uncle’s parlor, sipping tea, trying not to think of the disasters we had narrowly escaped the previous night.

“I cannot think of how to continue,” I said. “There are so many men involved, and I have so many suspicions. I know not how to sort it out, who to visit, nor what questions to ask.”

Elias laughed. “I believe you have struck upon the problems of conspiracies. There are men who wish to keep you from uncovering the truth about this particular matter, but there are others who are only privately villainous and have their own little truths to hide. When you confront a conspiracy it becomes monstrous hard to distinguish between wretched villainy and ordinary, common lies.”

I nodded. “Last night Bloathwait confirmed my suspicion that Rochester, whoever he might be, is the vendor of the false stock. Several men have suggested that it was Rochester who had my father run down, which would certainly make sense if my father threatened the false-stock trade. It is therefore likely that Rochester is responsible for the various assaults upon my person, and indeed now your person.”

“Soundly argued,” Elias agreed.

“We further know that Rochester will go to seemingly any length to stay hidden, but our greatest chance of concluding this inquiry is in bringing Rochester to light. If we cannot locate him, as indeed it seems we cannot, perhaps we can locate his other victims.”

Elias clapped his hands. “I believe you may be on the verge of striking a very sound blow.”

I smiled. “Is it not probable that we might find some of his enemies—the holders of false stock, or those who have had violent dealings with him? When I attempted to deliver my false message at Jonathan’s, many a man looked up when the boy cried out the name of Rochester.”

“I hardly think you can question every broker upon the ’Change,” Elias observed.

“Not the brokers, but what about his buyers? As you say, the ones who have no idea that they have been wronged. They are the ones, Elias, because not knowing they have been wronged, they know not that they have something to fear.” My heart began to race. I saw at last a solution. “We must find them. They will lead me to Rochester.”

I could not tell if Elias was more excited by the idea or by my enthusiasm. “Good Gad, Weaver. That look upon your face is one of inspiration. I hardly know you any longer.”

I told him of my idea, and Elias helped me work out the details. We then traveled to the offices of the
Daily Advertiser
, and placed the following advertisement:

To Any and All Persons

Who have bought stock from, or sold stock to,

Mr. Martin Rochester

You are asked to attend

Mr. Kent’s Coffeehouse,
in
Peter Street,
near
Bloomsbury Square

this
Thursday
between the hours of noon and three,

at which time you will receive compensation

for your time

After conducting our business, we returned to the street to make our way home. Elias and I both covered our noses with handkerchiefs as we passed a pauper pushing a cart of spoiled mutton. “It is an audacious stroke,” I mumbled, as we hurried past this foulness.

“Rather,” Elias agreed, “but I believe it cannot fail. Your enemies, sir, know who you are and what you are about. They have been able to make you come to them, and they have been able to find you. Now you, sir, must expose their weaknesses. This rascal Rochester has gone to great lengths to protect his identity, but no one can be so careful as to be undetectable. He has made mistakes, and we shall find them soon enough.”

“It cannot but be otherwise,” I agreed, fired by the thrill of decisive action. “I suspect this false identity of his was never meant to withstand the degree of scrutiny we shall unleash upon him.”

Elias nodded. “You begin to understand the theory of probability,” he said. “From the general necessity of the existence of victims, you will find the particular of the villain.”

“If only we still had my father’s pamphlet.” I could not easily estimate the loss of that document. “If we still had it in hand, I imagine we might have done some pushing here and there with a very powerful tool.”

“I believe you did,” Elias pointed out. “Is that not why the document was stolen?”

He was quite correct. I would have to learn to think more as he did if I was to outwit these villains.

