by David Liss
Bailor gave the matter a moment’s consideration and then matched my wager. I placed my right hand on the table with the index finger out—the signal that I would now win, for it was time to present this man with his unhappy deserts.
I received my first card, the six of clubs. A fine start, I thought, and added another two hundred pounds to the pile. I feared for a moment that Bailor would grow either suspicious or afraid of my bold maneuver, but he had offered the challenge himself and could not back down without appearing a poltroon. Indeed, he met my two hundred and raised me another hundred. I matched the bet quite happily.
The dealer presented our next cards, and I received the six of spades. I attempted to hide my pleasure. In cacho, the highest hand possible is that of three sixes. My employer’s man meant to assure my victory. I therefore put in another two hundred pounds. Bailor met the wager but did not raise it. I could not be surprised that he grew uneasy. We had now both committed to eight hundred pounds, and its loss would surely hurt him a great deal. He was a man of some means, I had been told, but not infinite ones, and none but the wealthiest of lords and merchants can relinquish such sums without some distress.
“You’re not raising this time, laddie?” I asked. “Are ye beginning to quake?”
“Shut your Scots mouth,” he said.
I grinned, for I knew he had nothing, and my Scots persona would know it too.
And then I received my third card. The two of diamonds.
I strained against the urge to tell the dealer he had made a mistake. He had meant to give me a third six, surely. With so much of my patron’s money on the table, I felt a tremor of fear at the prospect of losing. I quickly calmed myself, however, recognizing that I had been merely anticipating something far more theatrical than what the dealer had planned. A victory of three sixes might look too much like the deception that we, indeed, perpetrated. My collaborator would merely give Bailor a less distinguished hand, and our contest would be determined by a high card. The loss for my opponent would be no less bitter for its being accomplished by unremarkable means.
All about us the crowd had grown thick with spectators, and the air was warm with the heat of their bodies and breath. It was all as my patron would have wished. I glanced at the dealer, who gave me the most abbreviated of nods. He had seen my doubt and answered it. “Another hundred,” I said, not wishing to wager more as my store of Cobb’s money grew thin. I wished to have something left should Bailor raise the bet. He did so by another fifty pounds, leaving me with fewer than a hundred pounds of Mr. Cobb’s money on my person.
Bailor grinned at me. “Now we shall see, Sawny, who is the better man.”
I returned the grin and set forth my cards. “Not so bonny as I would like, but I’ve won with less.”
“Perhaps,” he said, “but this time you would have lost with more.” He laid down his own cards: a cacho—and not only a cacho, but one with a six, five, and four. This was the second highest hand in the game, one I could have bested only with three sixes. I had lost, and lost soundly.
I felt a dizziness pass over me. Something had gone wrong, horribly wrong. I had done everything Mr. Cobb had said. The dealer had shown every sign of being Cobb’s man. I had delivered the signals as planned. Yet I must now return to the man who hired me and report that I’d lost more than eleven hundred pounds of his money.
I glanced over at the dealer, but he would not meet my eye. Bailor, however, leered at me so lasciviously that I thought for a moment that he wished for me, and not his whore, to return with him to his rooms.
I rose from the table.
“Going somewhere, Sawny?” one of Bailor’s friends asked.
“All hail the Laird of Kyleakin,” another called out.
“Another hand!” Bailor himself shouted. “Or shall we call this duel concluded, and you the loser?” He then turned to his friends. “Perhaps I should take my winnings and buy all of Kyleakin and cast out its current master. I suspect I have quite a bit more than I should need upon this very table.”
I said nothing, only wanting to escape from the coffeehouse, which now smelled to me intolerably of spilled wine and sweat and civet perfume. I wanted the shocking cold of the winter night air to wash over my face, that I might think of what to do next, contemplate how things had gone wrong and what I might say to the man who had entrusted me with his wealth.
