A Conspiracy of Paper bw-1

by David Liss

  “Do you have witnesses?”

  “Aye,” he said, again in his mountebank voice, “these good people. They saw it all.”

  Again, laughter and cheering, now joined by shouts calling for the Jew to be tarred and feathered, crucified, have his nose slit, and, inexplicably, to be circumcised.

  I held up my hand to silence the crowd, hoping my performance of authority would have some sway with them. It seemed to for a moment. “Hold with your rough music, friends,” I said. “If there is justice to be done, I’ll not stand in your way. But let me hear what the peddler says.”

  I reached down and helped the man to his feet. He looked around, his eyes hard and bloodshot. I suppose I expected him to stand with quivering lips, like a child trying not to cry, but he only looked like a man out in the cold with insufficient clothing, braced against the elements, knowing he could do naught but endure them.

  “Tell me the truth, old fellow,” I said. “I shall do my best to see that it goes as easy as possible with you. Did you try to pick this man’s pocket?”

  He turned to me and began to speak excitedly in a language I did not understand. It took me a moment to realize that he spoke Hebrew, but with the strangest accent I had ever heard. True, had he spoken it with an orator’s clarity, I should have had some trouble understanding him, but in his frantic speech I managed to fix upon a few words: “Lo lekachtie devar.” I did not take a thing.

  He saw that I could not easily understand him, and stopped speaking in the ancient language, again reverting to gesture. He once more put his hand upon his heart. “I take nothing,” he said.

  His denial could not have surprised me. What else would he say? In my heart I knew that there was at least the possibility that he had committed the crime. Because he was a kindly old man did not mean that he could not have attempted to pick a pocket. I cannot say it was the way he spoke or the look in his eyes or the desperately earnest way he held his body that convinced me—not so much as it was my desire to protect him from this senseless mob—but I believed him as I would have believed him had he told me that the sun shone above.

  “This man,” I announced in the most commanding voice I could muster, “says he tried to steal nothing. What we have here is a simple misunderstanding. So go about your business, and I shall see that he goes about his.”

  The crowd was still, and for a moment I thought that I had triumphed, but I saw that the matter was now a contest, not between man and mindless throng, but between two men.

  “It’s you that’ll be about yer business,” the mustache told me in a shrill if commanding voice. “Or we can take care of two as easy as one.”

  He began moving toward me, and I knew that it was time to set aside my more gentle nature. I took from my pocket a loaded pistol, and with a strained gesture I pulled back the hammer with my thumb. “Disperse,” I said, “before someone gets himself hurt.” I backed up a bit, grabbing the old man’s arm and pulling him with me.

  The crowd moved forward, as if they were all one being controlled by a single will. The tone of the confrontation now changed dramatically. They were not angry or enraged anymore—they struck me instead as brute beasts that, once set upon a certain course, had not the capacity to alter that course.

  “You can’t fire upon us all,” the mustache said with a forced sneer. It was incumbent upon him to be brave, as the gun was aimed at his chest.

  “True enough, but someone must die first, and I suspect it shall be you. And once I discharge this pistol I still have this hangar at my side. You’ll win in the end; I’ve no doubt of it. The mob shall have the old peddler. These is no question of who shall win the battle, only the number of casualties.”

  The mustache was quiet for a moment and then told the old man that he should consider himself warned. He then turned on his heel and, grumbling loudly about the enslavement of the Englishman in his own country, he turned away. In a moment the crowd disbanded as though they had all just awoken from dreams, and I stood alone with the Tudesco, who cast a glazed stare upon me.

  “I thank you,” he said quietly. He sucked in his breath in an effort to calm himself, but I could see that he shook violently and was on the verge of tears. “You give my life.” Scattered about his feet, his trinkets looked to me like a child’s playthings overturned by a petulant temper.

  I shook my head, denying his words and the swell of passions I held at bay. “They would not have killed you. They would only have roughed you up a bit.”

  He shook his head. “No. You give my life.”

