by David Liss
“Oh, you may stop being so formal with me. When you and Gabriella failed to pursue a more solemn connection, I feared that we must cease being friends. I do hope that is not the case.”
“I, too, had flattered myself that we might continue our friendship,” I said, “although when you have heard what I have to say, you may find yourself wishing you had never invited me into your home. I am afraid that I must be circumspect and keep more details from you than I would like, but the truth is, sir, that someone means to do you harm as a means of doing me harm.”
He leaned forward, and the creak of his chair startled me. “Do us both harm? What do you mean?”
I explained, as clearly as I could despite my discomfort, that my enemies had selected a few of my nearest contacts whose finances they disrupted. “It appears that because of my frequent visits, they mistook you for a very near connection.”
“But there is nothing wrong with my finances.”
“Have you any debts, Mr. Franco?”
“All men have debts,” he said, his voice now strained.
“Of course. But what these men have almost certainly done is to buy up such debts as they can find. If all of your outstanding debts were to be called in at one time, would you find yourself in great difficulty?”
He said nothing for a few moments, but his face had gone pale around his beard, and his fingers, locked around his cup, also turned toward an ivory color.
“I am very sorry to have visited this upon you,” I offered, wincing at the weakness of it.
He shook his head. “From what you tell me, you have done nothing. These men must be base enough to prey upon your good nature, knowing that you could endure suffering for yourself but not for others. I am indeed angry, Mr. Weaver, but not at you, who have done no harm.”
“I do not deserve such understanding, though I am grateful to receive it.”
“No, but you must tell me more. Who are these enemies of yours? What do they want from you?”
“I think it best I not say too much. But they wish me to perform services I would not perform otherwise.”
“What sort of services? You must not, even to preserve me from prison, do anything that conflicts either with your own sense of moral duty or the laws of this kingdom.”
I thought it best to ignore this point. “As to the nature of the services, perhaps the less said the better.”
“You may have done no wrong to put me in this predicament, Mr. Weaver, but I am in it, and it would be unkind to leave me ignorant.”
He was undeniably correct, and so after impressing upon him the need for secrecy, for his own good as well as that of others, I told him as much as I thought safe. I explained that a very wealthy man of great influence wished to deploy my services against one of the East India Company directors.
“Ha,” he said, with a kind of triumph. “I’ve had dealings with the East India Company and their competitors too. I promise you I am no novice in this game, and we shall outmaneuver them.”
“That may not be done so easily,” I said.
He smiled a knowing smile at me. “You think because these men are rich and great they cannot be dealt with? That is the beauty of ’Change Alley. Fortune is a fickle goddess and can strike blows where no one expects and elevate the mendicant to great heights. The East India men have no cause to love me, but their enmity has never done me harm. There are rules in this game we play, you know.”
“Given that you, I, my uncle, and my dear friend are now dangling with our feet over the flames of ruin, I would say the rules of the game have changed.”
“It does sound rather like. Tell me then, who is the man who wishes the Company harm? What is his name? What are his connections?”
“No one has heard of him, and I dare not speak his name more often than I must. I believe the slightest slip could have disastrous results for you or one of my other friends. Indeed, I have been warned not to have conversations precisely like this one, and I risk it only because I believe you deserve to know that there are invisible agents who act upon you. Yet, though this knowledge is your right, I must urge you to resist all temptation to act upon it. Until I see a better opportunity, there is little for any of us to do but appear as placid as sheep while we wait for the main chance to present itself.”
“You do not know me very well, Mr. Weaver, but I think you know I am not a man who would break his oath. I can assure you I am even less inclined to do so when breaking my oath will land me in the Marshalsea or some other equally terrible place. In addition, I have traded—indirectly, mind you—with the eastern-looking companies of this nation as well as of the Dutch and the fledgling project of the French. If this man is an actor upon the East Indian stage, I will know him, and you will then have an advantage you did not previously possess.”
