A Conspiracy of Paper bw-1

by David Liss

  I could not contain my disappointment when he paused. “You must tell me,” I proceeded.

  “I can’t let the secret out to just anyone. Yet, you have trusted me. Perhaps it is only fair.”

  Elias then picked the most damnable moment to interrupt me, with none other than Sir Owen Nettleton as his companion. “Look here, Weaver. I have found a mutual acquaintance.”

  The baronet clapped Elias upon the back. “I so rarely get to see him when he isn’t taking my blood,” Sir Owen said to me, and then turning, he saw my companion. “Ah, Mr. Deloney.”

  Deloney only bowed, but his face grew pallid and his lip quivery. “Sir Owen. Always a delight to see you, sir.” He drank his remaining punch—half a glass, and enough, I would have thought, to fell a man twice his size—in a single gulp and turned to me. “May I know where you lodge, sir, so I know where I may pay my respects?”

  I handed him my card, and he bowed and departed.

  “I don’t think it my place to dictate your companions,” Sir Owen said, “but I hope you do not put too much stock in that man.”

  “I have just met him tonight. How do you know him, sir?”

  “He frequents White’s and some other gaming houses I have been known to visit. And he is avoided by all, for he owes every gentleman in this city money. Either from his pernicious borrowing, though I insult the very term by aligning it with him, or by his false projecting.”

  “False projecting?” Elias asked. “Not merely inept projecting?”

  “Oh, I think with Deloney there is nothing but guile—harvesting chickens from cows, or turning the Thames into a great pork pie. Deloney invents them and sells shares for ten pounds or twenty and then runs off, leaving his victims with a pretty piece of paper for their trouble.”

  “Hmm. I have lent him two guineas,” I said meekly.

  Sir Owen laughed. “He owes me ten times that, which is why he scurried away like a rodent. You will never see that money again, I can assure you, but be thankful you escaped so cheap.”

  “Where does he reside?” I inquired.

  Sir Owen laughed again. “I hardly know where such a man might live. In the kennel drains is where he belongs. If you wish to beat your money out of him, I shall offer you 10 percent of mine if you can get it. But I think you are wasting your time. That money is gone and never to return.”

  I made some further conversation with Sir Owen, who then excused himself to go chase the very serving lass who had offered her services to Deloney. Elias suggested that I lend him more money for play, but unwilling to extend myself any further, I told him I thought we should both go home to bed.

  TWENTY-ONE

  AT A TIME OF the morning that was far too early for social calls and concerns of society, London’s financial center was already thick with activity. The sky was as yet cloudless, and the day bright, so I shielded my eyes as I stepped out of the coach. I lingered for a moment from my elevated position and marveled at the street, a sea of wigs, as men rushed from this shop to that, from one coffeehouse to another, from the Bank to the vendor upon the street who hawked discounted lottery tickets.

  South Sea House on Threadneedle Street, near Bishopsgate, was an enormous building, and struck me with its carved marble and life-sized portraits that decorated the lobby as an institution steeped in tradition. One would hardly suspect from its façade that the Company was less than ten years old and that its purpose—trade with the South American coast—had never been realized. There was something about the way people scurried through the lobby, the anxious, suspicious hurry in their walk, that made South Sea House little more than an adjunct of Jonathan’s Coffeehouse—that is, an extension of the Royal Exchange itself—and the men who conducted business there simply another order of stock-jobber. If stock-jobbing was but financial villainy, as so many had argued, then this was certainly one of the great breeding grounds of corruption in the Kingdom.

  No doubt part of the hivelike buzz of South Sea House arose from the Company’s sense of urgency. This was an organization, as Mr. Adelman had told me, on the verge of striking a momentous bargain within the ministry—a bargain that I now understood would involve the exchange of millions of pounds. Millions of pounds—who could imagine such sums? This bargain would certainly be opposed by the Bank of England, whose even more auspicious building stood less than a quarter-hour’s walk from here. I did not know if I would find the answers to the mysteries of my father’s death in South Sea House, but I felt to some small degree emboldened by the name I had taken from Mr. Bloathwait’s desk: Virgil Cowper. I had not an inkling who Virgil Cowper was nor how he might offer me any assistance, but I repeated his name over and over again in my head, as though it were a little prayer or a song to ward off evil.