  With quiet dignity he stooped to collect his goods. Overcome with sadness, I dropped some silver in his tray—I don’t know how much, it might have reckoned in shillings or pounds—and turned toward the milliner’s shop to find Miriam, but as I turned she stood directly behind me.

  It was hard to read her face. She might have been horrified at the violence she had been witness to, impressed by my response to it, relieved that no real harm had been done.

  “Why are you not in the shop?” I snapped. Perhaps I responded too strongly, but my sense of perspective had abandoned me.

  She let out a little laugh, which she used to hide her embarrassment. “I thought this would be my last opportunity to see the Lion of Judah fight.”

  My heart was still pounding from the encounter with the mob, and I had to concentrate to keep from growing furious. “Miriam, I cannot take you with me to the theatre or anywhere else unless I can be certain that you will listen to me should there be a threat.”

  “I am sorry, Benjamin.” She nodded solemnly, perhaps for the first time thinking seriously on the danger. “You are quite right. Next time I shall listen. I promise.”

  “I should hope there will be no next time.”

  When I turned back to the old man, he had gathered up his things and begun to hurry along to whatever decrepit hovel he called home, where he would try to forget what had happened.

  “His kind are used to far worse,” Miriam said. “And they’re not used to being pulled from the flames. Your friend will remember this as a good day.”

  Unsure how to respond, I told her it was dangerous to linger. We headed away from the crowd and I saw her home to safety.

  Once I had discharged myself of her, I remembered the envelope in which she had returned the money she claimed not to have asked of me. I marveled at its lightness, for it could hardly contain even one of the coins I had sent her. I tore it open and discovered a negotiable Bank of England note for the amount of twenty-five pounds.

  I folded the note and put it into my purse, but I could not help but wonder. Why did she not merely return the silver I had given her? And if she had so little money, as she had claimed, how did she obtain this note?

  TWENTY

  I WAS VERY SHAKEN by my encounters that day, and the hour had grown too late for business, so instead of visiting South Sea House, I took to wandering. I walked, with no particular destination in mind, avoiding the gauntlet of beggars as I passed London Wall and the Bedlam Hospital, where the insane were locked away, and where I feared I might be driven if I did not soon discover more about these strange dealings.

  I stopped into a tavern and took myself a mug of ale, ate some cold meat, and passed an hour or two by conversing with the friendly tapman, who recollected me from my days as a pugilist. When I stepped outside into the smoky air of the late afternoon, I realized that I was upon Fore Street, but very close to Moor Lane, where Nahum Bryce, once my father’s printer, kept his shop. Cheered by the thought that I might indeed put my time to good use, I walked briskly to Moor Lane and found the shop at the sign of the three turtles.

  During the height of the day sunlight would flood this spacious shop, but now, in the approaching dusk, candles had been struck throughout, making it bright enough to read comfortably. The shop was long and a bit narrow, the walls almost entirely lined with volumes, and in the back stood a spiral stairway that rose to a second level of bookshelves. I was nearly overwhelmed by the scent
s of leather and wax and flowers, for there was a great abundance of tulips in vases near where the clerk stood behind his counter.

  I passed by a few browsers—an old gentleman and a pleasing girl of about seventeen with an older lady I took to be her mother—and I approached the clerk. He was a boy of perhaps fifteen or so, probably an apprentice, and I could see that anything I might say to him should be vastly less interesting than watching the young lady leaf through an octavo.

  “Is Mr. Nahum Bryce within?”

  The boy startled himself out of his befuddlement and told me he would return shortly.

  In a few moments a plump woman of middle years—never quite pretty, but perhaps she had once been attractive in a sturdy sense—emerged from the back, a pile of manuscripts in one hand. She set them down and turned to me with a kind of polite and proper smile. She wore black—a widow’s attire, and her hair was neatly hidden under a modest, perhaps oversized, bonnet.

  “May I be of some assistance?” she asked.

  “I wished to speak with Mr. Nahum Bryce,” I began.

  “Mr. Bryce was taken from us a little more than a year ago,” she said with an awkward half-smile. “I am Mrs. Bryce.”

  I bowed at her politely. “I am sorry to hear of it, madam. I cannot claim to have known your husband, but I am saddened all the same.”