T
HE IDEA OF THE
advertisement filled me with a glowing pleasure in my own ingenuity, and I longed to inform my uncle of what I had done. The door to my uncle’s study sat ajar, and I approached in the hope of finding him unoccupied, but I soon saw my mistake. Several voices came from within, and I should have turned away, thinking only to return at a more convenient time, but I discovered something that sat ill with me. One of the men who spoke was Noah Sarmento, and while I had no love for the man, I could feel no surprise to find him in my uncle’s presence. No, it was a second voice that struck me, for it belonged to none other than Abraham Mendes, Jonathan Wild’s man.

I quickly retreated—too quickly, for I heard hardly more than a word or two of their conversation, but I dared not linger where I might be caught spying so boldly upon my own kinsman.

Instead I walked outside and waited upon the street, pacing up and down for the better part of an hour until I saw Sarmento and Mendes leave the house together. Perhaps I should say they left simultaneously, for there was nothing cooperative, or even congenial, about the way these two men acted with each other. They merely departed from the same place at the same time.

I stepped forward before they could part, however. “Ho, gentlemen,” I said with affected gaiety. “How good to see you both. Especially you, Mr. Mendes, emerging so unexpectedly from my uncle’s house.”

“What do you want, Weaver?” Sarmento asked sourly.

“And you,” I continued, now driven by nothing but bluster. “You, my good friend, Mr. Sarmento. I have hardly seen you since—when was it now?—ah, yes. It was after the masquerade where you lurked in the crowd just after a failed effort to assassinate my person. How do you do, sir?”

Sarmento clucked disgustedly, as though I had mentioned something ribald in polite company. “I neither understand you nor wish to,” he said, “nor shall I spend any more time with a man who speaks nonsensical stuff.” He spun sharply and affected to walk off with dignity, but he repeatedly turned to see if I pursued, and did not stop straining his neck until he rounded the corner and disappeared from sight.

I thought to give chase, but Mendes went nowhere, as though he dared me to inquire into his business. I had no doubt I should be able to break Sarmento at the time of my choosing, but Mendes was quite another matter.

“I am pleased to see you in so fine a mood, sir,” he said to me. “I hope your inquiry treats you well.”

“Yes,” I said, though my good spirits had now dissipated. “At this moment I inquire into a very curious matter indeed. I inquire into your presence in my uncle’s house.”

“Nothing simpler,” he told me. “I had a matter of business to resolve.”

“But the details, Mr. Mendes, the details. What matter of business might that be?”

“Merely some fashionable cloth that Mr. Lienzo found upon his hands and that a sometimes too-zealous government would not let him easily dispose of. He entrusted me with these goods some months ago, and having found a buyer, I only wished to pay your uncle what he was owed.”

“And Sarmento’s role in all of this?”

“He is your uncle’s factor. You know that. He was with your uncle when I arrived. Surely,” he added with a grin, “you do not suspect your uncle of some mischief, do you? I should hate to see you break with him as you broke with your father.”

I stiffened at these words, which I knew he meant most provocatively. “I should be careful, sir. Do you in truth wish to test whether or no I am a match for you?”

“I meant no challenge,” he told me, in a voice of oily mock-conciliation. “I speak only out of concern. You see, I, who have lived many years in this neighborhood, saw the pain your father felt at having lost his son to the plague of pride. Both his and yours, I believe.”

I opened my mouth to respond, but I could think of nothing to say, and he proceeded apace. “Shall I tell you a story of your father, sir? I think you might find it most interesting.”

I stood silent, hardly able to guess what he would say.

“Not more than two or three days before the accident that took his life, he called upon me in my home and offered me a handsome sum of money to perform a task for him.”

He wished to make me ask, and so I did. “What task?”

“One I thought strange, I promise you. He wished me to deliver a message.”

“A message,” I repeated. I could hardly hide my confusion.

“Yes. I thought it most incomprehensible, and with every effort to avoid appearing to put on airs, I told Mr. Lienzo that I thought it somewhat beneath my station to deliver messages. He appeared embarrassed, and he explained to me that he feared someone might intend him harm. He thought a man of my stripe might be able to deliver the message both safely and inconspicuously.”

