by David Liss
“Perhaps they came with a friend, one already in the habit of visiting,” he said cheerfully. “Come, now, you’ve surely heard of coffeehouses that are the province of this group or that. No one here wishes you ill, but it’s best that you finish up your drink and find a place more suited to you. That mutton stew must sound pleasing.”
I did not think to accomplish much by simply leaving, nor would it do much good to remain and be ignored. I could only think that this fellow was my one hope of learning something of value. “In truth,” I said to him, “I came here because I heard that this was the place to go if I was of a particular frame of mind. Which is to say, if I was looking for men who thought like I did, in a political way.”
He smiled again, but this time it seemed far more forced. “I can’t imagine how you might have heard such a thing. There are countless taverns the city over for any number of political dispositions. This one—well, we don’t go much for strangers here, if you take my meaning, and we don’t talk politics with them. I don’t know what you are looking for, friend, but you won’t find it in this place. No one is going to talk to you or answer your questions or invite you in on their chat. It may be, as you say, that you are here because you are like-minded. If that’s the case, I wish you happiness, and perhaps our paths will cross again. It may also be that you’re a spy, sir, and you don’t want to be found out as such a one in this place. No, you surely don’t.”
“Tell me,” I said, feeling I now had little to lose, “is there a man called Johnson who comes here? I should very much like to meet with him.”
I had meant to speak quietly, but my voice carried more than I anticipated, and at the next table a fellow half rose until his companion reached out and, with a hand on his shoulder, forced him down again.
“I don’t know any Johnson,” my Irish friend said, as though neither of us had witnessed this man’s alarm. “You’ve come to the wrong place. Now I suggest you take your leave, sir. There’s nothing more to be gained by your bringing confusion to my friends.”
There was surely nothing more to be gained by finishing my drink, so I rose and departed with as much dignity as I could, though I have rarely made a more ignominious exit.
I could hardly have been more frustrated. Surely something should have come of this venture, but I had been rebuffed most coolly and I learned nothing of value. I cursed myself and my foul luck as I walked along Paternoster Row. It was foolishness for me not to have been more vigilant, but my anger overtook my emotions, so I did not see the two men who stepped out to the alley to grab me, each by one arm. I recognized them at once—the Riding Officers who had been standing outside of Elias’s house.
“Well, then, here he is,” one of them said. “It’s our Jew, sure enough.”
“This is our lucky night, I think,” the other one answered.
I attempted to break free, but their grips were firm, and I knew I would have to wait for a better chance, provided one came. There were, after all, only two of them, and they would have to remain firm in their grip every second as we traveled to wherever it was they wished to take me. The streets of London at night afforded countless obstacles that might prove just the distraction I needed. It would only be a matter of time before they were put off their guard by a linkboy or a footpad or a whore. One of them might slip in horse kennel or trip over a dead dog.
My hopes were soon dashed, however, as two more of their allies emerged from the shadows. While two of the Riding Officers held me firmly in place, a third grabbed my arms and pulled them behind my back while the fourth began to tie my wrists together with a piece of cord selected for its abrasiveness.
I should surely have been undone had not a most unexpected event transpired. The Irishman, with a band of more than a dozen of the surly men from inside the coffeehouse, stepped forth from the darkness.
“What is the trouble here, gentlemen?” the Irishman asked.
“It’s no concern of yours, Dear Joy,” said one of the Riding Officers, using that name so insulting to Irishmen. “Get you gone.”
“It is my concern, I’ll have you know. Leave that fellow be, for no one is taken on this street but by our leave.”
“You’ll be taken too, fellow, if you don’t step away,” the Riding Officer said.
Here was brave talk, for each man was outnumbered three or four to one, and none of them looked particularly competent in a fight. The Irishman’s little army, sensing the weakness of the Riding Officers, drew blades, all at once. The Customs men, very wisely in my opinion, chose to flee.