  “You are very kind,” she told me.

  I informed her that I desired a private word with her, so we retreated to one of the far corners of the shop, all but invisible to anyone who did not go into the nook just past the clerk’s station. “I am interested, madam, in knowing if you have been approached at any time in recent months by a Mr. Samuel Lienzo, who might have wished to publish a pamphlet.”

  Mrs. Bryce furrowed her brow. “Mr. Lienzo, you say? I haven’t heard that name in some time.”

  “So you know of him?” I asked eagerly.

  She nodded. “Oh yes. My husband published a few things by him some time back, as I recall. But nothing in recent years, you know. Mr. Bryce found his writing a bit somber—all that Bank of England and Parliamentary measures. He preferred to keep things lighter.”

  “But you have recently published works that concern Exchange Alley. What of ’Change Alley Laid Open, which I noted on the title page you published just this year?”

  She laughed softly. “Yes, that’s true. But that kind of harangue against stock-jobbery, you know, always sells quite well. Mr. Lienzo, now he sought to publish serious material, and Mr. Bryce had little stomach for that. He preferred much more entertaining matters. Novels and plays and delightful histories. After I undertook the burden of managing this shop, I tried my hand at that political nonsense, but it never earned me much for my trouble. It’s no surprise to me that my husband abandoned it.”

  “Do you have any idea,” I inquired, “whom Mr. Lienzo might have sought for a publisher?”

  “Yes.” She nodded gravely. “I know he had dealings with Christopher Hodge, who kept his shop just near here on Grub Street. But as for that unfortunate”—she began, but I did not permit her to continue, for as we had been speaking a dashing young gentleman began to descend the spiral stairway assisting a beautiful young lady. I am infrequently so struck by beauty that I allow it to interfere with my business, but this case was rather different, for the lady in question was Miriam.

  I could hardly contain my emotions at seeing her twice in a single day, but I understood at once that I was not to step forward and express my delight. She had changed her clothing, and was now dressed in a charming gown of green with an ivory stomacher and a white petticoat with black spots. She wore a handsome bonnet upon her head, one that matched her gown, and she appeared like the neat and respectable London ladies she so admired. Her companion was something of a dashing spark, dressed in a velvet outer coat flaring widely at the knees, with wide gold buttons and ample gold lace. His wig, long and dark, bespoke knowledge of the finest peruke-makers, and a muslin cravat about his neck set off his sharply angled, handsome, and pale face to advantage.

  Miriam was in the company of a wealthy gentleman.

  I knew that we could not be seen from where we stood, so I pointed to the gentleman and interrupted Mrs. Bryce. “Gad,” I swore, though keeping my tone low. “I believe I know that gentleman. Unless I am mistaken, I attended the same college at Oxford as he. But for the life of me I cannot remember how he is called.”

  “That, sir, is Mr. Philip Deloney,” Mrs. Bryce said.

  I snapped my fingers. “The very name. Does he come here often?”

  “Mr. Deloney is not much of a reader, I fear, but he is wont to use my shop as a discreet meeting place with his young ladies, and he will buy several volumes, chosen at random, I believe, from time to time in order to earn my silence.”

  “Ah, that Deloney was always something of a rake. Does he bring many ladies here?”

  “I should have thought it a great number when I was a young lady. Now that I am a widow, it doesn’t seem so very many. Perhaps for a gentleman of his stripe, he brings too few.” Mrs. Bryce let out a quiet laugh. “I think he’s very handsome,” she said in a whisper.

  “Oh, I believe he would tell you that much himself, madam,” I noted as Deloney escorted Miriam from the shop. I turned to Mrs. Bryce. “Thank you for your help. But I must dash off now and renew the acquaintance.” I bowed briefly and walked to the door.

  I was pleased to see that the two of them had stepped sufficiently away from the shop that I might avoid detection. Deloney kissed Miriam’s hand and uttered some words I was too distant to hear and then assisted her into a hackney. He watched as it rode off, and then headed toward Fore Street. I kept pace behind him, watching as he secured a coach for himself.

