by David Liss
“What I mean, Weaver, is that he believes he has an advanced and virulent case of syphilis—though at times he speaks of it as gonorrhea, not comprehending the difference—and yet he has not a single symptom. I can find no sores, pustules, rashes, or inflammations, nor can I find signs that there have ever been such.”
“Are you certain?”
He took a long drink of his ale. “Weaver, I’ve just spent the last hour handling a deranged old fat man’s privy member. Please don’t ask me if I’m certain. I must obliterate the morning from my mind, and on the spur of speed too.”
“What, then, did you tell him?”
“You know I am obligated by oath to treat my patients to the best of my ability.”
“Yes, yes. What did you tell him?”
“As I’m under no obligation to refrain from pretending to treat a well man who believes himself ill, particularly if doing so will bring him peace, I informed him that I knew of some very particular cures, recently brought back from the Barbadoes, that I had no doubt would relieve his symptoms. I let a small quantity of his blood, purged his bowels, and left with him a rather violent diuretic. When I am done with you, I shall write my apothecary and have him send over a variety of mixtures that will have no other effect than to calm his agitation. And, as he appears to believe in my cure, perhaps it shall settle his spirits.” He held up a shiny guinea. “Certainly he appeared most obliged.”
“I should think. And will you continue to treat him?”
“As best I can, but he may grow agitated when I refuse to apply mercury, and I should rather avoid doing so since he does not require exposure to so strong a property as it contains.”
“Give him whatever he likes, so long as it keeps you in his employ.”
“Mercury is marvelous effective against the pox, but it has unwholesome effects. It is hardly ethical to give a man a cure he does not need that will engender a sickness he need not suffer.”
“Is it ethical to allow you to spend the remainder of your years in debtor’s prison to protect the health of a rapacious madman?”
“You make a compelling case,” he said. “I’ll consider my options when the time comes.”
I nodded. “A wise course, though consult with me before doing anything, please.”
“Of course. Now, if you’ll permit me to bring up the matter of the girl one last time. Have you considered that if I could strike up an amour with her, it would give me a reason to return more often, and then there should be two of us inside who might more effectively than one—”
“She’s a French spy,” I said, ending his discourse with the suddenness of a fired pistol.
I regretted it at once. Even if my knowledge and his will could tame Elias’s predatory impulses, I doubted he would be a match for the lady’s own skills. If she pressed him, I feared his knowledge of her true nature would be legible upon his face as clearly as if written in ink.
Nevertheless, I had began and had no choice but to continue. “There is a French plot here somewhere, Elias. I know not if it be the most villainous of the schemes that surround the Company, but it is a plot. First we find that there are Frenchmen investing in my death as though it were a fund upon the ’Change, and now I find a French spy contriving to discover all about the Company and about me.”
I proceeded to tell him of my encounter the previous evening with Miss Glade, and though I was careful to disguise the more amorous elements, Elias had known me too long and was too good a student of human nature not to suspect something.
“I say, have you an affection for this treacherous creature?”
“She wishes me to have one,” I answered.
“And given that she is beautiful and charming, you find it difficult not to comply.”
“I am master of my passions,” I assured him, “and I have no desire to form a connection with a woman whose motives we must presume to be malicious. You need not worry about me on that score.”
He took a moment to stare at his closely cut fingernails, a clear indication he wished to say something awkward. “I trust you have accepted that you shall never be successful with your cousin’s widow.”
I shook my head in disbelief. “Do you really believe that a longing for Miriam stands as the only obstacle between myself and true love with a deceitful spy?”
“I know you have long loved Miriam Melbury, and she has quite dashed your heart to bits, but I admit when you phrase it in such a way that my theory does not appear valid.”
“I am relieved to hear you say as much.”
“Still, you are reaching the age where a man ought to seek out a wife.”
“Elias, if I wished to have this conversation, I might as well visit my aunt Sophia, who could make the case far more eloquently while irritating me far less and probably serving me something quite pleasant to eat. Besides which, I might make the same claim of you, yet I hardly see you seeking out a bride.”
“Oh, I am not the marrying kind, Weaver, and if I were I should require a woman with a massive dowry who would overlook my relative financial difficulties. You, on the other hand, are a Hebrew, and your people cannot help but marry. If you wish to hear my opinion, I think a wife would do you good.”
“Perhaps,” I said, “I should ask Mr. Cobb to send you to debtor’s prison now.”
“Those who speak the truth must face the brickbats of resentment.”
“Yes, and your lot in life is to suffer. May I suggest we confine our time to discussing the meaning of the French involvement?”
He let out a sigh. “Very well. I have never heard of the French sending agents to work against the great companies, but it does not surprise me that they would think to do so. After all, these companies produce prodigious wealth for the nation, and the East India Company is also an arm of exploration and expansions. There could be any number of reasons why the French should wish to infiltrate Craven House.”
That, unfortunately constituted the extent of Elias’s analysis. By this time I had finished my pot and thought it advisable to return to the East India yard, lest my absence be noted. I did not think any great harm would come of such an observation, but it served my interests well enough that I should draw no attention to myself.
