A Conspiracy of Paper bw-1

by David Liss

  I betrayed no disgust, hoping my lack of concern would prompt Adelman to reveal even more. “It seems rather like Mr. d’Arblay’s false lottery scare,” I noted blandly.

  “The difference is one of scale, I suppose. Mr. d’Arblay threatened to ruin a few investors’ plans. Mr. Bloathwait threatened to ruin an entire nation. I admit I feel some bitterness because when the newspapers excoriate stock-jobbers they have a habit of looking to me, but I am merely a man of business who sees opportunity in serving my nation. Bloathwait is your true villainous stock-jobber. He would, and did, send the entire nation’s finances into chaos to give himself an advantage upon the Exchange. Now, you must decide if you wish to trust such a man.”

  “What is it you wish of me, Mr. Adelman?”

  “Only to give you some advice. Continue your inquiry, Mr. Weaver. It is spoken of in the coffeehouses now, but not as much as it might be. I say continue, and continue as boldly and as loudly as you dare. Then you may sit back, and like your friend Mr. Bloathwait, watch the prices in ’Change Alley fall, and when they do so, you may buy great quantities. With any luck, the damage you do will last but a short while, and you will find yourself a rich man.”

  “What know you,” I began, unimpressed by his speech, “of forged South Sea issues?”

  Like a creature from Ovid, Mr. Adelman was suddenly transformed. He sprang forth and grabbed me by the arm, hissing in the most hideous and barely audible voice, “You must never speak of such a thing again. You know not the damage you can do. Those words are like a magic incantation that, if uttered too loudly in the wrong place, can destroy the Kingdom.”

  Adelman relaxed somewhat. He returned to his seat. “Forgive my excitement, but there are things of which you know nothing. I cannot sit by and watch you destroy the good we have done.”

  “You talk of serving the nation, but you are no different from Bloathwait, who attempts to serve his own profits. I must believe that these things, which I shall do you the courtesy of not mentioning again, exist. I shall continue to pursue that line of inquiry, so you may as well tell me what you know.”

  “It is but a vicious rumor,” Adelman said, after ruminating for a moment, “started by Bloathwait. A hoax, like his Pretender’s carriage. For all I know he produced some false stock and circulated it to give his story credit, but I promise you, it is but a ruse to ruin the credit of this Company, and you, Mr. Weaver, are but a tool of those who would bring about such a ruin.”

  “What if I told you that my father believed in the existence of such false stock—that he believed that a factor within South Sea House produced it?”

  “I would say that you have been most horribly deceived. Your father was too perspicacious a jobber to believe such a false rumor.”

  I waited a moment, hoping to unnerve Adelman. “I am in possession of evidence,” I said at last. I chose not to clarify if I had evidence of the false stock or my father’s belief in it.

  “What manner of evidence?” Adelman’s face now grew crimson beneath his white wig.

  “I shall only say that it is evidence that has quite convinced me.” I overstated my conviction in my father’s pamphlet—for all I knew, it was but hyperbolic rhetoric—but I believed I had an advantage over Adelman and I wished to use it for all it was worth.

  “What have you?” he demanded. “A false issue?” He spoke those words so quietly he did little more than move his lips. “If that is what you have, let me promise that what you have is a base forgery. Such a thing could never have come from South Sea House—if you have anything it is only designed to make you believe it to be something it is not, something it cannot be.”

  “A forgery of a forgery?” I almost laughed. “A feint within a feint? How very charming. This stock-jobbery is as much the devil as its enemies say.”

  “Name your price for this ‘evidence’ of yours. Do not for a moment believe that I think what you have is proof of anything, but if I have to pay to keep rumors from circulating, I shall do so.”

  I hope I shall not disillusion my reader if I say that, for an instant at any rate, I wondered what my price might be. What loyalty had I to my father that I should turn away a sum of money to do what I had done for so many years—forget him. What could Adelman mean when he said I might name my price? A thousand pounds? Ten thousand? Might it not be wise to clarify his meaning before rejecting this offer?

