A Conspiracy of Paper bw-1

by David Liss

  As I moved to seat myself in an unsteady-looking chair that faced the desk, I saw him stretch out his arm for a piece of foolscap that rested at the outermost limit of his reach. It was a subtle movement, cautious and casual at the same time, but it caught my eye, as did the piece of paper he covered. I cannot say what was there, written in a scrawling hand, but some word or idea or phrase upon the page drew me in the very moment Bloathwait hid it from my view. With his free hand he took a folio volume and set it atop the paper. He then turned to me.

  Observing that I watched his movements, he squinted disapprovingly. “I await your commands,” he said tersely. “I have allotted a quarter of an hour at the utmost for this meeting, but I reserve the right to abridge that amount of time should I determine our conversation to be unproductive.”

  I could never be certain with a creature like Bloathwait, but I believed that my presence unnerved him, and I felt a strange thrill, pressing upon this man who had so pressed upon me when I was a boy. We sat here as equals, or at least something not entirely unlike equals. At any rate, he felt it in his interest to listen to what I had to say. “And what is it you wish your conversation to produce?” I asked, opting to be deliberately elliptical.

  Bloathwait blinked like an uncomprehending beast. “What expectations should I have? You have called upon me.”

  Anxious to remove myself from his cold scrutiny, I thought I should avoid the issue no further. “I am here, Mr. Bloathwait, because I am inquiring into the matter of my father’s death.”

  His face displayed no emotion, but he scrawled a note upon a piece of paper. “How very odd you should come to me.” He did not look up while he spoke. “Do you believe I know something of the operation of hackney coaches?”

  I stung a bit at this rebuke. It occurred to me that, despite my efforts to puff myself up, I still felt somewhat childish in Bloathwait’s presence, as though he were an older kinsman or a teacher; unnerving him, I realized, left me feeling naughty, not powerful. I would get nowhere if I cringed each time he looked at me with disapproval, so I involuntarily clenched the muscles in my chest as I determined to treat him as I would any man.

  “Hardly,” I said, affecting a bit of impatience. “But it is my recollection that you did know something of my father.”

  He raised his head once more. “Your father and I both worked upon the ’Change, Mr. Weaver—each in his own way. I attended your father’s funeral as a courtesy, and no more.”

  “But you knew something of him,” I pressed on. “Such is what I have heard.”

  “I will not answer for what you have or have not heard.”

  “Then I shall tell you,” I said, thrilled now to have taken control of our conversation. “I have been told, sir, that you made it a habit all your life to inquire into my father’s affairs. That you familiarized yourself with his business, with his acquaintances, with his comings and goings. I know that at least once you took some small notice of the comings and goings of his children, and that later you transferred your interest to the father himself.”

  He offered me the slightest of smiles, exposing a wall of improbably large and crooked teeth. “Your father and I had been enemies. I see you have some recollection of our animosity. Though that enmity ended long ago on my part, I have learned that it is wisest to assume one’s neighbors less generous than oneself.” He paused for a moment. “I maintained a distant familiarity with your father in the event that he wished me harm. Such never proved to be the case.”

  “I hoped,” I continued, “that because you did maintain such a familiarity you might have some idea on who should wish him harm.”

  “Why do you believe anyone should wish him harm? I was led to believe that his death was an unfortunate accident.”

  “I have been led to believe otherwise,” I explained. I proceeded to inform him of the suspicions of William Balfour.

  Bloathwait listened like a student at a lecture. He took notes as I spoke, and appeared to ponder confusing aspects of my narrative. Then I finished, and he changed his attitude to one of mild amusement, shaking his head and displaying a condescending smile upon his little mouth. “If Balfour-the-son is only half as much a fool as Balfour-the-father, then he is twice as much fool as should be heeded. I shall tell you, I have no contempt for poverty—none whatsoever. If a man begins with nothing and ends with nothing, he is like most men upon the earth. Some men who grow rich become contemptuous of men who are poor or of men who began as poor. I only have contempt for men who were once rich and became poor. I have had my reversals—of course you know that—but a true man of business can reverse his reversals. Balfour squandered everything upon nonsensical pleasures, and he left nothing for his family. I scorn him.”