As did I. I spun into the darkness of the alley and turned and turned again until I was far enough away that I could no longer hear the shouts of the Riding Officers. I was surely grateful for the timely rescue, but I had no desire to stay and learn if they had chosen to liberate me because they recognized me after I left and wished the bounty for themselves. It might have been that, or it might have been that they hated the Customs more than they hated a stranger. I was not curious enough to risk learning the truth.
It had now been weeks since my escape from Newgate, and other than my encounter with the Riding Officers outside of Elias’s house that first night, I had not faced a single other confrontation from men in authority. I could only conclude that they had no effective means of tracking me. I had hidden my identity and my movements sufficiently that unless one of their number became astonishingly fortunate and simply happened upon me by chance, I had little to fear from the government.
Yet the Riding Officers had been lying in wait outside the Sleeping Bear. I was inside the coffeehouse, in total, for less than half of an hour, which meant it was very unlikely that one of the patrons could have recognized me and sent a note to the Riding Officers in time for them to have arrived and awaited my departure. Indeed, even more unlikely since it was the patrons themselves who rescued me from those worthies. It could only be, then, that Mr. Ufford, on sending me to the Sleeping Bear, took pains that I should not emerge from my visit a free man. Though shaken by my encounter with the Customs men, I knew I must act, and act quickly. There was more to Ufford than I yet understood, and I would learn what I could that night.
I waited until two or three in the morning, when no one was on the street and all the houses were dark. I then betook myself to Mr. Ufford’s house and forced open a window in the kitchen through which I quickly climbed. The drop down was greater than I anticipated, but I landed safely, if not quietly. I remained motionless for some minutes to see if my clumsiness aroused any suspicion. As I waited I felt the warm brush of two or three cats against my leg, so I could only hope that if anyone heard the noise they might blame these creatures rather than an intruder.
Once a safe amount of time had passed—or, perhaps more accurately, once I had grown too impatient to wait any longer—I moved from my crouched position, bid a silent farewell to my new feline companions, and made my way through the dark. I recalled well enough where Ufford kept his study, so it took no great amount of time to locate the room, though the darkness was close to absolute.
I made certain the door was shut behind me and found a pair of good wax tapers to light. The room was now sufficiently illuminated that I might search it, though I had no idea what it was I sought. Nevertheless, I began to go through papers in his books, in his drawers, and on his shelves, and it did not take long to find that I was on the right path. Within minutes I found numerous letters written in an indecipherable jumble of letters—most obviously a code, though I had not the slightest ability to decipher such a thing. Nevertheless, the mere presence of this sort of writing informed me of a great deal. Who but a spy would require the use of code? The discovery ignited my resolve, and I dove in with a new vigor.
This new enthusiasm paid off well. I had been in the room for near an hour when, having gone through all the papers, files, and ledgers I could find and not having discovered anything of immediate use, I thought to leaf through some of the large volumes that crowded Ufford’s shelves. This project prove
d of little worth, and I was near to abandoning it when I came across a tome that felt much lighter than its size suggested. It was hollowed out, and when I opened it I found a dozen or so pieces of paper on which had been written the following damnable text, signed in the most ostentatious hand:
I acknowledge to have received from———the sum of———which I promise to repay, with an interest for it, at the rate of———per annum.
James R.
James Rex, the Pretender himself. Ufford had set for himself the task of raising monies for a Jacobite rebellion and had done so with the knowledge of the Pretender. These receipts, signed by the would-be monarch, were left to the priest’s management, that he might secure what lenders he could. I picked up the papers and examined them closely. Of course, they could be forgeries, but why would a man pretend to the ownership of documents that could lead easily to his execution? I could only conclude that Ufford was in fact an agent of the Pretender and, more than that, he was not the hapless self-aggrandizer the world believed him to be. No, the keeper of these receipts would be a well-trusted member of the Chevalier’s circle. Ufford’s foolishness and blundering were but a disguise to hide a cunning and capable agent.