  I was determined to learn more of this gentleman, so when the hackney pulled from the curb, I dashed off, putting the pressure on my stronger leg as I began my sprint, that I might reach the coach without doing too much injury to myself. The street was good and full, so it was none too difficult to overtake the coach. Making as little noise as I could, I jumped upon the back.

  As I clung to the bouncing hackney, it occurred to me briefly to wonder why exactly I did what I did. Certainly I had developed a fondness for Miriam, but the fondness hardly warranted such drastic action. I could only think that the matter of my father’s death had somehow infected all the other concerns of my life—everything seemed urgent. Even so, I cannot claim that it was my inquiry that occupied my thoughts as I dashed after the fiend who had dared to kiss Miriam’s hand. All that mattered to me, in that instant, was learning who he was and what hold he had over a woman whose heart I wished for myself.

  I easily held on to the coach, for in the years after my boxing injury one of my many disreputable employments had been working as a footman—or I should say, pretending to be a footman—with a wealthy family in Bath. I had planned to insinuate myself into the household, and then, come the earliest opportunity, rob it most mercilessly. But I soon learned that it is one thing to take from anonymous strangers, quite another to take the jewelry from a pleasant lady one had been escorting about town for a month. So I had settled for obtaining an intimacy with the eldest daughter and then disappearing one night, taking only a few pounds for my most immediate needs.

  My familiarity with riding upon the back of a carriage left me dexterous enough to deal with the coachman when he looked backward to see me clinging there. Pressing my head against the back so I would not lose my hat, I reached with my free hand into my purse and came up with a shilling, which I showed to the driver. I then put a finger to my lips to indicate silence. He held up two fingers which indicated he wished for two shillings. I, in return, held up three, to let him know that I should be grateful for his looking the other way. With a smile that told me that he would say nothing even if put to torture, the coachman rode on.

  The coach made its way toward the vicinity of the Royal Exchange, and then west on Cheapside, until I thought that our destination was prayer at St. Paul
’s Cathedral. But Mr. Deloney had a much more dissolute intent, for his destination was that notorious place known as White’s Chocolate House, the most fashionable place for gaming in the city.

  White’s was located in a pleasing enough structure on St. James’s Street, near the Covent Garden Market. I had never been inside, for my gaming days were long behind me; I had set them aside when I set aside my less honest methods of earning my bread. White’s had not been the place of mode in my younger days, and I had not sought it out since my return to the city.

  When the hackney stopped, I jumped off and slid into the shadows as Deloney paid the coachman and went inside. I then emerged and, true to my promise, gave the man three shillings and reminded him that he had never seen me. He touched his cap and rode off.

  Dusk had almost entirely given way to darkness, and I stood upon the street wondering what I should do once I entered. I knew so little of this place, and I did not want to make my presence there obvious. It was the abode of the wealthy and the fashionable and the privileged, and, while I was not afraid of such men, I did not know that I would be best served by barging in and nosing my way around until I found the man I sought.

  The dark streets were far from abandoned; folk walked about me on the road in the near distance, including the vast number of jades who haunted this part of town, and I should have been more cautious than I was, for as I stood there, foolishly gaping, I felt the sharp poke of a blade pressed against my back.

  It had not been pressed too hard—it had perhaps broken the skin a little, but no more. From its feel I thought it to be a hangar, not a knife. That meant more distance between the tip of the blade and the hand that held it. Such a distance worked in my favor.

  I remained motionless for a lengthy second until I heard the culprit say, “Give me yer purse, and I won’t ’urt ye none.”

  I could hear by his voice that he was but a lad—no more than twelve or thirteen, and though I could not turn my head to see him, I believed myself to be more than a match for the young rogue, who could possess little knowledge of a weapon he had certainly stolen. I took a quick step forward and to my right, and then, to confuse him, spun widely to my left. While he jabbed into the empty air where I had stood, I grabbed his wrist hard and squeezed until the hangar, old and rusty, slipped from his grasp and bounced upon the ground. Keeping my eye upon him, I picked up his weapon, and then twisted his arm behind him and forced him face-first against a wall.