This story hurt far more than I would have anticipated. Mendes had been hired to perform a task that I might have done had my father and I been upon speaking terms. My father had needed a man upon whose strength and courage he could depend, and he had not called upon me—perhaps he had not even thought to call upon me. If he had, I wondered, how should I have responded?

“I brought the message to its recipient,” Mendes continued, “who was, at that time, at Garraway’s Coffeehouse in ’Change Alley. The man opened the note and muttered only, ‘Damme, the Company and Lienzo in the same day.’ Do you know who this recipient was?”

I fixed my gaze hard upon him.

“Why, the very man you asked Mr. Wild about. Perceval Bloathwait.”

I licked my lips, which were now quite dry. “Did Mr. Bloathwait have a reply?” I asked.

Mendes nodded, strangely pleased with himself. “Mr. Bloathwait asked me to tell your father that he thanked him for the honor he did him by sharing this information, and that he should keep it to himself until he, Bloathwait that is, had a chance to reflect upon it.”

“Wild denied any knowledge of Bloathwait—now you tell me this story. Am I to believe that you defy Wild? More likely, this conversation between Jews is all part of his plan.”

Mendes only smiled. “So many puzzles. If only you had attended more to your studies as a boy, you might now have the intelligence to make some order out of chaos. Good day, sir.” He tipped his hat and walked off.

I stood for a moment, contemplating what he had told me. My father had sought out some contact with Bloathwait—the very man I had spied meeting secretly with Sarmento. Now my uncle meets with Sarmento and Mendes together. What could it mean?

I would wait no longer to learn. I reentered the house and walked boldly into my uncle’s study. He sat at his desk, reviewing some papers, and smiled broadly as I walked in.

“Good day, Benjamin,” he said cheerfully. “What news?”

“I thought you might tell me,” I began in a voice I hardly tried to modulate. “We might begin with your business with Mr. Mendes.”

“Mendes,” he repeated. “I have told you of my business with him. He merely wished to pay me for some cambrics which he had sold for me.” His keen eyes determinedly measured my expression.

“I know not why you would conduct business with such a man,” I said.

“Perhaps not,” he replied, his voice showing just a hint of hardness. “But it is not your place to understand my affairs, is it?”

“I believe it is,” I retorted. “I am engaged in an inquiry which involves the mysterious dealings of your brother. It has led me to form suspicions of Mendes’s master. I believe that I am within my rights when I express my concern.”

My uncle arose from his chair to meet my gaze upon my level. “I do not disagree,” he said carefully. “But I should prefer you do so in a less accusatory tone. What is it you wish to say to me, Benjamin? That I am involved in some sort of scheme with Jonathan Wild into tricking you into doing—I cannot even imagine what? I urge you to recall who I am.”

I sat down, controlling my passions and having no desire to inflame my uncle’s. Perhaps he was right. He had a long-standing business with Mendes. I could hardly ask him to suspend it because I liked neither him nor his master. “I believe I spoke hastily,” I said at last. “I never meant to suggest anything about your conduct, Uncle. It is merely that I know not whom to trust, and I mistrust almost everyone—particularly those associated with Jonathan Wild. It troubles me greatly to see you with Mendes. You may believe you simply engage in some old business, but I should be surprised to believe that he does not have more on his mind.”

My uncle relented as well. He sat down and allowed himself to soften. “I know you wish only to uncover the truth behind these deaths,” he said. “I delight in your dedication, but we must not forget that while we try to do justice for the dead, we must remain among the living. I cannot discontinue my affairs because of this inquiry.”

“I would not suggest you do.” I sighed. “But Wild, Uncle. I do not believe you fully understand how dangerous he is.”

“I am certain in matters of theft and suchlike he is dangerous indeed,” my uncle said complacently. “But this is a matter of textiles. Your mind is set upon a conspiratorial path, Benjamin. Now everything appears suspicious to you.”