A Conspiracy of Paper bw-1

by David Liss

  Sir Owen sipped his port. “Should that be so very difficult?”

  “Rochester is clever, and he has both friends and enemies who cover his tracks for him. It is one thing to use a false name as a matter of convenience, but with Rochester it seems something else entirely. He has created a false self,” I said, reasoning this matter out as I spoke, “a representation of a jobber, much like paper money is a representation of silver.”

  “Sounds a rather tricky business,” he said cheerfully. “I cannot tell you how relieved I am to have this unpleasantness with the whore behind me, Weaver, and I wish I could show you my appreciation. Perhaps if you told me more of what you know about this Rochester, it might help. One meets and hears of so many men, it is hard to keep them all clear in one’s mind.”

  I wasn’t sure how much I wanted to tell Sir Owen. “I cannot imagine what kind of contact you could have had with him,” I said at last. “He is a corrupt jobber who has probably had some dealings with the South Sea Company.”

  Sir Owen appeared to make a connection. He screwed up his face and rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. “And all of this has some relationship to that matter with Balfour and your father?”

  “Yes.”

  He leaned forward. “May I ask how this Rochester fits in?”

  “I know not,” I said cautiously. “I can only say that his name is frequently mentioned in connection with these deaths, and until I meet him and speak to him, I shall know no more.”

  “As he appears to be such a villain, I can only wish you luck. Although perhaps it is he who needs the luck, for I have come to have nothing but respect, sir, for your skills in these matters.”

  “You are too kind,” I said with a formal bow.

  Sir Owen then snapped his fingers and looked at me excitedly. “Gad, I just recalled something. As you know, your inquiry into these deaths is being talked about all over town. Needless to say, I was interested whenever I heard the business discussed, for our fates have been of late so nearly connected. And now that I think on it, it was in one of these conversations that I heard Rochester’s name mentioned. I cannot quite think of the context, for I am not now even certain that I had heard the name before. But some fellow I did not know was speaking of him, and the deuce if I can remember what it is he said, but he mentioned him in connection with another. It was a Jew named—oh, what was it now—Sardino? Salmono, perhaps? Something rather fishy, I believe.”

  “Sarmento?” I said quietly.

  He snapped his fingers. “The very name! I wish I could say more, but by Gad it is all I can recall. I hope that is of some assistance.”

  “So do I,” I said, and politely made my exit.

  · · ·

  IT WAS NOT A task to which I looked forward, but I knew it had to be done. So I made a trip to Sarmento’s lodgings off Thames Street, almost in the shadow of St. Paul’s. He took rooms in a pleasant enough, if plain, house an inconvenient distance from my uncle’s warehouse.

  When his landlady showed me into the sitting room, I saw that there was someone already waiting—I presumed for another lodger, for it was a cleric of the Church of England. He was a youngish fellow, apparently not long out of school, for he had the enthusiastic air of a man who had recently taken orders. I had not been without some contact with churchmen in my day, though I had normally found them to be either bland, empty men or more of the wild sort who considered religion not at all except when their duties absolutely demanded it. In either case, I had often thought that the Church of England produced a system that encouraged its clerics to think of their positions much as clerks in stores thought of theirs—as a way to make money and little else.

  “Good morning, sir,” he said with a wide, happy smile.

  I bade him good morning and took a seat. He reached into his pocket and produced a watch, quickly noting the time. “I have been awaiting Mr. Sarmento for some time now,” he said. “I know not when he will step down.”

  “You await Mr. Sarmento?” I asked with clear astonishment.

  I realized that it was a rude way to speak, but it was intentional—not because I have any particular dislike of priests, but because I wished to goad the man into saying more than he might have otherwise. The cleric, however, took my rudeness in his stride. “He is a dear acquaintance of mine and a good student.” He smiled. “I have been encouraging him to write his memoirs. I find conversion stories most inspirational.”

  I felt myself reeling with astonishment. “I am quite certain I do not understand you. Do you mean to say Mr. Sarmento is a convert?”

