by David Liss
At what I believed to be the uppermost floor they removed themselves down a dark hallway. A few candles flickered, producing a confusing maze of darkness and shadow. I struggled to proceed quietly while keeping up with the rapidly advancing men ahead of me, all but invisible in the poorly lit halls. But if the dominos were indistinguishable from the shadows, Elias’s red beard glowed dimly in the candlelight.
Finally they stopped in a room at the end of the hallway. Thinking themselves alone, they did not bother to close the door, and I remained unobserved just outside.
The men in dominos circled around Elias. “We’ve a message for you,” one of them said, in a familiar-sounding country accent.
“From whom?” Elias asked. I smiled at his mangled imitation of my voice.
The one who had spoken before took a step closer to Elias. “From them what wants yer to mind yer own business,” he said. And with a fluid motion he picked up a thick, rounded stick that leaned against the wall and pushed the blunt end hard into Elias’s stomach.
My good friend collapsed like a cut sail, but his helplessness deterred the villains not at all. Soon they had sticks in their hands, and before I could reach Elias they had begun to beat mercilessly about his back and sides. I suppose they believed him to be Benjamin Weaver and felt they must incapacitate the experienced pugilist before he could respond. I cared not a fig, however, and only saw that my friend whose safety I had jeopardized was suffering prodigiously.
I threw off my mask, for the time to forsake disguise was upon me. Before my presence was even detected I had grabbed one of the larger scoundrels by the back of his neck and shoved him face-first into the exposed brick of the wall. This blow took care of him effectively, but now the three remaining men realized their error and hesitantly faced me with their sticks at the ready.
“Who sent you?” I demanded.
“Those you’ve made angry,” one of them said. Perhaps seeing me prepared for combat, with their companion insensible and bleeding upon the floor, they were hesitant to take me on. And I knew this hesitation gave me as much of an advantage as I could expect of three armed men. I was, as always, armed myself. I had no hangar about me, for a sword would have been difficult to carry under the costume, but I had my pistol by my side. Yet, with one shot, and three adversaries, I thought it foolish to brandish the firearm, and I always believed that the pistol was the weapon of last resort. I also had no desire to kill anyone if I could avoid doing so. With the case against Kate Cole to be tried in a matter of weeks, I wished more than anything to remain out of the public eye.
I crouched down quickly and grabbed the stick belonging to the man I had felled, keeping my eyes on my assailants at all times. This movement dissolved the surprise of my manifestation and, in an effort to take back the advantage, one of the men took his stick and hit the groaning Elias hard about the knee. I fear I was as predictable as he had hoped, and stepped in to stop further beating. With my stick raised in my left hand, I threw a hard punch with my right to the man’s head, and it connected most satisfyingly, but I soon felt the harsh blows of heavy wood about my back. These blows preyed upon a weakness caused by Jonathan Wild’s men, and I went black for a moment. In my confusion, I lost my stick, but recovered my senses before I hit the ground. Holding out a hand to the wall to steady myself, I saw that the man I had hit sat on the floor, rubbing his skull, and that he had let go of his weapon.
With an abrupt jerk, I grabbed his stick and swung it wildly at the two remaining rascals. I succeeded in scattering them away from Elias, but I soon realized my mistake; before, they had been close together, and I might have struck one quickly and then evened the odds. Instead they now had the advantage, for one could hit me from behind while the other took me on directly.
I shifted my position, hoping to place myself in a corner, for while it would give me no chance to exit, it would limit my enemies’ paths of approach. This I did, and saw that I faced more danger than I had realized, for the man I had struck was now on his feet, and in the light of the moon from the window behind him, I saw that he held a pistol aimed toward me.
“Drop the cudgel, Jew,” he spat, “or you’re pig meat for sure.”
This man clearly misunderstood me if he thought this tack would prove persuasive. With the stick still in my left hand, I reached into my costume for my own pistol, which I pulled out in a fluid motion. In the dark of the room I could see the villain’s firearm flash, and, acting upon pure animal instinct, I fired my own. It was not an irrational action, but I saw immediately that it had been unnecessary, for his pistol had misfired and burst into flame in his hand. He let out a scream, as much of anger as of pain, and dropped the gun just as the ball from mine struck him slightly below the shoulder, forcing him backward, as though he had been tackled. The weight of the blow pressed him hard against the window, and he penetrated the fragile and, I suspect, already cracked glass. I could not see what happened, but as I turned to face my other enemies I heard him shriek with terror as he slid down the roof and dropped to the ground no small distance below.
When I turned, I saw that my attackers had fled, leaving behind the man I had rendered unconscious. I thought to pursue them, but I knew my first duty was Elias, who lay on the floor motionless. I grabbed one of the only candles from a sconce and held it to Elias’s face. I could see no visible breaks in the skin, and he was clearly breathing, if in a hoarse and labored manner. I turned him over to see that his eyes were open and he winced in pain. “Phlebotomize me,” he whispered with a sickly grin. “But first, catch those scoundrels.”
I trusted in Elias’s knowledge as a surgeon, and indeed his womanish valor, not to send me away if his life was in any real danger, so I grabbed a cudgel and flew down the stairs, finding no evidence of my attackers.