  It is always something of a disappointment for me when I learn that I have not the stomach for such villainy or calculation as might be in my best interest. And perhaps to overcompensate for this war that raged inside me, I assumed a stance of indignation. “My price? My price is knowing who killed my father and Balfour—and why. There is no other price.”

  “Damn you, sir.” He threw his utensils hard upon the table.

  I admit I enjoyed this moment of power, and I saw no reason not to indulge myself. “Damn me, you say? Would you care to damn me at dawn tomorrow morning at Hyde Park?”

  Adelman’s face lost its redness and now matched the color of his wig. “I assure you, sir, I never duel. It is a barbaric practice, and one practiced only by equals. You should be ashamed to have even suggested such a thing.”

  “Dueling is dangerous,” I agreed. “But insulting a man to his face, Mr. Adelman, is also a dangerous practice. I tell you, I grow tired of your attempts to dissuade me from my course. I shall not be dissuaded. I shall not be bought out. This inquiry will cease, sir, when it reaches its conclusion, and not a moment sooner. If I have to expose the South Sea Company, the Bank of England, or anyone else who has had a hand in these deaths, I shall not hesitate to do so.”

  I stood up and glared down at this great man, who, perhaps for the first time in many years, knew not how to respond. “If you wish to discuss this matter further, you know where you may find me, and I am always ready to receive your commands.”

  I turned and departed, full of self-satisfaction; I felt—for the first time since I had begun this search for the truth behind my father’s death—that I might possess some small measure of strength.

  I LOOKED FORWARD TO returning to my lodgings, for I had found my encounter with Adelman to be surprisingly tiring. My hopes of removing my boots and taking a drink were dashed, however, when I noticed my landlady waiting to greet me at the front door. The look on her face told me I would not be resting soon. I saw that she was anxious and tired, but had I been less tired myself I would surely have seen the signifiers of fear in her sunken eyes and pale complexion.

  “There are some men to see you in the parlor, Mr. Weaver,” she told me in a shaky voice.

  “Some men,” I muttered. “Pray, not some Christian gentlemen, Mrs. Garrison? Shall I assume that the Hindoo Rajah and his entourage have stopped by to honor me with a visit?”

  She pressed her hands together in a gesture of supplication. “They are in the parlor.”

  Much raced through my mind in the few seconds it took to storm into the room. Had the constable come to arrest me for the murder of Jemmy? As I walked through the door I saw five men, dressed reasonably well, but their malicious eyes gave the lie to the cuts of their clothing and the niceness of their wigs. Three of them sat on the sofa, their legs spread out in an air of comfortable disrespect. Two stood behind the sofa, one of them toying recklessly with Mrs. Garrison’s China vase. The other man fingered a bulge in his coat pocket that I knew could only be a pistol.

  They were not the constable’s men.

  “Ah,” the man with the vase said. He placed it down hard, perhaps hoping to see a crack wind its way up from the base. “At last the great Mr. Weaver shows himself. You’ve kept us here all day, you have. That’s something of an incivility, don’cha think, me spark?”

  Mrs. Garrison had not followed me in, but she remained in the hall that she might listen to what transpired.

  I could not imagine who they might be, but their presence intrigued me. I understood that I might be in grave danger, but I also believed that I was very close to learn
ing much about the deaths into which I inquired.

  “If you have business,” I said sternly, “speak it. Otherwise you can get out.”

  “Listen to ’im,” one of the men on the sofa said. “ ’E thinks ’e can tell us what to do.”

  “Mr. Weaver,” the leader said, “we’ve come to take you for a visit. Our employer has invited you to come see him. And to make sure you don’t get lost along the way, he’s asked us to bring you over ourselves.”

  “And who is your employer?”

  “You’ll find out in due course,” the leader said. “You just cooperate, and you won’t get hurt. We’ve got enough men here, and pistols too, to keep a man like yourself from giving us any trouble.”

  Behind me Mrs. Garrison let out a shriek. I turned to her quickly. “Do not be alarmed,” I said. “Have these men done you any harm?”

  She shook her head.

