by David Liss
“Wild denied any knowledge of Bloathwait—now you tell me this story. Am I to believe that you defy Wild? More likely, this conversation between Jews is all part of his plan.”
Mendes only smiled. “So many puzzles. If only you had attended more to your studies as a boy, you might now have the intelligence to make some order out of chaos. Good day, sir.” He tipped his hat and walked off.
I stood for a moment, contemplating what he had told me. My father had sought out some contact with Bloathwait—the very man I had spied meeting secretly with Sarmento. Now my uncle meets with Sarmento and Mendes together. What could it mean?
I would wait no longer to learn. I reentered the house and walked boldly into my uncle’s study. He sat at his desk, reviewing some papers, and smiled broadly as I walked in.
“Good day, Benjamin,” he said cheerfully. “What news?”
“I thought you might tell me,” I began in a voice I hardly tried to modulate. “We might begin with your business with Mr. Mendes.”
“Mendes,” he repeated. “I have told you of my business with him. He merely wished to pay me for some cambrics which he had sold for me.” His keen eyes determinedly measured my expression.
“I know not why you would conduct business with such a man,” I said.
“Perhaps not,” he replied, his voice showing just a hint of hardness. “But it is not your place to understand my affairs, is it?”
“I believe it is,” I retorted. “I am engaged in an inquiry which involves the mysterious dealings of your brother. It has led me to form suspicions of Mendes’s master. I believe that I am within my rights when I express my concern.”
My uncle arose from his chair to meet my gaze upon my level. “I do not disagree,” he said carefully. “But I should prefer you do so in a less accusatory tone. What is it you wish to say to me, Benjamin? That I am involved in some sort of scheme with Jonathan Wild into tricking you into doing—I cannot even imagine what? I urge you to recall who I am.”
I sat down, controlling my passions and having no desire to inflame my uncle’s. Perhaps he was right. He had a long-standing business with Mendes. I could hardly ask him to suspend it because I liked neither him nor his master. “I believe I spoke hastily,” I said at last. “I never meant to suggest anything about your conduct, Uncle. It is merely that I know not whom to trust, and I mistrust almost everyone—particularly those associated with Jonathan Wild. It troubles me greatly to see you with Mendes. You may believe you simply engage in some old business, but I should be surprised to believe that he does not have more on his mind.”
My uncle relented as well. He sat down and allowed himself to soften. “I know you wish only to uncover the truth behind these deaths,” he said. “I delight in your dedication, but we must not forget that while we try to do justice for the dead, we must remain among the living. I cannot discontinue my affairs because of this inquiry.”
“I would not suggest you do.” I sighed. “But Wild, Uncle. I do not believe you fully understand how dangerous he is.”
“I am certain in matters of theft and suchlike he is dangerous indeed,” my uncle said complacently. “But this is a matter of textiles. Your mind is set upon a conspiratorial path, Benjamin. Now everything appears suspicious to you.”
I thought on this for a moment. Elias had observed that the danger of inquiring into conspiracy is that all manner of misdeeds seem equally implicit. It was surely conceivable that I made too much of my uncle’s business with Mendes.
“I have never had any dealings with Wild,” he continued. “And I have always known Mr. Mendes to behave honorably. I understand your concern, but I could hardly refuse to allow him to pay me what he owes me because you mislike the man. But if you prefer, I shall engage him for no more business until this matter is resolved.”
“I would be most appreciative.”
“Very well, then,” he said cheerfully. “I am glad we resolved this business. I know you did not intend to be overly harsh, but you have worked far too hard upon this matter. I know you do not wish to abandon your inquiry, but you might set it aside for a few days and allow your thoughts to clear.”
I nodded. Maybe he was right, I thought. A few days’ rest might do me some good, but whether they did or no, I thought, I should have little choice, for I could not think of how to proceed until I found out what my advertisement might yield.
Believing the tension had passed, my uncle arose and poured us both a glass of port, which I sipped with some pleasure. I had finished nearly half of it before I realized that I had said nothing about my business at the Daily Advertiser and that I had no intention of doing so. It was not that I misbelieved my uncle when he described his dealings with Mendes, but I was not sure I precisely believed him either. He could be the victim of deception as much as any man, and his insistence upon conducting his affairs as he saw fit could blind him to certain truths.
I spoke cheerfully with my uncle, and I enjoyed his conversation, but I declined to inform him of many things: of my suspicions of Sarmento, of Miriam’s wayward and inexplicable behavior, of the attempt upon my life, of the advertisement I had placed, and now of Mendes’s revelation of my father’s communication with Bloathwait. I did not wish to believe that my uncle’s behavior stemmed from anything more than a lifetime of having his own way indulged, but for the nonce my silence felt disturbingly wise.
I LIVED UPON THE rack until the next Thursday, when I should see who appeared to respond to the advertisement I had placed. I could ill think of how to occupy my time in this inquiry, and I had no desire to accept new business. Instead I spent my time brooding incessantly over what I already knew and watching the swelling about my face subside. I took notes and made lists and drew diagrams—all of which helped me to understand better the complexity of my search, and none of which, I feared, brought me any closer to a solution.