  I stood for some minutes considering my course as the business of South Sea House flowed about me like some great river of pecuniary interest. At last I looked for someone to direct me, but as I did so I noted a scurvy-looking fellow making his way through the front doors and toward the back of the lobby. There was no particular reason for him to draw my attention, only that he was large and ugly and his clothing was none the best. By pure coincidence our eyes met, and we both looked upon each other for the most fleeing of moments; in that instant I knew him to be the very man who had set upon me on Cecil Street when I had been pursued by the mad hackney coachman.

  We paused for a moment, he and I, and stared across this swell of people, neither of us knowing what came next. I could not simply grab him, he was too far away, and I suppose he wondered if he could successfully elude me. He had nothing to fear in the eyes of the law, for what could I do? I could hardly bring him before a magistrate, as I had no second witness to corroborate my testimony. I could, however, beat him mercilessly, and if he knew who I was, he knew I should not hesitate to do so. I thought, just for an instant, for time moved slowly as we stared at each other, of the fear I had felt that night as I believed myself to know what my father had felt just before the hooves of horses trampled upon him, and I yearned to hurt this miscreant. And so, with a sudden resolve, I made my move, and rudely shoving other visitors aside, I dashed forward.

  He was far closer to the door than I, and he too had been poised to flee. The thief, most certainly accustomed to evading constables and watchmen upon the patrol, moved quickly and gracefully, evading the men around us. The crowds of South Sea House, who had come to buy and sell, invest and exchange, hardly cared for two men who pursued each other madly across the lobby, and I hardly cared for them, trying to keep my eye upon my prey as a hunting beast attempts to fix his sights upon one creature in the herd.

  He reached the door, and I was hard upon him, but I slipped while climbing up the marble stairs, and collided with a portly gentleman just as I threw open the doors to see where this knave had run. When I looked around me, I could see no sign of him. I thought for a moment of asking other travelers upon the street if they had noted a large, ill-formed ruffian, but in London mine was a useless question, for where was there not a man of that description? I therefore abandoned all hope of catching him and returned to South Sea House.

  The presence of this man here only served to give credit to Elias’s claims that one of the chartered companies was behind these crimes, for what business would a man who had attacked me on a deserted street have at a place like this—unless the company employed him for some nefarious purpose? By returning to South Sea House, I quite possibly ventured into the very heart of villainy, into the lair of the people who had murdered two men and who had attempted my life as well. Feeling the grip upon my hangar—more for comfort than because I believed I would need to draw it—I returned to the lobby of this great institution that sought to rival the Bank of England.

  I thus proceeded up a flight of stairs and asked a gentleman who appeared to do business in the building if there was an office where I might find one Virgil Cowper. He mumbled that he toiled in the office dealing in stock-holder records, and then directed me up yet another fli
ght. There I found a cramped room where some dozen or so clerks were at work with some business I could not divine. Each desk was weighted down with enormous, if orderly, piles of paper, and I watched as the clerks took pieces, made some markings upon them, annotated ledger books, replaced the papers in another pile, and then started anew. I asked the scribe nearest to the door where I might find a Mr. Cowper, and he gestured to a desk toward the back.

  I could not imagine what an interview with Cowper might yield, but I invested this man with no small importance. I had discovered his name, and I had followed his trail here. I had followed Elias’s advice and taken probabilities into account, and they, in turn, had led me to a man whose connection with Bloathwait I hoped to learn.