Outside, a crowd had gathered about the body of the man who had fallen, and I forced my way through to see if he were still alive. He was not. He lay, his face to one side, blood trickling from his mouth as well as from the wound I had inflicted upon him. In the attitude of death his looks were quite changed, but I knew the man. I recognized him. It was he who had attacked me on Cecil Street late at night, and it was he who had fled from me at South Sea House.
I was sorry to have killed him. Not quite true, perhaps. My heart raced and my blood pounded through my veins, and I felt no remorse and no guilt. However, I was sorry that he had not lived long enough to answer some questions before expiring. My task now, I knew, was to find his companions and make them speak or to meet the same fate as their friend.
My plans were thwarted by the arrival of the constables. They were as much a pair of blackguards as ever performed the task of justice in this town. I knew them both from Duncombe’s court, but never took either when I ventured upon an arrest, for they were known villains who delighted only in random violence. One was a fat, squat fellow with a hideous purplish rash all about his face. The other was a less-disgusting creature—a normal-enough-looking man, I suppose, but for his narrow eyes, slitted just enough to reveal his cruelty.
“Does anyone know who shot this man?” the fat one shouted.
“Aye.” A man stepped forward. He wore no costume, but I knew from his voice that he was one of the men who had attacked me. He pointed in my direction. “There’s the man,” he said in the same tone he might use to ask an oyster woman for a tuppence’ worth. “I saw it all, and I’ll swear before the justice. It was cold-blooded murder, it was.”
“See that you do swear it before the judge,” I spat, as the constables approached me. “I’ll enjoy watching you hang.” I was too angry to do much but spit curses. There was nothing to be gained by running from the constables, for my attackers knew my name, and I would be apprehended in the end. I have a witness, I thought, who will clear this matter in but an instant. But it then occurred to me that I knew not where this man’s remaining conspirators were, and that Elias lay defenseless upstairs. I started to move forward, but two constables grabbed me from behind. “You’ll
go nowhere,” the cruel-looking one said.
I struggled against the grip of the two men. I felt certain I could break away if I could but invoke the sum of my strength, but I was tired and dejected, and I feared for my friend, who could, even at that moment, be having his throat slit while he lay helpless. My weakened struggles only angered the men who contained me, and they forced my arms back into the most uncomfortable of positions. I scanned the crowd, as if for help, searching for someone who might speak in my behalf. As I searched, I saw none other than Noah Sarmento, who stood far back in the crowd, watching me coldly with his hollow eyes. Our gazes met for an instant, and in my moment of panic it did not occur to me to wonder what he did there, only that he was an employee of my uncle’s and he would surely help me. Instead he turned away from me, his face betraying a hardened kind of shame.
The man who had attacked me was standing and talking with one of the constables, elaborating upon his slander. “That man is the villain here,” I said, gesturing with my head toward my accuser, “and my witness is injured above and may fall victim to this man’s companion. I pray that if you will not free me, you will bring help to my friend on the upper floor.”
Murders have a curious effect on crowds. No one in the mob, you understand, has any particular desire to help—only the wish to see something truly terrible, something horrendous enough to make all the other men in the alehouse crowd around for the tale. So the revelation that there was yet another victim to be found sent the bulk of the crowd streaming into the building. I hoped their presence would be enough to protect Elias.
“Does anyone know who this man is?” one of the constables asked the remaining stragglers as he gestured toward the dead man.
“No,” said my accuser nervously, as though to speak definitively for the dozen or so people who looked on. “No one knows him.”
“I know him,” a voice spoke up. An older man shuffled forward. He held himself erect only with an old walking cane, chipped and cracked and looking as though it was ready to collapse under the man’s weight. “Aye, he’s the miserable blackguard what’s ruined me niece,” he said. “He’s a thief and pickpocket, he is, and I’m not sorry to see him there with all his life gone from ’im.”
“What’s his name?” the constable asked.
“Don’t nobody know his name,” my accuser interrupted. He glared viciously at the old man. “Pay no heed to what this old one has to say. He ain’t right in his head, he ain’t.”
“You’re the one who’s not right,” the old man spat back. “I can’t say I’ve ever seen you before in me life.”
“What’s his name?” the constable again asked the old man.
“Why that miserable shitten sod is Bertie Fenn, it is.”
And as the constables took me away, and as I fretted anxiously for the safety of Elias, I took no small satisfaction in the knowledge that I had just killed the man who had run down my father.
TWENTY-SEVEN
ONCE AGAIN I found myself facing Justice John Duncombe, and once again it was in the matter of a murder—a fact not lost on the judge. For such a serious crime, Duncombe would sometimes convene his court in the middle of the night. Murderers were tricky villains and were wont to escape, and when murderers escaped, trading justices faced more scrutiny than they liked.
Word of my adventures had already begun to spread through the streets, and the judge’s rooms, while by no means full with its usual number of spectators, held about a dozen onlookers—a sufficient audience for a midnight performance.