  “Then they shan’t.” I turned to the leader. “Let us go.” Alone, perhaps, I might have attempted to extricate myself from the situation more forcefully, but I could not risk the safety of Mrs. Garrison. She was an unpleasant woman to be sure, but I knew my duty too well to engage in an altercation that might bring her harm.

  “ ’E’s quite the gallant,” one of them noted as they ushered me out in front of Mrs. Garrison’s house. Seeing a coach waiting, I walked toward it at a brisk pace, anxious to have the adventure ended. A small crowd had gathered to watch this odd procession, and I thought to myself that at least while others looked on I should have little to fear. But even as this thought passed through my mind, I felt from behind me a sudden sharp blow to the back of my skull. The pain consumed my every sensation. I have taken no small number of blows to my head in my time in the ring, but it is one thing to feel a man’s fist against your face, quite another to be struck from behind with a solid object. The pain was, in a disorienting way, quite literally unbelievable—blunt and stabbing, hot and cold all at once. I thought to myself, That cannot be—it cannot hurt that much.

  Without taking time to consider, I reached to grab the spot that hurt so implausibly. I should have known better than to render myself vulnerable, for another of the men took advantage of the opening and struck me hard in the stomach. My chest constricted as I struggled for air. As I doubled over, I felt another blow, this one in the small of my back, which knocked me to the ground.

  I thought that if only I could catch my breath I might rise up and pummel these men, but I was no sooner upon the ground than I was struck again in the face and side, and before I could resist I felt my arms pulled behind me and bound with a cord. Just before a cloth was slipped over my head, I looked up and saw the faces in the crowd that watched me beaten before my own lodgings. Not one of them stepped forward to help, and I found myself attempting to commit each face to memory that I might return and beat everyone who had watched my misfortune with such cowardly indifference. I heard someone say that he would go for the constable, but that I knew would do me little service.

  Abruptly I was pulled to my feet and pushed against the side of the coach; what felt like a dozen hands were upon me, roughly searching for weapons. My pistol, my hangar, and my knives were removed, and I was shoved into the carriage, where I collapsed into my seat.

  I struggled futilely against my bonds, not because I believed I could escape them, but because I could not endure the idea of these men believing me entirely conquered. I soon grew tired of thrashing about like an unhooked trout; there was little good I might accomplish, and I had no desire to bring more beatings upon myself. Thus biding my time, attempting to persuade myself into feeling no agony, I felt the wheels begin to roll, and I vowed that I would have vengeance for this anger and humiliation before the sun set that night.

  TWENTY-TWO

  I SAT SILENT and brooding, taut with anger and pain, as the chaise rode on for I know not how long. My abductors spoke not a word, and in the silence and darkness I contemplated who might have orchestrated this attack. I could not but suspect the South Sea Company, but would the architects of a villainous conspiracy that had secretly taken the lives of two men be so sloppy as to attempt a violent abduction before a crowd of onlookers? But if it was not the South Sea, then who would wish to abuse me so, and for what purpose?

  At last we stopped, and I was led out to walk a short distance. I heard a door open and felt a pair of hands pushing me into a building. Within a few seconds the hood upon my head was removed, and I could see I had entered a gaudily decorated house. The walls were adorned with classical-inspired imagery that suggested less the virtues of Plutarch than the excesses of the Satyricon of Petronius Arbiter. I shall not ask my reader to blush by describing the attitudes of the plaster statues and the painted figures of this chamber.

  The men about me held themselves like children whose sure punishment only awaited the return of a parent. They watched me warily, though my arms were still firmly bound behind me.

  I was brought to a drawing room and instructed to sit. The men withdrew somewhat, but did not leave. Next I felt a person approach from behind and cut loose the cord that tied my hands. At once I almost jumped up, but I decided to survey the scene quietly before taking any action. The room bore furnishings of the Eastern vogue, with Chinese-style vases and Oriental decorations upon the wall hangings. A painting, offset with a thick frame of gold, depicted a coronation scene among the Turks. I tried to take in as much as I could, not knowing what could be important, for I knew that the man who had summoned me was to be my enemy for some time to come. Presuming he let me live.