  I had all but forgotten my brief pursuit of the ruffian as I approached Cowper. He was a man of about forty years, haggard by his look, for the skin was loose about his face, and his hands were rough, callused, and stained with ink. A suit of clothes—gray and austere—made his grayish-yellow complexion and beveined eyes seem all the more cadaverous; nevertheless, he had an intelligent look about him and possessed something in his face that spoke of a kind of earnest ambition, but he also seemed a man whose youthful promise had yielded nothing but the feelings of failure that come with the advance of age. It is this moment in life, when the bounty of the future becomes the drudgery of the present, that all men fear, myself included, and for that reason I immediately felt a sympathy for this man.

  “I beg a few moments of your time, sir,” I said, “it is upon a matter of business.”

  I am told that it grows more common for clerks in places such as a trading company to think of themselves as dedicated to that company, but such was not the case in 1719, I assure you. A clerk at the South Sea Company would gladly use whatever access and influence his position afforded in order to turn a few pounds for himself, and I aimed to take advantage of that predilection.

  “Business, you say?” Mr. Cowper said softly. “I am always game for business. Please describe the nature of this business.”

  I handed him my card, which he glanced at quickly and then put away.

  “It is of a private nature,” I said quietly.

  “Then let us take a walk,” he said. He stood up and led me down the stairway to the lobby. I began to explain my interests, but he held up a hand to stop my speech. “Not yet, sir.”

  When we reached the lobby, he began a walk directly across to the far wall. “We may talk here in some privacy, provided we continue to travel back and forth. That way no man may listen in to our conversation without making himself conspicuous.”

  I nodded at his sage precaution, at first thinking it was Mr. Cowper’s own idea, but I soon noticed that a dozen or so pairs or small groups of men did as we did, moving back and forth, each group upon its own trajectory, like billiard balls rolling at an easy pace.

  “Now what is it I may do for you, sir?” he inquired with a polished obsequiousness.

  What, indeed? I had so rejoiced at the idea of tracking this man to the source, of following my guesses and the trail of probability, that I had not thought on what I might do with Mr. Cowper once I found him. I could presume from the notes I had discovered upon Bloathwait’s desk that this man had some knowledge of the forgeries, but I could not even be sure of that. I did know, however, that he worked in the records office, and therefore would have access to useful information.

  “Do you have access to stock-holder records?” I inquired.

  “Such as they are,” Cowper said, still keeping his voice quiet. “I fear this Company is none the best at organizing its archives.”

  “I should very much like,” I said cautiously, “to learn if some particular people subscribed to Company stock.”

  Cowper stroked his chin. “This may prove difficult. The more recent the record, however, the greater the chance it can be found. For older records, I can promise you nothing.”

  Cowper’s willingness to undertake this talk told me that he was certainly into something, I need only learn what. “I believe what I search for should be no more than a year old. I wish to know if two men I shall name held South Sea issues. If so, I wish to know in what amounts, when they were bought, and if they were again sold. Is that something you can do?”

  He smiled. “I believe I can be of service to you. It shall take some time—a week perhaps. But it can certainly be done.”

  “And what shall I pay you for your services?”

  Cowper thought about this for a moment, as we nearly collided with a pair of enormously fat men involved in a conference far more jolly than ours. They laughed so hard that they were nearly oblivious to where they walked.

  “I believe five guineas per name shall answer it.”

  I began to regret the bargain, for his price was so high I could hardly even think that I might lower it to something reasonable. Finally we settled upon eight guineas for both names—still an exorbitant price.

  Cowper and I had just concluded our business when I spotted, or I should say, I was spotted by, Nathan Adelman, who came down the stairs with his eyes affixed to me. Cowper hurriedly completed our farewell and disappeared into the throng while I awaited Adelman.

  “Good day to you, sir.” I nodded.

  “I see there is no dissuading you from wasting your time,” Adelman said blandly. He remained upon the first stair, that he might look me in the eye without straining. “Well, if you are going to be poking about, I suppose I may as well keep you from doing any harm. I shall take my dinner now,” he said, “perhaps you can join me at the chophouse across the way. Their pork is most excellent,” he said with a pointed look, as though challenging me to eat forbidden meat.