  “I believe there is some merit in what his son claims. If not in the son himself,” I added after an instant.

  He fingered the corner of a piece of paper. “Have you any proof of these suspicions?”

  I thought it best to share no information yet. I wished to know what Bloathwait knew—not how he would react to what little information I already had. “Had I proof,” I said, “I should not require your help. I now only have suspicions.”

  He leaned forward, as though to signal that he now wished to give me his full attention. “I shall tell you that I had something of a personal dislike of your father. I do not hesitate to say so. In matters of the Exchange, however, I could not but respect him, as I respect any man who supported the Bank of England. I shall therefore do all that I can to aid you, that I might honor all men who honor the Bank. I cannot say I believe your fantastical tale of plotted murders and missing issues, but if you wish to make some sort of inquiry, I shall in no way hinder you.”

  I thought it best to acknowledge what he clearly believed to be his generosity. “Thank you, Mr. Bloathwait.”

  He stroked his chin thoughtfully. “I also do not like the idea that someone might murder one of your race with impunity,” he continued. “I hardly need tell you that we Dissenters suffer from nearly as many disabilities as you Hebrews, and I should hate to think that any man might strike down another without fear of punishment so long as his victim is not a member of the Church of England.”

  “I respect your sense of justice,” I said cautiously.

  He leaned back in his chair and spread his hands upon the expanse of his chest. “I wish I knew of something that might help you. I can only tell you this: in the weeks before his accident, I heard some rumors about your father. I heard that he had somehow become an enemy of the South Sea Company.”

  I concentrated on looking no more than mildly curious, though I wished to ask a thousand questions—none of which I could formulate. That Bloathwait had heard talk of enmity between my father and the Company proved little, but it confirmed the importance of the pamphlet that my uncle had uncovered.

  “Tell me more about what you heard.”

  “I fear there is no more,” he said with a casual wave of his hand. “Men do not speak openly against the Company, Mr. Weaver. It is far too powerful to cross. I only heard that your father had engaged himself upon some business that might injure the South Sea. I never learned the nature of the business or the injury.”

  “From whom did you hear these things?”

  He shook his head. “I could not say. It was long ago, and I thought nothing of it at the time. Men who do business often exchange information casually. I regret that I took no further notice.”

  “I regret it too.”

  “Should I learn anything further, I will certainly contact you. I can only advise you that if you truly believe your father to have been murdered, then you must look to what he might have done to anger the men of the South Sea Company. You must then determine what course of action such a Company might take.”

  “What could a man have done to anger the Company?”

  Bloathwait exposed his palms in a gesture of ignorance. “I cannot say how the managers of the South Sea think, sir. If a man were to threaten their profi
ts, would they lash out against him? I do not know. But I can think that your father had no greater enemy when he died.”

  “Do you believe, then, that the Company would have its agents kill a man who threatened profits?”

  “I never said so,” Bloathwait responded coolly. “I merely state that the directors of the South Sea are ambitious men. I would not guess to what lengths they might go to protect their ambitions.”

  I could not trust the disinterested air with which he hinted at the villainy of the Company. When I was a boy, Bloathwait had proved himself to be an ambitious plotter, and he had not become a man of such importance without learning subtlety. His caution in discussing the Company surely disguised the extent to which he wished me to believe his implications.

  “These ambitions,” I said, using the same easy tone as Bloathwait, “threaten the Bank of England, do they not? The South Sea Company is your most dangerous rival. I should think you would benefit greatly if I discover any wrongdoing on the Company’s part.”