  The priest reddened. “Oh, my goodness. I hope I have not spoken out of turn. I did not know that his acquaintances were unaware he had been a Jew. Please do not hold this against him.” He leaned forward and lowered his voice, as though sharing a secret. “I can assure you his conversion is entirely sincere, and it is my experience that converts are always the most devout Christians, for they must think about their religion in ways that the rest of us need not.”

  I must admit I was stunned, perhaps even horrified. It was one thing to be a Jew lax in observance, such as myself, but even a man as negligent as Adelman was not bold enough to consider conversion seriously. My Christian readers will perhaps not understand that among your denominations—the Anglican and the Papist and the Presbyterian and the Dissenters—are all Britons alike, but to be a Jew is to be a member of a nation as well as a religion. To convert is to deny one’s self in a way I found utterly shocking. It was to say not I shall be this no longer, but rather I have never been this. At that moment I believed Sarmento capable of anything. “When did this conversion take place?” I asked, forcing a polite smile upon my lips.

  “Not more than six months ago, I am sure,” he explained happily. “But Mr. Sarmento had been coming to me for instruction long before that. Like many of his tribe, he was hesitant to cast aside his old superstitions. These things often take a great deal of time.”

  I did not know what this meant, and I had little time to think on it, for Sarmento entered the room. He stood in the door and stared at the two of us, saying nothing, attempting to assess what damage had been done. Finally he turned to me. “Weaver, what do you do here?”

  “I have come to speak to you on a matter of business, sir.” I could not help taking pleasure in his confusion. “But if you wish to speak first with your confessor . . .”

  Sarmento’s mouth opened, and then closed. He knew the advantage was mine, and he hated me for it. Perhaps he hated the cleric as well. “Mr. Norbert,” he said at last, “I do not wish to be rude, but I must speak to Mr. Weaver in private.”

  The priest appeared immune to insult, though he may have felt some discomfort at having spoken of what he now knew should have been kept a secret. He smiled and stood, collecting his hat. “I shall return at a time more convenient, sir.” He offered us both a bow and was gone.

  I had not stirred from my chair. Sarmento remained standing. I enjoyed the feeling of power his distress gave me. “I did not know you to be a member of the Church of England,” I said in a relaxed and easy voice. “What thinks my uncle of this?”

  Sarmento clenched and unclenched his fists. “You have me at a disadvantage, Weaver. You are correct to assume your uncle does not know. I do not think he would understand, but I have found a home in the Church, and I need not feel judged by you, who adher to no religion at all.”

  “I remember quite clearly,” I mused, “that you accused me of speaking too much like an Englishman. ‘We do not speak thus,’ you said to me. A mere deception to confuse me?”

  “Just so,” he said blandly.

  “I am interested to have settled that you are comfortable deceiving others. Please understand that I did not come here to discuss religion with you, sir. I care not for what you believe nor whom you worship, though I do care of your playing games with my uncle’s confidence.” He attempted to interrupt me, no doubt to say something insulting, but I would not have it. “I came to learn why you were in
that crowd the other night, sir, outside the masquerade ball.”

  “For what reason,” he snapped, “should I answer any of your impertinent questions?”

  “Because,” I said as I stood to face him, “I wish to know whether or not you have played some role in the murder of my father.”

  His face turned ashen. He took a step back as though I had slapped him. He looked much like a puppet at a Smithfield droll—his mouth opened and closed without making a sound and his eyes grew absurdly large. Finally he began to sputter, “Surely you don’t think . . . you cannot mean that . . .” Then something in him clicked like the gears of a machine. “What reason could I possibly have to kill Samuel Lienzo?”

  “Then what were you doing in the crowd outside the Haymarket?” I demanded.

  “If you suspect everyone in that crowd,” he stammered, “then you will have much work to do speaking to all of them. And what has that crowd to do with your father’s death?”