I could not deny the request, so with an unexpected amount of difficulty I spoke his name. “Jerome Cobb.”
Mr. Franco said nothing for a long while. “I’ve not heard of him.”
“No one has. Neither my uncle nor the other victim, my friend Elias Gordon, a well-connected surgeon, can discover anything of him. He is a man with a great deal of money, and yet no one in London knows him.”
“Perhaps it is not his real name.”
“I have already considered that.”
“No doubt. In truth, Mr. Weaver, this certainly presents some difficulties. I beg you will keep me informed of your progress. If I am to find myself in debtor’s prison, I can only ask for some advance warning. And as I know the trade, I may be able to provide some advice.”
I assured him I would do as he asked, and indeed I felt that Mr. Franco might prove an unexpected ally in these matters, but to use his services I would have to jeopardize his freedom, and I did not know how much of a risk I dared to take.
CHAPTER EIGHT
Y UNCLE AND MR. FRANCO BOTH MADE THEIR HOMES IN THE parish of St. James’s, Duke’s Place. I had for some years been living in the same parish, but upon the far less fashionable street of Greyhound Alley. Here the houses were full of Jews, both my family’s sort—the speakers of Portuguese, though coming from many nations—and those whom we called the Tudescos. They had their own name for themselves, but I could not say I knew what it was. These were the people of the Eastern European nations—Poland and Muscovy and the like—and they had been coming to this kingdom in increasing numbers. This fact caused some consternation among the Portuguese Hebrews, for while we had our share of the poor among us, these Jews were poor almost to a man and, with their old clothes trade and peddling, created a poor reputation for us among the Gentiles.
Most of those who lived in my house were Portuguese Jews, and I flattered myself that I possessed the finest rooms in the establishment. Here lodgings were inexpensive, and I had little trouble taking for myself three spacious rooms, airy in summer courtesy of several working windows and warm in winter from an adequate fireplace. Indeed, I suspected my landlord went to special trouble to make certain I remained comfortable, perceiving that having a man of my reputation about kept his house safe from intrusion and crime.
I would have liked to believe the same thing, but as I entered my rooms that night, one hand clutching an oil lamp to illuminate my way, I started to see a figure sitting in one of my chairs, hands folded in his lap, waiting patiently. I thought to drop my light and reach for a weapon, but in the flash of an instant I saw he made no hostile move. Whatever he wanted, he had not come to surprise me with violence. I therefore took my time and lit a few more lights. I never took my eye off of him, but I wished to create the impression that I was indifferent to his presence.
Once the room was sufficiently bright, I turned around and saw a rather large man staring at me with a familiar smile. Here was Mr. Westerly, who had come to me some weeks ago asking if I would attempt a break-in of the East India Company house. Now he sat, plump hands resting in his lap, as though no place in the world suited him so much as my rooms and my chair. His cheeks were pink with contentment, a
nd his overly frizzed wig had sunk low to just above his eyes, creating the impression that he had fallen asleep.
“You don’t mind that I used your pot, I hope,” he said. “Came nowhere near to filling it, but there’s some that don’t like it when another man mixes his piss with their own.”
“Of the grievances I bear against you, a man who has entered my rooms without permission,” I said, “that may be the least. What do you want?”
“You would have been better to have concluded our business differently, I think. Now look at you, Weaver. You have made a bit of a mess for yourself, haven’t you?”
“Mr. Cobb strikes me as a tolerably stalwart figure,” I told him, applying my most unnerving stare. “You, however, do not. Perhaps I could learn a great deal about Mr. Cobb by applying my attentions to you.”
“That is a distinct possibility,” he agreed, “one you might be foolish to ignore. I am not a brave man, and I should collapse under torture quite easily, I think. I hate the thought of pain. Hate it tremendous. However, the same shackles that bind you in your actions against my colleague bind you against me. Harm me, sir, and your friends suffer.”
“Perhaps you will never be found. Cobb would have no way of knowing that I was the one who encouraged you to disappear.”