  We walked down Bishopsgate and then to Leadenhall Street, where the chophouse stood near the Green Market. We silently agreed to a truce of civility, and our conversation as we walked rested upon trivial matters: the pleasantness of the recent weather, the excitement of the new theatrical season, and the increase of business upon the Exchange.

  He led me to a crowded, smoky hall that offered overcooked chops of meat and stale mugs of ale for a shilling. We took ourselves a table, and Adelman called out for two plates. Within minutes a boy delivered two servings of a greasy mixture of chops, buttered cabbage, and pale yellowish bread—a dyed and chalky coarse bread, not true white bread made of refined flour.

  “Tell me how your inquiry proceeds?” Adelman asked, as he turned to dragging a chunk of chalk-bread through the grease of his chop.

  This was by no means the first time someone had placed pork before me, and I had not much scrupled to eat it since I had run away from home. Nevertheless, there was something so distressing about Adelman’s need to devour pig flesh before my eyes that made the thought utterly distasteful to me. “It proceeds apace, I believe.” I dipped a piece of bread into the grease and then set it back down.

  Adelman laughed, his mouth full of food. “I am pleased to hear it. I trust the clerks at South Sea House are giving you their full cooperation.”

  “Would that all of South Sea House gave me its full cooperation.”

  Adelman continued to dig at his food. “You have yet to ask of me anything I can provide.”

  “You have made it clear that you would provide me with nothing.”

  He glanced at me. “No taste for pork, eh? I thought you more modern than that.” He shook his head and smiled. “Your foolishness about diet is much like the foolishness of your inquiry. I had hoped to dissuade you from a course born of tribal ignorance, but if I cannot prevent your inquiry, I hope to limit the damage it does this Kingdom.”

  I thought it a bit obvious; he wished to lead me astray, and any information I received of Adelman I would have to scrutinize with care. “Very well, then,” I said, ready to test his new spirit. “What can you tell me of Perceval Bloathwait?”

  Adelman set down his fork. “Bloathwait? What concern is he of yours?”

  “I believe my father was a concern of his. And,” I added, hop
ing to incite some response, “he has made it clear that he wishes to aid me in my inquiry.”

  Adelman made a sound of disgust. “He wishes to aid you so long as he might cast aspersions upon South Sea House. Allow me to tell you a fine story, Mr. Weaver. As you may recall, four years ago, when the Pretender made his most violent attempt to invade this island and retake the throne for the House of Stuart, there were at one point rumors that the Pretender’s carriage was on its way to London. You may also recollect, sir, the panic caused by this rumor—the idea that the Pretender should feel safe to enter the city as its monarch made many a man believe that the war had already been all but lost and King George would flee. In reality, the rebellion had already been quite stopped in Scotland, but these rumors were not simply fed by mania and fear, for an entourage, including a carriage bearing the insignia of the Pretender, was discovered on the London road.”

  “I fail to see what this has to do with me.”

  “No doubt,” Adelman said. “But you will. When news of the Pretender’s advance on London reached ’Change Alley, stock prices plummeted. Every man with large investments in the funds sold out for fear that if the Pretender succeeded in his attempt to replace King George, then the funds would be worth nothing. Now, I do not wish to suggest that every man who bought during this crisis was a villain. There were many patriots, myself included, who had faith in His Majesty’s ability to withstand an invasion. But Mr. Bloathwait bought tremendously, and he made an inestimable fortune when the invasion was revealed to be a hoax and the stock prices normalized.”

  “Your idea of villainy is rather changeable,” I observed. “You say you also bought when the prices fell. Is he a blackguard because he bought more than you?”

  “No, he is a blackguard because he orchestrated the panic,” Adelman said, taking a bite of chop. “Bloathwait hired the coaches, had them appear as the Pretender and his men, and sat back and awaited the collapse of the markets. It was a very clever plan, and it made a man who was only comfortable into a man who is now very wealthy indeed.”