  “It’s not the crowd that concerns me,” I said harshly. “I suspect you.”

  “I think much of this Kingdom would be shocked to learn that it is a Jewish belief that any man who would become a Christian would commit a murder.”

  “Do not play the Jew-hater with me, sir.” I felt myself redden. “I know that rhetoric far too well to be intimidated by it, particularly when it comes from the mouth of one such as you. What were you doing there, Sarmento?”

  “What do you think I was doing there? I was looking for Miriam. I knew she was placing herself at risk with that rake, and I was merely there to make sure he tried nothing that would dishonor her. It was happenstance that I became separated from her and came upon the crowd surrounding the man you felt inclined to kill. I saw you had been seized by the constables, but it would have done no good for me to step forward. I could hardly have vouched for your character, when I think so little of it.”

  “Are you certain that is the only reason you were at the Haymarket that night?”

  “Of course I am certain. Don’t be irritating.”

  “Your presence there had nothing to do with my inquiry?”

  “Damn your inquiry, Weaver. I care not whether it is your inquiry into the South Sea or into Miriam’s money. Why can you not mind your own affairs?”

  I then understood his agitation. “Miriam told you that she believed me to be inquiring into her finances.”

  “Quite so,” he said proudly, as though he did not understand the words, “it was I who told her that your business with your uncle was to discover what had happened to her money.”

  “Why did you tell her that?”

  “Because I believed it to be true. The stories about you and the South Sea Company and such had not yet begun to circulate about the ’Change. I could imagine no other reason for your uncle to welcome you back.”

  “Why do you follow Miriam, Sarmento? Is it not clear that she cares nothing for you? Do you really believe that you can win her?”

  “It is none of your concern, I promise you, for she will never consent to a marriage with a ruffian like you. And to win her, I only need her to give me one more chance.”

  “One more chance at what?”

  Sarmento opened his mouth to speak, but stopped himself. A heavy blush began to spread across his face like a ruddy shadow.

  “One more chance at what?” I repeated.

  “To get her money back.” He nearly shouted. “She’d been asking me to manage her investments, and I did well at first. But I made some foolish moves.”

  “How much did you lose?”

  He shook his head. “More than a hundred pounds.” He let out a long, almost comic sigh. “After that she had me relinquish all control over her funds. One foolish move, one stupid mistake, and ’Change Alley unmanned me in a single day. She entrusted her money to Deloney. I tried to warn her that he was a profligate rogue, but she would not listen.”

  “She listened to me,” I told him. “I’ve exposed Deloney.”

  Sarmento gasped. “Then where is her money now? Perhaps I can reclaim it.”

  “Her money isn’t the same thing as her heart. You seem to forget that.”

  Sarmento laughed. “You may believe what you wish.”

  I waved my hand in dismissal. I had not come here to learn of Sarmento’s feelings for Miriam. “I have more important business with you—and that is your connection to Martin Rochester.”

  “Rochester?” he asked. “What have I to do with him?”

  “What do you know of him?” I demanded, raising my voice and taking a step forward.

  Sarmento was clearly shaken. “I know nothing of him, Weaver. He’s a jobber. I’ve heard his name, and that is all. He and I have had no dealings.”

  I did not misbelieve him. Sarmento was an unpleasant man, but he was a transparent one. I did not believe he could lie to me on this matter and convince me. I took a few steps back to indicate that I would not harm him.

  “I came here because a man I know told me he had overheard you speaking of me in connection with Rochester,” I told him.

  A strange look of pleasure spread upon Sarmento’s face, as though he had been waiting all along to tell me what he now had to say. “I believe I might have mentioned your name. There was some betting to be done—whether you would survive your inquiry. A gentleman offered to bet that you would be dead before the end of December. I put down fifty pounds that you would yet live.”

  This news truly astonished me. “I am gratified by your confidence,” I told him blankly.

  “Don’t be. I was merely handling the odds as I have been taught to in ’Change Alley. You see, it is a perfect bet, Weaver. Either way, I win something.”