  Bloathwait’s face darkened, and in an instant I saw the man of my boyhood—enormous, determined, and terrifying in his intensity. “I think you go too far.” He spoke in a deep, hostile whisper. “Do you suggest that I would threaten other men’s business out of petty motives? You came here looking for my assistance, and I have told you what I know. I find your insults as inexplicable as they are rude.”

  “I meant no rudeness.” I attempted a conciliatory tone, though what came from my mouth sounded like an angry retort.

  He shook his head to show his contempt for my clumsy effort at recovery. Our discourse now resembled lines in a stage play more than it did conversation—neither of us spoke anything like truth, but we dared not venture too far from our roles.

  “You may show yourself out,” he said quietly, hoping to convey the demands of his affairs rather than the insult of my accusation. “I have no more time for you. I wish you well of your inquiry, and if I stumble upon information that might help you, I shall send it along.”

  I pushed myself to my feet and bowed. I had just turned when he called my name.

  “I cannot guess what your inquiry will yield, Weaver, but should you learn anything of the South Sea Company that seems to be of”—he paused to consider his words—“of an incriminating nature, I beg that you will come to me with your information before you go elsewhere. I promise you that the Bank will pay you handsomely for your consideration.”

  I bowed again and left the study.

  I felt some relief as I made my way out, for I believed that I should always relish keeping my distance from Bloathwait. For now, however, I knew that I might not enjoy so much of a distance as I should like. He had confirmed what I already knew—that my father had made the South Sea Company his enemy. The mere existence of this enmity did not prove a murder, but it gave me somewhere to press my inquiry. More to the point, Bloathwait had shown himself willing to aid me in my efforts, so long as the South Sea Company suffered for it. I comforted myself with the thought that should I become convinced of the guilt of the Company or its agents, I should have a powerful, if dangerous, ally.

  As I walked toward the door, I stopped and asked a stooped man of middle years if he knew Bessie’s whereabouts, but this worthy shooed me away. “Off with ye,” he snapped and bared his teeth like a goat. “Bessie’s fool enough without having her head turned by the likes of ye.”

  I bowed meekly and made my way from the house. But I had an idea in my head that I would be back, and the next time I would not go through such formal channels.

  SEVENTEEN

  THE NEXT AFTERNOON, Elias came to pay me a visit, puffed up with joy and quite ready to hug himself. He had hardly walked through my door before his news exploded forth. “There’s been a terrible misfortune with a brother playwright,” he said with pleasure. “Some blockhead named Croger, who was to have had a play completed for Cibber, has gone and died without finishing his work. Absolutely dead. My play has been accepted and is to be performed next week.”

  I heartily congratulated my friend upon his good fortune. I turned to reach for a decanter that we might share a celebratory drink, but Elias had somehow reached it before I turned around, and he handed me a glass. We drank to his success, and he threw himself down in one of my armchairs.

  “Is this not unusual, for a play to be rushed into production so quickly?” I asked.

  “Shockingly uncommon,” he assured me, “but Cibber is the sort of theatre manager who is always determined to have something new early in the season, and when he heard my Unsuspecting Lover, he was entirely taken with it. In no small part, I think, because I designed the character of Count Fopworth to be played by Cibber. As I read through the play—and I can tell you, reading through an entire play by one’s self, trying to get all the inflections just so, is no easy task—he kept interrupting when I read Fopworth to exclaim, ‘I think there may be something in this piece,’ or ‘That has a delightful turn.’ The key is not to write plays that are good, but rather to write plays with roles for the manager. I am so very pleased with myself I shall burst.”

  I listened to him talk at some length about Mr. Cibber, about the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane, about the actresses he liked there, and so forth. Elias then explained to me that he would be exceptionally busy with the rushed rehearsals, but that he still wished to assist as best he could with the inquiry. I then told him of my encounter with Bloathwait, and I asked if he had ever heard of Martin Rochester, the man my father’s slayer now worked for, but Elias shook his head.