I must have been walking far more slowly than I realized, for Bailor had come up behind me before I had reached the door. His friends were in tow, and his face was bright, flushed with victory. For a moment I thought he meant to challenge me to a duel of another sort, and in truth I would have welcomed such a thing, for it would have eased my mind some to have the opportunity to redeem myself in a contest of violence.
“What is it?” I asked of him. I would rather let him gloat than appear to run. Though I was in disguise and any behavior I might indulge would not tarnish my reputation, I was still a man and could not stomach flight.
He said nothing for a moment, but only gazed upon me. Then he leaned forward as if to salute my cheek, but instead he whispered some words in my ear. “I believe, Mr. Weaver,” he said, addressing me by my true name, “that you have now felt the long reach of Jerome Cobb.”
CHAPTER TWO
T FIRST LIGHT I ROSE FROM MY BED, NEITHER RESTED NOR REFRESHED, for I had not slept as I turned over in my mind the events of the previous night. I made every effort to understand what had happened, as I anticipated the unpleasant meeting in which I would inform Mr. Cobb that, rather than delivering him his revenge, I had made him a staggering eleven hundred pounds the poorer. More than that, his intended victim had anticipated the ruse, and Bailor had offered yet another humiliation to Mr. Cobb. I had given serious consideration to at least a dozen possibilities to explain how I had come to such a turn, but none made sense save one. To understand why I reached such a conclusion, however, I should retreat a step and inform my readers of how I came to such a pass.
I had been in Mr. Cobb’s employ for less than two days before my unfortunate encounter at Kingsley’s Coffeehouse. I received his summons on a cold but pleasantly bright afternoon, and having nothing to prevent me from answering him, I attended his call at once at his house on Swallow Street, not far from St. James’s Square. A fine house it was too, in one of the newer parts of the metropolis. The streets were wide and clean compared to much of London, and they were said to be, at least for the moment, comparatively free of beggars and thieves, though I was about to observe a change in that happy state.
The day was clear and a welcome winter sun shone upon me, but this was nevertheless London in the cold months, and the streets were slick with ice and packed snow, turned to shades of gray and brown and black. The city was thick and heavy with coal smoke. I could not be outside but five minutes before my lungs felt heavy with the stuff, and not much longer than that before I felt a coat of grime upon my skin. Come the first break of warm weather, I would always venture outside the metropolis for a day or two that I might repair my lungs with clean country air.
As I approached the house I observed a manservant on the street not half a block before me, walking with a large package under one arm. He wore a red and gold and pale green livery and held himself with a haughty bearing that bespoke a particular pride in his station.
I reflected that nothing attracts the resentment of the poor with greater rapidity than a proud servant, and as though the world itself responded to my thoughts, the fellow was now set upon by a crowd of a dozen or more ragged urchins, who appeared to materialize from the cracks between the buildings themselves. These unfortunates, full of grotesque glee, proceeded to dance about and tease him like demons of hell. They had nothing more original to say than ’Tis the popinjay or Look at him—he thinks he’s a lord, he does. Nevertheless, even from my rear vantage point I could see the manservant stiffening with what I thought was fear, though I soon realized my mistake. The urchins continued their harassment not half a minute before t
he servant lashed out like a viper with his free hand and grabbed one of the boys by the collar of his ragged coat.
He was a well-appointed servant, there could be no doubt of it, for his livery was crisp and clean—almost a martial style to it. For all that, he was also an odd-looking fellow, with eyes far apart and a disproportionately small nose set over comically protruding lips, so he resembled nothing so much as a confused duck—or, at this moment, an angry and confused duck.
The boy he grabbed could not have been more than eight years of age, and his clothes were so ragged I believed nothing but soil and crust held them together. His coat was torn, and I could see he wore no shirt beneath it, and his pants exposed his arse in a way that would have been comical upon the stage or revolting in an adult mendicant. In a child, it merely summoned feelings of deep melancholy. The boy’s boots were the most pathetic thing of all, for they only covered the tops of his feet, and once the monstrous servant elevated the child, I could see his filthy, calloused, and bloodied soles.
