The Devil’s Company: A Novel

by David Liss

  “I thank you,” I said. “With luck, this shall be resolved soon. We’ll know more after we speak with Mr. Franco.”

  “Do you then propose that we simply go to sleep and await the opening of the Fleet Prison?”

  I let out a humorless laugh. “No, I am in no mind to wait. We’ll go to the Fleet now.”

  “They won’t let you visit a prisoner in the middle of the night.”

  “Anything may be got at any time for silver,” I told him. “You know that.”

  “Indeed,” he said. It was hard not to hear the bitterness in his voice. “Has not this whole affair been in defense of that view?”

  THE COACHMAN APPEARED skeptical about taking us within the Rules of the Fleet, fearing we would refuse to pay him, and because of the peculiarities of that neighborhood, he would have no legal recourse. Paying him in advance quelled that anxiety, though he still appeared uneasy about a pair of men seeking to gain entrance to the Fleet at night. Nevertheless, he agreed to take us and await our return, though neither Elias nor I expressed much surprise when we heard his coach retreating the moment our backs were turned.

  It was now well after midnight, so when I pounded upon the prison gates it took several minutes before anyone arrived to slide back the viewing latch and see who we were and what we wished for.

  “I have great need to visit with a prisoner,” I said. “One Moses Franco. I must speak with him at once.”

  “And I must be the king of Prussia,” the guard returned. “No visitors at night, and if you weren’t a miscreant out about nefarious work, you’d know that.” He sniffed a few times like an eager dog. “You smell like a chimney sweep.”

  I ignored this observation, which I had no doubt was true enough. “Let us dispense with the games. How much to view the prisoner right now?”

  The guard did not even pause. “Two shillings.”

  I handed him the coins. “’Twere better if you, like a public inn, would post a slate with the day’s prices and save your customers the trouble of games.”

  “Mayhap I like the games,” he answered. “Now wait here while I fetch your prisoner.”

  We pressed ourselves close against the slick stones of the building, for the rain had not let up, and though it had been good news not an hour earlier, now we were cold and wet and miserable. The guard was gone for what felt like an eternity, but he finally returned, close to half an hour later. “I can’t help you,” he told me. “The prisoner has been released. He’s gone.”

  “Gone?” I shouted. “How could he be gone?”

  “It were a strange thing that was related to me, and I’d have been back sooner had I not paused to hear the whole story, but thinking you would wish to hear it too, I stayed to learn of it. Now, having checked the slate with the day’s prices, I find that interesting stories relating to released prisoners also cost two shillings, so hand over your silver and be glad the prison ain’t charging this week for fruitless fetchings.”

  I slid the coins through the slat. The guard snatched them up. “Now, here’s what I heard. A gentleman showed up and offered to discharge the prisoner of his debts and his prison fees. Nothing unusual about that. It happens all the time, of course, but in this case the story made the rounds, for it seems that the very same fellow who come to pay the piper is the one who committed the prisoner in the first place—fellow by the name of Cobb. And what was more interesting than that was that the prisoner didn’t wish to be released to go with this fellow. Said he’d rather stay in prison. But we ain’t in the business of running an inn, despite what you might have to say, even though it took a couple of turnkeys to force the reluctant and liberated Mr. Franco into his liberator’s coach.”

  A knot of fear and outrage gripped me. It had not been very long since Elias and I reasoned that Cobb could threaten me now with nothing for which I was not prepared, but it seemed he had anticipated this position. No longer content to let Mr. Franco rot in prison, he now took hold of the man himself. I was ever more determined to strike back and strike back hard, and I was now, more than ever, without any idea of how to do so.

  THE NEXT MORNING, now but two days before the meeting of the Court of Proprietors, Elias met me at my rooms, as I had asked, and as early as I asked—clear signs that he was every bit as concerned as I was.

  “Ought you not to be at Craven House?” he asked me, “managing affairs from there?”

  “There’s nothing to manage,” I said. “If I cannot find the plans for Pepper’s engine, there is nothing to be done. I should very much like to find them prior to the meeting of the Court of Proprietors, since allowing Ellershaw to triumph can only rankle Cobb. But before that we’re going to have to rescue Franco.”