  “I cannot think how to track him down,” I complained. “A man no one can find working for another no one knows. Perhaps if I haunt Jonathan’s I might learn something of use.”

  Elias smiled. “Can you be certain that you will be spending your time wisely?”

  “I cannot,” I explained. “It merely appears to me to be my best option. I hope,” I said with a smile, “to study the general and to learn the particular.”

  He nodded. “Very good, Weaver. In the absence of knowledge, you seek out likelihoods. There is hope for you yet.”

  Elias pushed himself out of his chair and walked with an unsteady gait to my decanter, which he was displeased to find spent. “What say you, Weaver, that we go forth and celebrate my success? We shall visit the bagnio of your choice and talk probability with the whores.” I saw him looking about my shelves for another bottle of wine.

  “I should like nothing better,” I assured him, “but I fear I must continue with this inquiry.”

  “I suspected as much,” he replied, having no small difficulty with the word suspected. He then treated me to several soliloquies from his comedy, and though he forgot most of his words, I applauded vigorously. He then announced that he had whoring to attend to and more game bucks than I with whom to share his amusement. He made several attempts at the door handle, and then clumsily departed.

  I listened to Elias make loud work of Mrs. Garrison’s stairway, and then sat myself at my desk and once again attempted to read through my father’s pamphlet. I cannot pretend to be shocked to say that my father was no more accessible in prose than he was in conversation. Consider the very first words of this document:

  We cannot but be aware that in recent years there has been a general cry, indeed an uproar, over the growing powers in certain factions of Exchange Alley—factions that have made their intentions clear and have striven, against the better wishes of those who would see the nation prosper, to undo that which has been so boldly done in the Kingdom’s interest.

  After this first sentence, I determined to begin a course of judicious skimming, which produced a flurry of accusations about the South Sea Company and praise of the Bank of England that swam mercilessly before my eyes. Some portions held my interest more than others; I could not but read closely where my father postulated a conspiracy within the great Company itself: “This forgery can only have been perpetrated with the co-operation of certain elements within South Sea House itself. The Comp
any is as a piece of meat, rotted and crawling with maggots.”

  I spent perhaps another hour with the manuscript, skimming about, hoping that somewhere my father had distilled his ideas into an apprehensible conclusion. Once disabused of this hope, I then determined that to understand the issues, my time should be spent not before my father’s pamphlet but in the heat of the fire. So I dressed myself in my best waistcoat and coat, carefully combed and tied my hair, and left my rooms with a very neat appearance. I then made my way to Jonathan’s Coffeehouse, where I was determined to spend a few hours among the engineers of the London financial markets. If I was to understand their intrigues, I reasoned, it was necessary I gain a better feel for these stock-jobbers.

  I found the coffeehouse just as vibrant as it had been the day before, and though it was a less entertaining place to spend an afternoon than in a house of pleasure with a drunken Scot, I found myself of the opinion that Exchange Alley, with its bustle of activity, had much of interest. I took a seat at a table, called for a dish of coffee, and began leafing through the papers of the day.

  I listened to men shout at one another across the room, debating the merits of this issue or that. Voices cried out to buy. Voices cried out to sell. I could hear arguments conducted in every living language and at least one dead one. Yet, confusing though it may have been, I felt I learned a great deal, and I took a certain pleasure at remaining there, feeling as though I were a bit of the stock-jobbing Jew upon the ’Change. There was something truly infectious about the exuberance of this place where momentous events were always about to happen, a fortune was always about to be made or lost. I had been in many a coffeehouse before where men argued about writers or actresses or politics with unbridled vehemence. Here men argued about their fortunes, and the results of their arguments produced wealth or poverty, notoriety or infamy. The stock-jobber’s coffeehouse turned argument into wealth, words into power, ideas into truth—or something that looked strikingly like truth. I had come of age in an unambiguous world of violence and passions. I felt myself to be among a different species of man now, in a strange and alien land ruled not by the strong but by the cunning and the lucky.