The other children, equally tattered and filthy, shouted and danced about, calling names and now pelting the man with rocks, which the servant ignored like a great sea monster whose thick skin repelled assaulting harpoons. The boy in his clutches, meanwhile, turned a bright purple in the face and twitched this way and that like a hanged man at Tyburn thrashing the morris dance.
The manservant might have killed him. And why not? Who would prosecute a man for killing a thieving orphan, the sort of pest that hardly merited more concern than a rat? Though, as my reader will learn in the pages to follow, I am, when circumstances dictate, able to adopt the most plastic of morals, the strangulation of children rests firmly in the category of things I will not tolerate.
“Set the boy down,” I called. Neither the urchins nor the footman had seen me, and now all turned to look as I approached the scene. I held myself erect and walked purposefully, for I had long since learned that an air of authority carries far more weight than any actual rights of office. “Set the child down, man.”
The servant only sneered at me. He could perhaps tell from the simplicity of my clothing, and from observing that I wore my natural hair and no wig, that I was of the middling ranks only and no gentleman to be obeyed without question. Nevertheless, he heard the tone in my voice, and I trusted it contained something of command. Rather than intimidate him, however, it seemed only to make him angry, and for all I could tell he squeezed harder.
I observed that the child had not many seconds of life left in him, and I could not long delay further action. I therefore unsheathed my hanger and held it toward him—pointed precisely at his neck. I meant business, and I would not hold it like a fool making an idle threat.
“I’ll not let the boy suffocate while I determine if you take me seriously or no,” I said. “In five seconds, if you have not freed the boy, I will run you through. You are mistaken if you think I’ve done nothing so rash in the past, and I expect I shall do many more such things in the future.”
The servant’s eyes turned now to slits beneath his protruding forehead. He must have seen the glimmer of truth in my own eyes, for he at once slackened his grip, and the boy fell two feet to the ground, where his comrades came upon him and swept him away. Only a few of them bothered to glance back at me, and one did a sort of officious bow as they all moved backward to the periphery of where we stood—close enough to observe us, far enough that they might escape should the need arise.
The man continued to regard me, now with murderous rage in his eyes. If he could not strangle a boy, perhaps, he thought, he would take his chances with me.
I made it clear I gave no mind to such a thing and sheathed my blade. “Off with you, fellow,” I said. “I’ve no words for a base creature who would delight in cruelty to children.”
He turned to the now-distant boys. “You’ll stay out of the house!” he cried. “I know not how you gain entry, but you’ll stay out or I’ll strangle every last one of you.” He then condescended to turn his waterfowlish face to me. “Your sympathy is wasted upon them. They are thieves and villains, and your thoughtless actions today will only embolden them to further tricks.”
“Yes. Far better to kill a child than embolden him.”
The servant’s wrath melted into a kind of simmering anger that I believed must be his version of neutrality. “Who are you? I’ve not seen you before on this street.”
I chose not to give my name, for I did not know if my prospective employer wished to advertise his association with me. Instead, I gave the name of the man himself. “I have business with Mr. Jerome Cobb.”
Something again shifted in his countenance. “Come with me, then,” he said. “I’m Mr. Cobb’s man.”
The servant made every effort to achieve a more appropriate expression, and so seem to bury his resentment, at least until he could measure my significance to his master. He brought me inside an elegant town house and bade me wait in a sitting room full of chairs and settees of red velvet with gold trim. On the wall hung several portraits with thick golden frames, and between each a lengthy mirror made good use of the light. Silver sconces jutted from the walls, and an intricate and enormous Turkey rug covered the floor. From the house and neighborhood I clearly observed that Mr. Cobb was a man of some means, and the interior showed he was a man of some taste as well.
It is ever the way of rich men to have their lowly servants, such as myself, cool their heels for unreasonable lengths of time. I have never understood why it is that the men who unambiguously hold all of the power in the kingdom have to prove their power continually—I know not if they wish to prove it to me or themselves. Cobb was not like these men—not like them in many ways, I was to discover. He made me wait less than a quarter of an hour before he came into the sitting room, followed close behind by his glowering servant.