  The man who had freed my arms turned to face me, and I saw that it was the Great Man himself who walked, or I should say, limped toward me to shake my hand. Though Jonathan Wild was ten years older than myself, he had a youthful glow about him. His broad face would have struck an uncritical man as unaffectedly jolly, but I had too recently tasted of his tricks to see it as anything but villainous.

  Following immediately upon Wild’s footsteps was his man, Abraham Mendes, who stood impassively. He showed no sign that he recalled our brief dialogue outside the Bevis Marks synagogue. His task, I believed, was to cast menacing looks at anything that moved—the fact that he knew me changed his behavior not at all.

  “Mr. Weaver, I’m so glad to meet you again.” Wild grabbed my hand and shook it in a powerful and constricting grip, as though he wished to convey meaning even in so small a gesture. “I really must apologize for the unconscionable way you have been treated by these men. I asked them to treat you with courtesy, but I think your reputation must have intimidated them, and they reverted to their rude ways.”

  Since he had greeted me in the Bedford Arms tavern, I had anticipated that I would sooner or later meet up with Wild, but I still could not imagine what he hoped to gain from this adventure. Why had I been beaten, if only to take my revenge on my attackers? Why had I been blindfolded, when the entire world knew that Jonathan Wild resides in a spacious house he had only recently bought in the Great Old Bailey?

  Wild ordered the men out of the room and sat in a hard-looking chair with enormous arms. Mendes stepped around and stood behind him, glaring at me with a coldness I found chilling. I could not understand how Mendes could so easily make himself into two people—the violent henchman and the affable fellow-Jew.

  “Again,” Wild said quietly, “I apologize for this misunderstanding, and I hope we will be able to recover from this debacle. Might I get you a glass to calm your spirits?” He limped toward a decanter set upon a table in the middle of the room, having every intention of pouring my wine himself rather than have a servant perform this task.

  “I should welcome a glass of wine.” I slowly shifted my battered body, attempting to find a comfortable position. This conversation, I told myself, was much like a battle within the ring. I would have to force myself to ignore my pain, to keep my wits about me though my body urged me to surrender.

  Wild poured the wine, handed it to me with the greatest deference, and then returned to his chai
r. “We have so many things to discuss. It astonishes one, does it not, to think that we do not have the opportunity to speak to each other more often.”

  I took a sip and found that the wine did calm my spirits to a small degree. I straightened myself out, ignored the throbbing in my head, and met Wild’s villainous gaze. “I find there is little left that astonishes me, Mr. Wild, and much that tries my patience. You may not have intended to treat me ill, but I have been ill-treated and my disposition is not entirely amicable, so if you have business, I would have you state it.”

  “Very well, Mr. Weaver. I too am a man pressed for time.” He sat down. “I would so like for us to have an understanding, because it would be so easy for us to become adversaries. After all, we are in the same business, and I fear that since I have made such a success of the thief-taking trade, there is little left for you. Yet I think there are ample opportunities in collecting debts, protecting gentlemen, and even uncovering the truths behind terrible crimes—such as the one committed against your father.”

  “What do you know of the matter?” I asked, wishing to sound relaxed.

  He shook his head, as if at the foolishness of my question. “I assure you, sir, that there is very little that happens in this town of which I do not know.”

  “Then you may tell me who killed my father,” I replied.

  “Alas”—he shook his head—“that is one bit of information that has eluded me.”

  “Perhaps, then, the scope of your information is not so broad as you would like me to believe.”

  He narrowed his eyes in disapproval. “You must not be so hasty, sir. But I have heard of your haste, and of your temper too. Tell me, Mr. Weaver, is it true that when you were younger and rode upon the highway, taking from others the wealth you wanted for yourself, that you were a great favorite among the gentle sex? I have heard it said that you were known by the name of Gentleman Ben and that you were loved by the ladies even as they handed you their rings and jewels. Once you had to discourage the daughter of a wealthy merchant who wished to ride away with you.”