I came in through the main gate, therefore, and proceeded to the warehouses, but I had not advanced more than a few feet before I heard my name called quite briskly.
“Mr. Weaver, pray you stop.”
I turned to find Carmichael chasing after me. He ran forward, holding his straw hat to his head. “What is it?”
“Mr. Ellershaw come down here not half an hour past. He appeared most grieved that no one knew how to find you.”
I nodded and headed back toward the main house and proceeded directly toward Ellershaw’s office. He called for me to enter when I knocked, and when I stepped in, I found Mr. Forester sitting across the desk from him, several samples of cloth draped across the desk. Neither man, I soon observed, appeared happy to see me.
“Weaver.” Ellershaw spat out some of the brown kernel on which he chewed. “Where have you been? Do I pay you for your leisure time or for your labors?”
“I’m sorry to have missed you,” I said. “I was about an inspection of the warehouses when you called upon me.”
“If you were inspecting the warehouses, how is it that no one knew of your whereabouts?”
“Because I did not wish for them to know. Inspections are most effective when they are a surprise to those inspected.”
Ellershaw pondered this suggestion for a moment and then nodded slowly while he worked at the mass in his mouth. “Just so.”
Forester held in his hand a piece of blue fabric, which he studied most attentively. Indeed, he tried most assiduously to keep his eyes from wandering from the cloth. I suspected he did not trust himself to contain his expression should our eyes meet, and I thought that a useful detail. Forester believed himself unskilled at dissimulation.
“What is it you want?” Ellershaw now inquired
of me.
“I only wanted to attend to you, as you called upon me, sir,” I said.
“I haven’t the time for you now,” he answered. “Can you not see that we are busy with things that are none of your concern? Is that not your opinion, Forester?”
Forester continued to cast his eyes downward. “It is. A man of his sort can have nothing to add to our discussion.”
“I say,” Ellershaw blurted out, “that is rather a harsh assessment. Weaver may not be a Company man, but he’s a sharp fellow. Do you think you have something to say to us, Weaver?”
“I do not know what you discuss,” I said.
“Nothing of interest to you,” Forester murmured.
“Only these cloths. What you see before you, Weaver, are the fabrics the Parliament, may it rot in hell, will permit us to sell domestically after Christmas. As you see, it is devilish little. Most of our trade on these islands will now be in these blues”—he held up a piece of light blue cotton—“and I fear what trade we do with it will be a mere shadow of our former enterprise.”
I said nothing.
“As you can see,” Forester said, “he has neither the experience nor interest for these matters. I mean no insult to the fellow, but he is not a man whose opinion you must solicit.”
“What is the cloth used for now?” I asked.
“Scarves,” Ellershaw said. “Stockings, cravats, other such accessories, and, of course, dresses for the ladies.”
“Then would it not be wise,” I suggested, “to encourage men of fashion to mold their suits out of this material?”
Forester let out a loud laugh. “A suit, you say? Even the most absurd of fops would not wear a suit of so feminine a color. The very idea is laughable.”
“Perhaps so,” I said with a shrug, “but Mr. Ellershaw has observed that the key to success is to allow the warehouses to drive fashion and not fashion the warehouses. You may sell as much of this material as you wish, so ought not the Company work to change the public’s perception rather than mold your product to their perceptions? As I have been made to understand it, you need only provide suits of this color to enough fashionable gentlemen in order for it to seem absurd no longer. Indeed, if you succeed, by next season no one will remember a time when suits of this shade of blue were unpopular.”
“Nonsense,” Forester said.
“No.” Ellershaw let out a breath. “He is right. This is the very thing. Begin to send notes to your associates in the world of fashion. Make appointments to have a tailor pay them a visit.”
“Sir, this is but the squandering of time and effort,” Forester answered. “No one will wear a suit of so foolish a color.”
“The world will wear these suits,” he answered. “Well done, Weaver. With only two weeks left before the Court meets, I may yet preserve myself. Now, back to your appointed tasks. I shall have more to say to you anon.”
I bowed to both men and departed, certain from the look on Forester’s face that I had done nothing more than fan the flames of the hatred for which he bore me.
THAT NIGHT, AT THE APPOINTED time, Carmichael met me behind the main warehouse. The sky was unusually dark—cloudy and moonless with the occasional fluttering touch of snow—and though the grounds were well lit, there were ample swaths of shadow in which to make our silent way. The dogs, by now, knew my scent and would not remark upon it, and we knew well the times of patrols and the routes the watchmen would take, so it was no difficult thing to move unseen in the cold darkness.
Carmichael took me toward the northernmost edge of the East India yards, where stood the building called the Greene House. It was four stories in height, but narrow, and in none the best shape. I had heard tell that it was scheduled to be brought down some time in the next year.
The door was naturally locked, as the watchmen could not be entrusted with access to the interior, not when they would be tempted to help themselves to whatever they could find inside. But as master watchman I was granted full access, and after waiting for one of the patrolling men, who had the staggering gait of one who’d been drinking too much small beer while at work, we made our way inside.