“My associates know where I am at this moment, have no fear. Claim what you like, sir, but no one would believe you. Indeed, for the sake of your uncle, you must hope I stumble upon no unhappy accidents on my way home.”
“For your sake,” I returned, “you had better hope I forget not prudence and cause you to stumble upon an unhappy accident within these walls.”
He nodded. “You are correct. It is ungentlemanly of me to torment you in this fashion. I have come to deliver a message, and knowing that yours is an uneasy position, I wish to do no more. You must not think we are your enemy, Mr. Weaver. It pains us, you must know, to treat you in this style. But we need you and you would not have us, and here is the result.”
“I have no interest in your protests. Deliver your message, and next time recall that I know well how to read. Further communications would be better sent by note than by mouth.”
“This one could not wait. I am come to repeat Mr. Cobb’s warning not to inquire into his business. It has come to his attention that your uncle and your associate have both been heard to ask inappropriate questions. As you and Mr. Gordon have met with your uncle this evening, and as you have then met with Mr. Franco, I cannot but think that you continue to pursue matters that you’ve been advised to leave alone.”
I said nothing. How could it be that they had known? The answer was most obvious. I was being followed, and not by Westerly, for so large a man could not hope to travel unseen in the streets. There were more who had followed me. Who was Jerome Cobb that so many men served him?
“I met with my uncle and my friend. What of it? We were as like to meet prior to these events as after.”
“Perhaps, but you discussed the matters at hand, did you not?”
“No,” I said.
Westerly shook his head. “I cannot believe that. And you would be wise, given the fragility of your situation, not only to avoid any wrongdoing but to avoid the appearance thereof.”
“I shan’t shun my friends,” I answered.
“No, pray don’t. But you must ask them to make no more inquiries.” Westerly pushed his bulk from my chair and steadied himself with his walking stick. “We know your nature, and know these efforts were inevitable, so you shan’t be punished this time. Now, however, you see that you cannot escape our gaze. Cease looking to wiggle free of the net. Accept your generous employment and do our bidding. The sooner our goals have been met, the sooner you will be free of our demands.”
Mr. Westerly bade me good night and departed my rooms.
TWO DAYS LATER I received a visit from Edgar, who wordlessly handed me a letter and then withdrew. His contusions had healed somewhat, but he nevertheless appeared badly used and was in no disposition to make friendly conversation with me.
In the privacy of my rooms, I opened the note and discovered the instructions Cobb had promised would be forthcoming. I was now to contact Mr. Ambrose Ellershaw of the East India Company, the man whose document I had stolen, and explain that, in the course of some unrelated thieftaking activity, I had happened upon the enclosed report. Recognizing the papers to be of likely importance to their rightful owner, I now wished to return them.
I took no pleasure in jumping to do Cobb’s bidding, but I did believe that moving forward in this matter was superior to not moving at all. Perhaps I would soon have a clearer sense of what I was to do and why Cobb was so anxious that I should be the one to do it.
I situated myself in a coffeehouse where I was known and sent the note as Cobb desired, instructing Ellershaw to send any answer to that location. I would pass the afternoon, I decided, reading the newspaper and sorting through my thoughts, but I had hardly an hour to myself. The same boy I sent out returned with an answer.
Mr. Weaver,
I am delighted beyond words to hear you have the documents you mentioned. Please come see me at your earliest convenience, which I hope will be this day, at Craven House. I assure you that your delivery and your urgency will be rewarded as they deserve, being the way friends are treated by
Amb. Ellershaw
I finished my dish of coffee, headed immediately to Leadenhall Street, and once more made my way to Craven House and the East India yards, though this time my approach was more direct and less dangerous. A guardian at the door—a handsome young fellow who, by his accent, had recently arrived from the country and could count his good fortune at finding such easy employment—allowed me to enter without molestation.