“Ah, Benjamin Weaver. A pleasure, sir, a pleasure.” He bowed at me and gestured that I should return to the seat from which I had sprung. I bowed at him and sat.
“Edward,” he said to his man, “get Mr. Weaver a glass of some of that delightful claret.” Then he turned to me. “You do take claret, don’t you?”
“Only if it is delightful,” I answered.
He smiled at me. Mr. Cobb was indeed a smiling sort of man. He was in his later forties, stout in the way of such men and, I thought, handsome, with a lined face and bright blue eyes full of sparkle. He appeared jolly enough, but I had long since learned to be suspicious of jolly men. Sometimes they were what they appeared, and sometimes they were men who used the affect of good humor as a disguise to mask hidden cruelties.
Once Edward had placed the claret in my hands—it was, indeed, delightful and was contained in an ornate crystal goblet with a ribbed bowl, engraved with what appeared to be dancing fish—Cobb sat across from me in a red and gold chair, sipped at his wine, and closed his eyes with pleasure. “I have heard much approbatory discussion of you, Mr. Weaver. You are said to be the very man for finding lost things. It is also said of you that you know how to disguise yourself well. No small trick for someone about whom the papers have had so much to say.”
“A gentleman might know my name without knowing my face,” I said. “It is only the keenest of eyes that will recognize a face out of context. The properly chosen wig and coat will see to that. I know of such matters from experience.”
“Your expertise in such things has been well reported. Consequently, I have a task I’d like to ask you to perform for me, which will require that you present yourself in disguise. It is an evening’s work only and demands little more than that you go to a gaming house, drink and consort with whores, and play at cards with money not your own. I will pay you five pounds. What say you?”
“I say that if every man could make five pounds from behaving thus, there would hardly be a debtor in London.”
He laughed and proceeded to tell me about Bailor, a card cheat who had defrauded Cobb in the most outrageous fashion during a game of cacho. “I can abide losing,
” he said, “and I can even abide being made to look the fool for doing so. However, when I learned that this Bailor is a Gypsy cozener, I could not abide that. I must have my revenge on him.” Cobb then told me what he had in mind. Bailor would be at Kingsley’s the next night. Cobb had already struck a bargain with the cacho dealer, so no more of me was required but that I draw attention to myself and entice Bailor to engage me in a challenge. Informed as I was of Bailor’s dislikes, we easily agreed that I should go dressed as a foppish Scotsman. Cobb was nearly ready to hug himself with pleasure. “The trap shall be so easily sprung, I only wish I could see it for myself. But I fear my presence would alert him, so I shall stand down.”
I then raised the issue of funds, and Cobb said he would make things easy on that score. He opened his pocketbook that rested near to his disposal and withdrew an impressive stack of banknotes. “Here are twelve hundred pounds,” he said, though he made no indication that he wished to place them into my hands. “You must lose a bit here and there to entice him, but I wish the final blow to be as near to a thousand as you can make it.” He continued to clutch the notes.
“You concern yourself, perhaps, with the safety of your money?”
“It is a great deal more than I am paying you.”
“I believe, in even the most negative reports of my reputation, you have never heard it suggested that I am a thief or a cheat. I give my word that I shall deal with your money as you request.”
“Yes, of course.” Cobb rang the little bell on the table next to him.
The servant entered the room once more, this time with a dour man of approximately my age, which is to say, close to but not quite thirty. He had either a low forehead or his wig was pulled down too low, though I suspected it was the former, for he had other deficiencies of countenance—a nose too large and lumpy, sunken cheeks, a receding chin. He was, in short, a most unattractive man, and along with the servant they composed a pair of most unpleasant faces. I do not much hold to physiognomy, but something in their ugliness told me that their characters were stamped on their faces.