I held these receipts tightly in my hand, and the most fanciful thought occurred to me. No one knew how highly placed among the Jacobites sat Mr. Ufford—no one but me. This information would surely be of great interest to the administration, of far more interest than persecuting a simple thieftaker for a murder the world knew he did not commit. Could I not trade the information I now had for my freedom? The thought sat ill with me, for no man likes a traitor, but I owed Ufford no devotion—not when his schemes had landed me in this position in the first place. Surely I owed more loyalty to my monarch. It could be argued that failing to report what I knew was an unforgivable act of negligence.
“Or perhaps one of loyalty to the true king.”
I must have spoken aloud, so transfixed was I by the evidence I had discovered. I had neither seen nor heard the men enter the room. I had been foolish and careless, seduced by the possibilities of my discoveries. Now I turned around and found myself facing three men: Ufford, the Irishman from the Sleeping Bear, and a third man. I had never before met him, but I thought at once there was something familiar in his angular face, sunken cheeks, and beaky nose. He looked in his thirties, perhaps a bit older, and though he dressed in unremarkable clothes and wore an inexpensive bob wig, there was something imposing about his stance.
“Surely,” the Irishman said, “you would not trade another man’s life for your own comfort.”
“It appears that the question is but a hypothetical one,” Ufford observed. He stepped forward and took the receipts from my hand. “Benjamin shan’t have the opportunity to share what he knows with anyone.”
The Irishman shook his head. “Well, he won’t be able to share the evidence, that much is certain. I would not have him believe that we mean to do him any harm, however.”
“Oh, no,” said the third man, in a patrician voice. He emphasized each syllable he spoke. “No, I am too much of an admirer of Mr. Weaver to even think of acting against his interests.”
And then I knew his face, for I had seen it a hundred times—on posters, on broadsheets, on pamphlets. Standing in the room with me, not fifteen feet away, was the Pretender himself, the son of the deposed James II, the man who would be James III. I knew little about the planning of revolutions and usurpations, but I could not but believe, if he dared to step foot in England, that the situation for His (present) Majesty King George was dire indeed.
I was in a private house with the Pretender himself and what had to be two very highly placed Jacobites. No one knew I was there. My throat might easily be slit, my body hauled away in a crate. And yet my foremost concern was not for my safety but for decorum: That is to say, I did not know the correct protocol for addressing the Pretender. On the other hand, I decided that I might be far safer if I acted as though I did not recognize him.
Ufford, however, would not let me take that route. “Are you mad? He’s seen His Majesty. We can’t let him leave.”
The Irishman closed his eyes for a moment as though considering some great mystery. “Mr. Ufford, I must ask you to wait outside and leave us alone here for now.”
“I should remind you whose house this is,” he answered.
“Please step outside, Christopher,” the Pretender said.
Ufford bowed and retreated.
Once he closed the door, the Irishman offered me an amused smile.
“I have come to believe,” I said, “that you are the man they call Johnson.”
“It is a name I use,” he said. He poured three glasses of Mr. Ufford’s Madeira and, after delivering the Pretender his glass, he placed one in my hand and then stood across from me. “I am certain you have already surmised that with us is His Majesty, King James the Third.”
Without any training in this sort of thing, I bowed to the Pretender. “It is an honor, Your Grace.”
He nodded slightly, as though approving of my performance. “I have heard many good things about you, sir. Mr. Johnson has kept me informed of your actions. He tells me that you have fallen victim to the government of a fat German pig of a usurper.”
“I am a victim of something, that much is certain.” I thought it best not to say that I had come to believe I might well be the victim of his own machinations. It is the sort of thing that does not win friends.
He shook his head. “I detect some suspicions on your part. Let me assure you, they are unfounded.”