I chastised myself viciously for not having fully read, fully understood, my father’s pamphlet while I had the chance. I convinced myself all the answers had been therein contained, but even if that were not so, it did contain the words of my father, speaking, if only indirectly, upon the matter of his own death. Now it was lost to me.
At Elias’s invitation I passed one of my free mornings at the theatre at Drury Lane, where I found myself almost entirely distracted. While I watched one scene of Elias’s comedy rehearsed perhaps fifteen times until I felt I could have played each part myself, I found it witty and cleverly acted. Elias strutted about the stage as though he were the theatre manager himself, suggesting to the players different poses and different deliveries. When I was leaving, he gave me a copy of the play, which I later read and found strangely delightful.
I spent that afternoon with my Aunt Sophia, attending her on her social calls and meeting other prominent Iberian Jewesses of Dukes Place. Some of these women were quite young and quite unmarried, and as I spent these stressful hours attempting to make myself understood in Portuguese, I could not but wonder if my aunt was trying to settle me in marriage.
In an effort not to let my investigation run cold in this period of waiting, I visited Perceval Bloathwait’s town house on several occasions, but each time his servant denied me. I left several messages for the Bank of England director, but I received no replies. I greatly wished to know more of this message that Mendes had told me my father had sent to his old adversary, but Bloathwait, it would seem, had decided to have no more to do with me.
I ruminated on how to remedy that situation while I kept myself busy in more mundane tasks: news of my move to Dukes Place had circulated, and a few men made their way to my new home to ask for my help. So I distracted myself by finding a few debtors while I awaited what I hoped, and hoped correctly, would be a fruitful return of our advertisement.
My relations with Miriam had continued to be cool, especially after her inexplicable accusation at the masquerade. I attempted on several occasions to speak with her, but she always assiduously avoided me. One day, after a silent br
eakfast with her and my aunt, I followed her from the table and into the parlor.
“Miriam,” I began, “tell me why you are angry with me. I do not understand how I have betrayed you.” The only explanation I had summoned was that she was angry that I had discovered her relationship with Deloney, but as I had not circulated the information or used it to harm her, that knowledge could hardly stand as a betrayal.
“I have nothing to say to you,” she announced, and began to depart.
I grabbed her by the wrist—as gently as I could. “You must speak to me. I have searched my memories for something I did that may have hurt you, but I can think of nothing.”
“Do not attempt to deceive me.” She tore her arm from me, but did not move away. “I know why you are here in this house, and I know the nature of your inquiry. Are a few guineas from your uncle—or is it perhaps Mr. Adelman?—worth having established a false intimacy with me? I thought you had returned to your family for some greater purpose than to expose it.”
She ran out of the room; I might perhaps have followed her if I had been able to formulate some idea of what to say. I could think of no reasons or explanations, and I wondered if I should ever understand. I could not have known then that my next conversation with Miriam would clarify far more than the reasons for her anger with me.
AT LAST THURSDAY was upon me. The weather had turned significantly cooler, and in the crisp morning air that smelled of impending snow, I made my way to Kent’s Coffeehouse. I arrived an hour earlier than the advertisement indicated that I might establish myself before anyone came to call. I let the servants know who I was, and I sat down with the papers to busy myself until I should be called for, but I found myself too distracted to read with any absorption. I must say that the events at the masquerade had left me apprehensive, for I saw that there was nothing these villains would not do to protect themselves, and there was certainly something reckless about my publishing my defiance of them in the Daily Advertiser. Yet I knew that Elias was right, for if I followed up only on the evidence that they had left behind, they would know my thoughts even before I did. Here, at least, was something they had not anticipated.
Every few minutes I looked up to see if someone sought me out, and on one of those occasions I noticed a grim gentleman at another table. He held a paper before him, but it was obvious that he did not read it. Although this man dressed neatly, there was something about the way he wore his wig, the way his coat hung upon his shoulders, and, most strikingly, the fact that he wore thick leather gloves inside the coffeehouse, that made him conspicuous and strange. I felt certain that if I were to remove his wig and look square into his face, I would see someone I had encountered before.
Feeling bold, and perhaps overly animated by a bit too much of Mr. Kent’s coffee, I approached the table and sat down, and as I did so, I knew the man at once. I recognized the hard, cruel, stupid look, as well as the left eye that sat useless in a sea of yellowish rot. For his part, he knew not how to respond to my direct assault and pretended to continue with his reading.
“How is your hand, Mr. Arnold?” I asked. He no longer appeared the same ruffian from whom I had so violently retrieved Sir Owen’s amorous letters. He had cleaned himself up considerably, but the mark of villainy still stained him thoroughly. I was certain he felt no small amount of fear of me, and his fear was not misplaced. We both knew that the violence I had once visited upon him I would not hesitate to repeat.
I sought in my mind to recall if it had been the right or the left hand I had stabbed, for that was the hand I wished to grab. Arnold, however, took advantage of my moment of contemplation, leapt to his feet, tossed a chair at me to slow me down, and ran out the front door. I followed, only a few seconds behind him, but those few seconds were sufficient for him to take the advantage. When I emerged onto the street he was nowhere in sight. With little to lose, I picked a direction and ran, hoping that fortune would favor my search, but such was not the case, and after a quarter of an hour of fruitless searching I abandoned the cause and returned to the coffeehouse.