  “And how do we do that?”

  “I have some ideas, but first we must speak with Celia Glade.”

  I saw him turn pale and then redden. “Are you certain that’s a sound idea? After all, Mr. Baghat might well have been warning us to stay away from her.”

  “He might have been, but he might have been advising us to seek her out. I should hate to fail to do that which he struggled to tell us with his dying words.”

  “And what if he meant those dying words as a warning? Should you not also hate to deliver us into danger?”

  “I would indeed hate that. However, facing danger is preferable to doing nothing. If she is the enemy, we shall have an opportunity to confront her.”

  “I advise against it until we know more.”

  “I presumed you would,” I told him, “as your conduct with her must make you wish to avoid her, and the more so in my presence. Thus I took the liberty of sending her a note this morning, asking her to call upon me if she had anything of moment to say.”

  Elias, who clearly had nothing of moment to say, turned away.

  We spent the next several hours in conversation about how we might retrieve Mr. Franco from Cobb’s clutches, and I believed we had struck upon some very good ideas. It was nearly noon when my landlady knocked upon my door to tell me that a lady was outside in a carriage and she would very much like me to attend her.

  Elias and I exchanged looks, but we wasted little time before heading out to the street and approaching a handsome silver and black equipage. Looking out the window was the most marvelously dressed lady, a rare beauty in her silk finery, and no doubt a very wealthy and distinguished figure in the beau monde. At least that was my first thought. My second thought was that this creature was Celia Glade.

  “Ah, gentlemen, I’m so glad you could attend. I see I’m not the only one who found little reason to return to Craven House just now. If you two would be so kind as to join me in my equipage, we may drive about the town and speak in private. I’m sure we have much to say to one another.”

  Elias shook his head, almost imperceptibly, but I saw him clearly enough. I also understood him. It seemed to me that his fear of Celia Glade could not be based on Aadil’s warning alone. No, I thought it far more likely that he now confused fear with guilt and that he wished to avoid her because her presence reminded him of his rather unamiable behavior toward me. This struck me as a poor basis for dictating strategy.

  “Why should we trust a double-dealer like yourself?” I asked, more to please Elias than because I believed she would have an illuminating answer.

  “I have every reason to believe,” she answered, “that when you enter my equipage you will know why.” She looked to me directly, meeting my eyes. “You may not wish to trust me, sir, but you do nevertheless, so let us not waste time upon foolishness.”

  I stepped forward and opened the door. Inside, Miss Glade sat in the most gorgeous gown of verdant silk, trimmed with ivory lace. She wore delicate calfskin gloves upon her hands, and a very handsome bonnet sat upon her head. But as wondrous as her clothes might have been, what made her glow was the impish smile she wore upon her face, the look of delighted triumph. And I could not blame her for her feelings, for she had clearly triumphed quite nicely.

  Sitting next to
her, with his hands bound before him, his legs bound at the ankles—both with thick rope nearly the ivory of Miss Glade’s lace—was none other than Mr. Jerome Cobb himself.

  She laughed as though we shared a joke. “Now do you wish to hear more?”

  “You have my full attention,” I said. We took our seats, and the footman closed the door behind us.

  THE EQUIPAGE BEGAN to bump along. Miss Glade sat with her hands prettily in her lap and wore upon her face the most devilishly seductive smile. Elias hardly knew where to look, but I looked at Cobb. He sat with his head and shoulders bent forward, looking more like a prisoner of war than—well, I hardly knew what he was.

  Astonishingly, it was he who broke the silence. “Weaver,” he said. “You must help me. Talk to this madwoman and vouch for me. She has threatened torture and imprisonment and hanging. I cannot endure it. I understand you may take issue with my actions, but I have been kind, have I not?”

  I would not give him the satisfaction he desired. He had been more polite to me than had his nephew—that much was certain—but he had been my taskmaster. Instead, I asked, “How is it that this woman was able to make you her prisoner?”