“I had thought better of you, Mr. Weaver,” Johnson said. “The Whigs want you to believe that we plot against you, and you are so foolish as to believe it. Surely you recall that the witnesses hired against you at your trial tried to link you with a mysterious stranger called Johnson. Do you need more evidence that the Whigs were trying to turn you into a Jacobite agent to scapegoat before the world? Only your clever escape prevented it.”
There could be no denying what he suggested. Someone certainly had wished to paint me the Jacobite.
“I have followed your trials with some interest,” Johnson continued, “as I always follow with interest when a useful and productive—dare I say heroic?—member of our society is trampled to paste by a corrupt ministry and its servants. I can assure you that it has never been the aim of His Majesty or his agents to see you come to any harm. What you have witnessed is a Whig conspiracy, meant to remove its enemies, cast blame on its rivals, and sway an election by distracting the voters from a financial scandal engineered at the highest levels of Whiggery.”
I looked at the Pretender. “I do not know that I have the liberty to speak freely,” I said.
He laughed a condescending kingly laugh. “You may speak as you like. I have been at this end or the other of plots my entire life. Hearing of one more will not harm me.”
I nodded. “Then I must say that it seemed to me most likely that it had been Jacobite agents who had a hand in the death of that fellow Groston and the false witnesses he hired for my trial.”
He laughed softly. “What sort of men do you take us for? Why should we wish those men ill—or you, for that matter? The notes left upon the scene were a carefully constructed farce. They claim that you committed these unspeakable acts in the name of the true King but are written so as to give the lie to that claim, thus making it appear that it is a Jacobite plot meant to expose the Whigs. In reality it is a Whig plot. The world suspects us of this sort of deception, but the world is wrong. What have you ever done, Mr. Weaver, that we should know of you or care enough to murder three—no, four!—men for the purpose of seeing you suffer?”
“I cannot answer that question, but neither can I say why the Whigs would pursue the same course.”
“Then shall I tell you?” Johnson asked.
I took a hearty drink of my goblet and leaned forward. “If you can, I beg you do so.”
“Mr. Ufford hired you to discover the men who s
ought to disturb his quiet and the exercise of his traditional liberties as a priest of the Church of England. He did not intend you to find yourself caught in such a nest of vipers, but that is inconsequential, for caught you are. But those who wished to silence Mr. Ufford are the very ones who want you destroyed—namely, one Dennis Dogmill and his lapdog, Albert Hertcomb.”
“But why? I have found myself returning again and again to this man, but I have not yet discovered a reason why Dogmill should go to such trouble.”
“Is not the answer obvious? You were attempting to learn who sent the notes to Mr. Ufford. If you were to discover that they originated with Dogmill, he would have been ruined, Hertcomb discredited, and the Westminster election lost for the Whigs. Instead, he cleverly arranged that he could remove an obstacle, this poor Yate, and blame the crime on an enemy. I own that the matter has taken on political dimensions it might not have had otherwise because of my efforts to keep you in the public eye, but that is the extent of our involvement in your affairs. And if I have encouraged sympathetic newspapers to praise your efforts—which are indeed praiseworthy—and to point to the dangers you face from the Whigs—which are quite real—I can hardly be blamed.”
“If the Jacobites are my friends, why did Ufford attempt to have me destroyed tonight?”
The Pretender shook his head. “That was a regrettable mistake. He feared you grew too close to learning what he would not have you know, so he took action himself. When I received word, telling me what he had done, I instructed Mr. Johnson to make certain you did not fall into Whiggish hands.”
“And I did as much as could be asked,” Johnson said.
I nodded, for I had to admit to the justice of what he claimed.
“Then you must trust me enough to believe my interpretation of the facts before us,” Johnson continued.
Johnson’s theory withstood the assault of logical inquiry, but it still failed to convince. Could Dogmill have been foolish enough to believe I would go blindly to the gallows? All I knew of the man suggested that, though he might be violent and impulsive, he was also a calculating planner, and he would have known better than to hope I should cooperate with my own destruction.