I had taken the precaution of hiding candles and tinder where I knew I would be able to retrieve them, after which, in the dark and echoing space, I turned to Carmichael’s flickering face.
“Where to?”
“Up,” he said. “It’s on the top floor, which has fallen into disuse because it’s such horrible bad trouble to carry crates to and fro. And the stairs ain’t great, so we’ll have to be right careful. Also, stay away from the window with that light of yours. You don’t want anyone to see. No telling who is Aadil’s fellow and who ain’t.”
It was undeniably good advice, so I handed him the candle and determined to place my safety in his hands. It was entirely possible that Carmichael might not be what he appeared; that he might not be trustworthy or eager to help me at all. I had already encountered more double-dealing than was the norm, even in institutions like these companies, which bred backstabbing the way workhouses bred whores. For all that, I had no choice but to move forward, so I did, keeping close to my guide.
When we reached the top floor, Carmichael turned to me. “Here’s where it gets a bit thorny.”
When he held out the candle, I knew at once what he meant. The stairs were crumbling and broken, with no sign to indicate which parts would withstand the weight of a man and which would crumble under my feet. I presumed they could not be as fragile as they looked, for how else could Aadil and his followers haul crates up to the fourth floor? Nevertheless, I followed closely in Carmichael’s footsteps.
When we reached the landing, he led me left, down a dusty corridor, until we stood before a door. I tried it and found it to be locked. I had come prepared, however, and removed from my pocket a set of picks that glistened in the light of Carmichael’s candle. He, however, was not one to be outdone. In the spare light I saw the flash of a grin, and then he reached into his coat to hold up a key.
“I’m sure you’re right skillful with those picks, sir, but this here will do our business a mite more simple.”
I put the picks away, nodding in agreement. Taking the candle, I watched as he inserted the key and turned the knob and pushed open the door. Then with a grand gesture, originating in something I suspected other than politeness, he indicated that I should go first.
I did so, holding up my candle to illuminate a large, if not massive, room filled with crates of a variety of sizes. Some were stacked nearly to the ceiling; some lay scattered here and there as if with no reason. All were shut.
I set the candle down when I spied an iron bar, which I then gripped and approached the nearest container.
“Hold,” Carmichael called. “You can’t break it open. They’ll know we’ve been here.”
“They’ll know someone’s been here, that much is likely. But they won’t know it was us. And we did not come up here to have an appraising look at the contents of the room. I must know what they are hiding.”
He gave me an accepting but unenthusiastic nod, and so I broke open the nearest crate. Inside, it was full of thick rolls of cloths of bright floral patterns. I held the candle closer.
“What is it?” I asked Carmichael.
He took a piece of cloth in his hands, rubbed it between his fingers, stroked it, and put it near to the candle. “It ain’t nothing,” he said quietly. “It’s just the same cloths they bring into the other warehouses.”
We opened half a dozen more at random; again, nothing but standard East Indian cloth imports. Carmichael shook his head. “I can’t make sense of it,” he said. “Why would they go to the trouble of playing these freaks with hidden meetings and late night secreting away of deliveries. This ain’t nothing but the ordinary.”
I took a moment to consider why it was that a member of the Court of Committees would trouble himself to collect a clandestine network in order to warehouse goods that might as well be stored anywhere. “Is this a matter o
f stealing?” I asked. “Do they plan to sell the contents of this room for their own profit?”
“Stealing?” Carmichael let out a laugh. “To what end? In another month, the market for these cloths will be gone.”
“A black market, perhaps? They mean to continue to sell the material clandestinely?”
Again, Carmichael shook his head. “No, the law don’t forbid the trade in calicoes, only the wearing of them. If they wish to keep on selling the cloth, they can, but there won’t be anyone to buy it. Come Christmas, they won’t be able to give it away. Here in England, all this will be worth less than nothing.”
“And you are certain that the cloth is ordinary?”
He nodded most solemnly. “’Tis but ordinary calico.”
I felt certain I must be overlooking something of some significance. Carmichael, too, kept a puzzled look upon his face. “Maybe if you could get a look at the manifests,” he suggested. “Could it be that there’s some meaning not in the crates themselves but in from where they come or whither they’re bound?”
It was a good suggestion, and I was about to say as much when we heard the unmistakable sound of a door opening on the first floor and muffled though agitated voices.
“The devil’s arse,” Carmichael cursed. “They must have seen the light through the window after all. You’ve got to get out of here.”
“How?”
“The window. That one there. That side of the building has rugged stones, so that if you’ve got a good purchase you can get yourself up to the roof and hide.”
“And what about you?”
“I’ll have to close the window behind you. Now, don’t worry about me, Mr. Weaver. I know these warehouses like a child knows his own street. They’ll not find me, I’ll warrant.”
“I can’t leave you to fend for yourself.”
“There ain’t no choice in it. We can’t risk them finding you, for both our sakes. And trust me, they’ll never know I was here. I’ve got a few minutes to put all back in order, lock the door, and slip into a crevice where they won’t look. Come find me tomorrow, but for now you’ve got to get out that window.”