The judge studied me with his foggy and bloodshot gaze. His face was covered with the stubble of his thick beard, and his wig sat upon his head askew. The dark bags under his eyes suggested that he had not slept well, and I could not imagine he was pleased to be dragged from his bed at so late an hour to tend to the matter of a murderer he had himself set free so recently.
“I see I treated you with far too much leniency last time you appeared before my bench,” he intoned, as his skin flapped around his toothless mouth. “I shall not make the same mistake twice.”
If Duncombe was anxious to commit me to Newgate promptly that he might return to bed, then what appeared much like a desire to see justice served goaded him to follow correct procedures.
“I am told,” he said to the court, “that there are eyewitnesses who saw this man kill the deceased. Will such witnesses step forward?”
A moment of silence passed before I heard a familiar voice shout, “I am a witness.”
I felt an inexpressible relief when I saw Elias push his way through the spectators and, with steps unsteady and halting, make his way toward the bench. The stiffness of his movements bespoke his pain, and he looked haggard, not to mention absurd, for he still wore the robes of a Jew beggar, but with the mask removed he exposed his shaved and unwigged head before the world. His face had been spared any injury, but I winced to see him clutch at his side in pain.
“The dead man was one of a group of four men who attacked me without provocation,” Elias began in a tremulous voice. “This man, Benjamin Weaver, came to my rescue, and in the course of his efforts to save my life, one of my attackers fired a pistol. In order to defend himself, Mr. Weaver did the same, and the man you found paid the price of his villainy.”
A murmur spread throughout the court. I heard my name repeated, as well as details of Elias’s account. I sensed already that public opinion was with me, but I knew that the crowd’s desire to see me freed would have no effect on a man like Duncombe.
“The constable tells me he took of you a pistol that had been fired,” the judge said, “so that much has been confirmed. Yet at the scene of the crime there was another man who said the killing was intentional murder, is that not true?”
“It is, your honor,” the constable said.
“That man was one of my attackers,” Elias said. “He was lying.”
“And why did these men attack you, sir?” Duncombe asked.
Elias was silent for a moment. He found himself faced with a powerful dilemma—did he tell all he knew and expose our inquiry before the court, perhaps before our enemies, or did he remain as taciturn as possible, hoping a mere trickle of truths would spare me?
“I do not know why these men attacked me,” Elias said at last. “I would hardly be the first man in London to be attacked by strangers. I assume they wanted my money.”
“Were demands made for your money?” The judge pressed on. He stared hard at Elias, his face molded into a practiced mask of penetration.
“There was no time,” Elias explained. “Soon after these men forced me to follow them, Mr. Weaver attempted to assist me.”
“I see. And are you already acquainted with Mr. Weaver?”
Elias paused for an instant. “Yes, he and I are friends. I can only presume that he witnessed these men attack me and intervened with the intent of freeing me.”
“And where did this attack take place?”
“At Mr. Heidegger’s masquerade at the Haymarket.”
“So I gathered from your attire. Are you to tell me that these four men attacked you in the midst of a masquerade ball, sir?”
“They led me away from the ball, upstairs where I would be defenseless.”
“And you followed these men, whom you did not know?”
“They claimed to have important information to tell me,” Elias said hesitantly. It sounded like a question.
“And explain to me again how Mr. Weaver appeared in this exchange?”
“Mr. Weaver, who is my friend, was presumably suspicious and followed me. Once the men set upon me, he stepped in to aid me.”
“Very commendable,” the judge said. “And rather convenient, I should think. Are there any other witnesses to this affair?” he asked. He received no answer but the murmurs of the crowd.
“And what do you have to add, Mr. Weaver?”
It would have been pointless to mention that the man I had shot had killed my father—hardly the sort of information that
would exonerate me. I believed that Elias’s story might prove as effective as any. However, I did not have much hope that Duncombe would grant me freedom. I had killed a man under mysterious circumstances. A trial would be inevitable unless I could say something to make the judge more sympathetic. I could not even hope my uncle would be able to bribe him if I had been bound over for trial. Once a prisoner was committed to Newgate, the matter was quite out of Duncombe’s hands. I would have to bribe him before his ruling in order to sway his opinion, and Duncombe, it was well known, did not accept credit.
“I only acted to assist Mr. Gordon,” I explained. “When I saw that his safety, perhaps his very life, was endangered, I behaved as I think any friend, indeed, any man, would have done. While I regret the loss of life, I think you will agree that London is a dangerous city, and it should be very hard if a man were prohibited from protecting himself and his friends from the criminals that roam the streets and even, as in this case, force themselves into fashionable gatherings.”
My testimony had won over the crowd, if not Duncombe. The spectators burst out in applause and a smattering of “huzzahs,” which the judge silenced by slamming his gavel against his desk. “Thank you for that impassioned speech, which I assure you has affected me not at all. It is not my place to judge of your innocence or guilt—merely of whether or not the facts before me deserve further examination. Considering the corroborating evidence of your associate, there can be no ambiguity in the question of whether or not you were under attack. And while I do not encourage the use of deadly force, it should be very strange if I were to begin placing men on trial for protecting their own safety or the safety of other innocents. I shall therefore release you, sir, with the understanding that if further evidence comes to light, you may be brought back for questioning.”