It was well that I had engaged in that frustrating encounter with Mr. Arnold, for when I returned, winded and looking all askew, I saw the coffee girl in conversation with a young lady, and I overheard her conversation just enough to learn that she was describing my appearance. Had this young lady entered the coffeehouse and seen me in waiting, she would certainly have departed before I knew she had been there, but now I stood, breathing deeply, absently dusting off my coat, while our eyes made contact.
Miriam had come in response to my advertisement.
TWENTY-EIGHT
IN A STRANGE mirroring of my motions, Miriam began to wipe her hands upon the hoops of her gown. She looked at me. She looked at the door. She could hardly hope to escape, but the thought, as absurd thoughts do in moments of confusion, surely crossed her mind.
I asked the girl for a private room and a bottle of wine, and we retired into a small and neat closet that offered little more than a few oldish chairs scattered around a table. It was a room of business, and I appreciated that. From the wall, crudely rendered portraits of Queen Anne and Charles II stared at us; there was no mistaking Mr. Kent’s Tory politics.
Miriam sat stiffly in her chair. I poured a glass of wine and set it in front of her. She wrapped her delicate hands around the glass but neither lifted it nor tasted the wine. “I did not expect to see you here, Cousin,” she said quietly, not meeting my eye.
I proved myself less shy than Miriam about the drinking of wine. After taking a long sip, I sat down and tried to decide if it was more comfortable to look at her or away from her. “What is your connection to Rochester?” I said at last. I had hoped to moderate my tone, to sound relaxed, concerned, simply curious. It came out as an accusation.
She let go of her glass and met my gaze. She had the frightened and outraged look of a parish beggar. “What business have you speaking to me thus? I have responded to your notice in the paper. I do not believe that to be a crime.”
“But I assure you murder is a crime, and a very serious one, and it is in connection to murder that I seek Mr. Rochester.”
She gasped. She moved to stand up, but then sat again. Her eyes darted about the room in search of something that would comfort her, but she could find nothing. “Murder?” she breathed at last. “What can you mean?”
“I shall withhold nothing from you, Miriam, but you must tell me what you know of Rochester.”
She shook her head slowly, and I watched her spotted green bonnet sway with her movements. “I know so little of him. I bought—that is to say, I had some funds bought through him. That’s all.” She now drank of her wine, and drank vigorously, too.
“South Sea funds,” I said.
She nodded.
“How did you buy these funds? It is very important you tell me everything. Did you meet him, correspond with him, talk with a servant of his? I must know.”
“There’s so little,” she said. Her fingernails gently scratched on the roughhewn surface of the table. “I—I had no contact with him myself. I had someone who dealt with him for me.”
“Philip Deloney.”
“Yes, it’s been clear to me for some time that you know we . . .” Her voice trailed off.
“That you are lovers, yes. And that he is some kind of petty gamester and jobber.”
“He has bought and sold at Jonathan’s for me,” she explained quietly. “I have so little money, and I needed to try to secure more that I might afford to establish a household of my own.”
I could not but laugh. Elias should have been delighted to hear about this odd commingling of hearts and money, of romance being bought and sold upon the ’Change. Miriam looked at me in puzzlement, and I shook off my mirth, for it was a kind of panicked laughter.
“What is the nature of Deloney’s relationship with Rochester?”
“I know that it is a distant one. Philip has been searching for him and unable to find him.”
“And why has he been searching? Indeed, why are you looking here today?”
“Philip arranged to have Rochester buy South Sea stock in my name. In his name as well.”
“But why? You have a connection, albeit a strange one, with Adelman. Surely you did not need a third party to secure you stock.”
“Mr. Deloney told me that Rochester could get stock at a discount—fifteen, even twenty points below market. I know from Mr. Adelman that the stock is soon to rise, so with the discount, I thought I could secure enough money to move from your uncle’s house. But Philip grew tired of waiting, and needed to convert his stock to ready cash. The agreement was that we were not to attempt to convert the stock for a year from the time of purchase—something having to do with the way in which we received the discount—but Philip wanted silver. He tried seeking out Rochester to find out how he might go about the conversion, and I know not the nature of the correspondence, but I do know that it agitated him severely. He would hardly speak to me of it, only to say that the stock was now but dross. So when I saw the advertisement in the paper, I thought I might learn more.”
“Do you own—that is to say—possess your South Sea stock?”
Miriam nodded. “Certainly.”
I pressed my hands together. “I have hardly heard such good news.”
“Good news? Why should my stock prove good news for you?”
“Take me to the stock, and I’ll show you.”
We left the coffeehouse in a hurry, after telling the girl there to collect the names of anyone else who came in search of me. We returned to the house at Broad Court, and Miriam invited me into her dressing room, where she removed a gold filigree box containing a large pile of thick parchment paper. I first looked at the thinner documents—projecting shares, mainly for the construction of two new bridges across the Thames. I had seen Elias deceived with his projects often enough to recognize mere stuff when I saw it.