In the light of day the East India house appeared to be nothing so much as an old and unlovely building. It was, as we now know, outgrowing these old quarters, and the structure would be rebuilt in not many years’ time. For the nonce, however, it was spacious and indicated little of its purpose other than the paintings upon its edifice—a great ship bordered by two smaller ones—and the outer gate, which suggested that none but those with purpose might enter.
Inside, I found the house to be full of activity. Clerks rushed from here to there with bundles of papers pressed to their chests. Runners moved from the house to the warehouses, checking on quantities or delivering information. Servants scurried this way and that, delivering food to the hungry directors who labored tirelessly in the offices above.
Though I knew well where to find Ellershaw’s office, I inquired for the sake of appearances and then climbed the stairs. I found the door closed, so I knocked, and my actions were met with a gruff call to enter.
Here was the same room I had explored under cover of darkness. Now, in bright daylight, I saw that Ellershaw’s desk and bookshelves were of the most ornately carved oak. His window offered him an expansive view not only of the warehouses below but of the river in the distance and the ships upon it that brought him riches from so far away. And while in the darkness I had seen only that his walls were covered with framed pictures, now, in the afternoon glare, I could see the images.
At last I began to gather some understanding of why Cobb had so desired that I, and I alone, should deliver to Ellershaw his missing documents. I still had no idea what Cobb wanted of me and where his manipulations might lead me, but at least I understood why he required that it should be I, and no other, who engaged with Ellershaw.
Not all his pictures, mind you—for many depicted scenes of the East Indies—but many of them had a single focus. There were some dozen woodcuts and prints upon one wall that celebrated the life and exploits of Benjamin Weaver.
They spanned the course of my career. Ellershaw had a print of my early days as a pugilist, when I first made a name for myself. He had a print of my final match against the Italian, Gabrianelli. He even had a rather absurd rendering of me escaping without benefit of clothing from Newgate Prison, a consequence of my unfortunate invol
vement with parliamentary elections from earlier that year.
Mr. Ellershaw was, in short, an aficionado of the life of Benjamin Weaver. I had met men in the course of my work who recalled me from my days in the ring, and I flatter myself by observing that more than one of these recalled my fights with reverence and regarded me with special notice. I had never before met a man who seemed to collect images of me the way some odd fellows will collect bones or mummies or other curiosities from afar.
Ellershaw looked up from his work and an expression of pleased surprise came over his face. “Ah, you’re Benjamin Weaver. Ambrose Ellershaw at your service. Do sit down.” He spoke with a curious amalgam of gruffness and amicable cheer. Observing that my eyes went to his prints, he colored not a little. “You can see I’m no stranger to your doings, your comings and goings. I know full well about Benjamin Weaver.”
I sat across from him and offered a weak smile. I felt both awkward to be engaged in this charade of returning what I had stolen and embarrassed by his enthusiasm as well. “I am gratified and surprised by your attentions.”
“Oh, I have seen you fight many times,” he told me. “I even witnessed your final match against Gabrianelli—that was the night you broke your leg, you may recollect.”
“Yes,” I said stupidly, for I wondered how he thought I might somehow forget breaking my leg in the boxing ring.
“Yes, quite a sight, the breaking of your leg. I am glad you are here. May I see it?”
I own I showed the greatest surprise. “My leg?”
“No, you blockhead,” he barked, “the report. Give it me!”
I hid my surprise at the insult and handed the documents to him.
He opened the packet and examined the contents with evident approbation, leafing through the pages as though to make sure all was in order and nothing missing. He then took from a ceramic bowl, painted in red and black in the oriental design, a hard brownish thing that he placed in his mouth and began to chew methodically, working at it as though it tasted both horrible and unspeakably delicious. “Very good,” he mumbled, through his chewing. “Not a thing out of order, which is rather fortunate. Should have been a bit of work to replace. When I discovered it missing, I thought, Here is an opportunity to see Weaver at work in his newer capacity, but I was not entirely certain I had not left these at my country house. I had a servant searching, and I was awaiting his report every moment when I received your note instead. How very fortunate. Where did you find this?”