  “Tell me,” I said as I opened his door, “for I really wish to understand. I have lived among the Christians for ten years now, but I have never felt compelled to become one of them. What is it that has driven you to do so?”

  “You have lived among them,” he said as he turned to leave the drawing room. “I should like to do the same.”

  THIRTY-ONE

  I SPENT THE REST of the day and most of the next attempting to determine my next move. I found that I could theorize no more. Thus, on Monday night, I changed into some worn and tattered clothes, for I had no wish that evening to look the gentleman. I had the misfortune to pass my aunt as I left the house, and she looked at me so disparagingly that I could only smile and tell her I would explain later. My destination was the Laughing Negro in Wapping, where I had not set foot since retrieving Sir Owen’s letters from Quilt Arnold.

  After Adelman had attempted to convince me that I had been deceived about the South Sea Company, I felt that I could no longer know anything for certain, and I began to worry that I had been relying too much on my own abilities to make sense of information of which no sense could be made. I therefore took a detour on my way to pay a visit to Elias on the chance that he might be at home. Though it was early, especially for a man of Elias’s tastes, he was not only in, but undressed and ready for bed. The rigors of preparing his play for the stage had nearly exhausted him, but he assured me he was eager to learn more about my progress. In his nightdress and cap, he invited me into his rooms, where we shared a bottle of claret.

  “I have read your comedy,” I told him, “and found it utterly delightful.”

  His face fairly glowed with pride. “Thank you, Weaver. I trust your opinion considerably.”

  “I have no doubt that it shall be a success,” I said.

  He smiled with pleasure, refilled my glass, and asked which parts I liked in particular. We spent some time discussing The Unsuspecting Lover, and then Elias asked me again of my inquiry. I explained to him all that had happened of late, including my business with Miriam, the encounter at South Sea House, the death of Kate Cole, and even my confrontation with Sarmento.

  Elias listened closely to each detail. “I am astonished,” he said, once I had finished my narrative. “This story exposes the deceptive villainy of the new finance. Each step y
ou take makes you disbelieve that you had ever taken the previous one.”

  “There are very few things I know for certain now. The South Sea Company may indeed be my enemy, or Bloathwait may have been manipulating me all along. Wild may be planning to murder me, or he may simply be looking to profit from my inquiry. Rochester may be his partner or his enemy. And with Kate dead, I can think of no sure way to get closer to Rochester.”

  “And what do you do now?” Elias studied my face with a particular attention. From the way he stared I thought he wished to gauge something medical about me.

  “I shall return to the Laughing Negro,” I said. “I shall seek out Wild’s man to see what I may learn of him.”

  “Why do you seek out Wild’s man? Are we not convinced that Rochester is our villain?”

  “I do not believe that Wild is a prime mover in this villainy, but he has shown more than a common interest in my business, and I should be astonished if he does not withhold from me some useful information—not because he is involved with these murders, but because it is some advantage to him that I should continue my inquiry.”

  Elias rubbed his nose quizzically. “How can you be certain that Wild has had no share in the murders? Indeed, since we know his name to be a false one, must we not consider that Rochester might be Wild? After all, who would be better equipped to engage in so dangerous an affair as the purveyance of false South Sea stock?”

  I nodded. “I had thought on that, certainly, but I do not believe what you suggest is at all probable. Wild encouraged my inquiry. He set me upon the South Sea Company. Even if we assume that he gave me erroneous or incomplete information, we cannot dismiss the simple fact that he did not try to stop me. We speak of Jonathan Wild, do not forget. It would have been no difficult thing for him to have me arrested, or even killed.”

  “No,” Elias observed, “he merely had you beaten upon the street.”

  Elias’s observation was one to which I had given a great deal of thought. “Why would Wild have me beaten in public and then try to charm me in private?” I asked, half to myself, half to my friend. “He told me that his men defied his orders, but his men know full well the consequence of disobliging their master.”