  “Let us not concern ourselves with the particulars,” Miss Glade said. “For now I should hope you’d be happy that I brought you the villain who has so plagued you.”

  “And do I not get to learn who you are?” I asked.

  She smiled again, and may I be damned if my heart did not melt. “You may know what you wish, but I should prefer not to speak before Mr. Cobb. For now, you may ask him what you like, and later we’ll speak privately.”

  I turned to Cobb. “What Miss Glade says sounds reasonable. Tell me now who you are and what you want. I wish to know why you have done as you have to me. And I want to know where Mr. Franco is.”

  “Gad, Weaver, can you not see the woman is a monster?”

  “I am not yet certain if she be angel or devil, but there is no doubt in my mind about you, sir. Now speak, or I’ll give you incentive to do so.”

  “What, you would put me to the torture, after all I’ve done for you?”

  “I should gladly put you to the torture, and more so because of these claims you make. What have you done for me that I should be so glad of your assistance? You have used me, sir, made me into your puppet and plaything, and you have kept me in the dark all the while. You have abused my friends, and because of your schemes three men lie dead: Mr. Carmichael; Mr. Aadil Baghat, the Mogul’s man; and one of Pepper’s former associates, called Teaser.”

  I heard a sharp intake of breath. It was Miss Glade, who now had one delicate glove to her mouth. “Baghat is dead?” Her voice was soft and small. “I had not heard it.”

  I almost thought to say that it was a relief to me that she did not know everything, but I could see the news was hard for her and I refrained from caustic comments. “It was last night,” I told her. “At a tavern in Southwark. We were attempting to rescue this Teaser, though that is not his real name. He was—”

  “I know who he was,” Miss Glade said. “He was Pepper’s lover. One of them.”

  “Yes. We were attempting to learn what we could from him, and we were attacked. Mr. Baghat died trying to save Teaser’s life. He had always pretended to me to be a brute and a monster, but in a very short time I learned his true nature.” I turned to Cobb. “I despise you for your bringing about the death of such a man. I care not whether you fired the pistol, ordered it done, or if this was a mere consequence of your other mischief. I shall hold you accountable.”

  “His country has lost a great servant,” Miss Glade said, without trace of irony or falseness. “And so, for that matter, has this one. He was a friend to the Crown.”

  I looked at her. Could she mean what she said? I had long believed her to be an enemy to the Crown. Could I have been so mistaken?

  “Who are you, Cobb?” I asked. “Who are you that you have wrought all this death, and for what purpose?”

  “I am only a servant,” he said, “with little more power in all this than you. I have been manipulated just as you have been. Oh, have mercy on me, sir, I never meant to harm anyone.”

  “Who are you?” I demanded once more.

  Elias spoke. “Oh, enough.” It was the first time he’d spoken since we entered the carriage. “Who is he, Celia?”

  I observed his informal use of her name but worked hard to keep my face from registering the disappointment.

  “He is an agent of the French Crown,” she said. “He’s a spy, working against King George and the East India Company.”

  “A French spy?” Elias blurted. “But that’s what we thought you were.”

  Something like amusement flashed across her face. “I shall very much like to know how you reached that conclusion, but that is for later, and Cobb is for now. Go on, tell them,” she said to him. “And tell them anything else they wish to know.”

  “It is only partially true, Mr. Weaver. I do work for the French, though it is not out of any loyalty to them. You see, they bought me in much the way we did you. Through my debts. Only in my case, it was not my family that was threatened, but my own person, and while I have little doubt you would have regarded such dangers to yourself with contempt, I have never been the man you are.”

  “Perhaps,” Elias suggested, “because he chooses to flatter you, you will refrain from breaking his fingers.”

  “He would be wise not to depend upon it,” I said. “Tell me why the French Crown would wish to employ me against Ellershaw.”

  “I don’t know,” Cobb told me. “They do not inform me of their reasons, just their desires.”

  “It’s rather obvious, I think,” Elias said. “You recall my mentioning that the French are starting to develop their own designs upon the East Indies. To no small degree, our East India Company is viewed as an adjunct to the British Crown, for its wealth increases the wealth of the kingdom, and it is involved in a sort of mercantile conquest. Anything the French can do to harm the East India Company harms the wealth of the British nation.”

  “Just so,” Miss Glade agreed. “And though I doubt our friend here has Mr. Gordon’s keen mind, I suspect he knows at least that much. Which suggests that he is not being forthcoming, and that perhaps this finger-breaking you discussed might not be out of order. I have promised to deliver this wretch, but I have made no promises as to his condition.”

  “Deliver him to whom?” I asked.

  “Why, the Tower, of course. He is to be a prisoner of the kingdom.”

  “Not before he releases Franco from his minions,” I said.

  “I assure you,” Cobb stammered, “he is in no danger. It is not in my power to release him, but you need not fear that any harm will come to him.”

  “Not in your power?” I asked. “Is he not being held in your house?”

  “He is there, yes, but Mr. Hammond has him.”

  “Your nephew?”

  “He is not truly my nephew,” Cobb said.

  And, at last, I understood. “And neither is he your subordinate either. Mr. Hammond is a high-ranking French agent, one who has worked his way into the highest levels of the British customs, and you are but his plaything. You present yourself as being the man who gives the orders only because it provides a further level of protection for Hammond, is that not so?”

  Cobb said nothing, and his silence confirmed my suspicions.

  “Does Mr. Cobb have another name, one he uses among the French?” I asked.

  Miss Glade nodded. “He is called by them Pierre Simon.”

  It was as I suspected, and it cleared up one remaining question. “So,” I said to Cobb, “you sought not only to serve your masters but yourself? You and Hammond and Edgar, using your French noms de guerre, purchased insurance policies upon my life. Clearly you intended, once you were done with me, to kill me and to profit from doing so.”

  “It was but business,” Cobb said, his voice hardly more than a whisper.

  “What shall
become of Mr. Franco once Hammond learns that Cobb has been arrested?” Elias asked.

  “He won’t learn,” Miss Glade told us. “We discovered Cobb about to leave the country, sailing for Calais on what appears to be official business for his masters. He shan’t be missed for a week or more. Hammond has no idea what’s happened to his toadeater.”

  The equipage then came to a stop. I looked out the window and observed we were hard by the Tower. In a moment a quartet of dour-faced soldiers appeared.

  “One moment,” Miss Glade said to them. And to me, “Have you further questions for Mr. Cobb? I suspect he shan’t be made available again.”

  “How do I get Mr. Franco out of Hammond’s home?”

  “You can’t,” he said. “And I would not try if I were you. Leave it alone, Weaver. You are dealing with men who are far more powerful than you can imagine, and Mr. Franco shan’t be harmed if you just leave it alone.”

  “What does Hammond want with him? Does he hope to keep me in line by holding my friend in his clutches?”

  “Hammond only discusses his plans with me when he cannot avoid doing so. If you must have answers, I fear you will have to pose those questions to him directly.”

  “I assure you,” I said, “I shall do just that.”

  “SO,” I BEGAN, “WHO ARE YOU?”

  We rode now in her equipage, one fewer with Cobb having been led to his doom at the Tower, safely in the hands of soldiers. Surely there would be pain and torture ahead for him, but Miss Glade showed no sign of distress. She appeared, as always, calm and composed.

  “Have you not guessed?”

  “Not an agent for the French Crown, as I once supposed, but for the British?” I proposed.

  “Just so,” she agreed. “We have been aware for some time of the danger to the East India Company on two fronts. First, the French wished to infiltrate that they might steal secrets and, if possible, do damage. As you have no doubt supposed, we could not permit such a thing to happen. To that end, we have been cooperating with the Indian Mogul, who may be uneasy about British presence but is wise enough to want to keep his country from becoming a battleground of European powers. Thus I was working in at least some degree of concert with Aadil Baghat. I don’t pretend to believe he was entirely forthcoming with me any more than I was with him, but I knew him to be a good man, and I am genuinely grieved to learn of his death. These French are devils who will stop at nothing.” Something like grief passed across her face, but it was gone in an instant.