A Spectacle of Corruption

by David Liss

  I looked at Greenbill and tried to read his expression, but his face was so thin, his eyes so far apart, that nature had already affixed upon him a permanent countenance of astonishment. I knew I could not determine any more on top of that. I also knew, however, that if he wished to speak with me, it would be on my terms.

  “If you want to talk to me, we’ll go somewhere else.”

  He shrugged. “It’s all analogous to me. Where shall we go, then?”

  “I’ll tell you when we get there. Speak not another word until I address you.” I grabbed his arm and pulled him to his feet. He was very wide in his frame but surprisingly light, and he resisted me not at all. With him in advance that I might monitor his motions, I marched him down the stairs and through Mrs. Vintner’s kitchen, which smelled of boiled cabbage and prunes, exiting at the back of the house, which opened onto a little lane. There were no signs here that anyone watched us or planned to move against me, so I pushed Greenbill out to Cow Cross. My charge went merrily, with a silly grin upon his face, but he said nothing and questioned nothing.

  I took him to John’s Street, where we hired a hackney with relative ease. In the coach, we continued on in silence, and the hackney soon brought us to a coffeehouse on Hatton Garden, where I shoved Greenbill inside and immediately hired a private room. Once we were secured with our drink—I never even entertained the idea of trying to obtain information from him without providing for his thirst—I chose to continue our chatter.

  “Where are Spicer and Clark?” I asked.

  He grinned like a simpleton. “That’s the thing, Weaver. They’re dead unto mortification. I heard it this morning from one of me boys. They’re lying in the upstairs of a bawd’s house in Covent Garden, with notes about their bodies saying you done it.”

  I remained quiet for a moment. It could be that Greenbill had concocted this story, though I could not imagine why. The question was how he knew and why he cared to tell me of it. “Go on.”

  “Well, word come down that Wild put it out that the two of them were to be found, and it didn’t take no clever thinking to realize who it was what wanted to see them. So after I heard they got killed, I thought I’d sit up in their rooms and wait for you myself. Not to take you for the bounty; I won’t try that again, I promise. No, though I tried to play you a decrepit turn before, I hoped I might now ask for your help.”

  “My help in what?”

  “In not getting killed, mostly. Don’t you see, Weaver? Folks you don’t much care for or who done you wrong since your trial are getting killed so as it can be blamed on you. As I laid ambush on you, it seemed to me I’m next.”

  There was a certain logic to what he said. “And you want what of me? That I should protect you?”

  “Nothing suchlike, I promise. I don’t know that you and I could much endure the confabulation of the other. I only want to hear what you know and think and see if that will keep me alive—or if I’ll have to leave London to effect that end.”

  “You seem to know a great deal about all of this already. How were Spicer and Clark killed?”

  He shook his head. “I hadn’t got those details. Only that they was killed and you were meant to have done the killing. No more than that. Except—” He looked off into the distance.

  “By gad, Greenbill, this is not a stage play. Don’t think to be dramatic with me, or I’ll show you your bowels.”

  “Now there’s no need for longitude. I was getting to it. With the bodies and the note they found a single white rose. If you know what I mean.”

  “I know what you mean. What I don’t know is how you have all this information if you did not kill them—or Groston and Yate.”

  “I got ears with which to be licentious, don’t I? I got loyal boys who tell me what they think I ought to know.”

  I smiled. “How can you be so certain I didn’t do what these notes claim?”

  “It don’t make sense, is all. You come hunting me down before to see what I know about it. Hardly seems to me that you done it.”

  “And who do you think has done it?”

  He shook his head again. “I haven’t any ideas whatsoever. That’s what I wanted to ask you.”

  I studied his face in an effort to measure the degree of his dishonesty, for I could not believe that he was entirely honest in his claims. And yet I saw no reason not to proceed. “I cannot prove what I say, but it is my belief that the man behind the death of Yate, and therefore the other deaths, must be Dennis Dogmill. To my reckoning, there can be no other man who would want to see Yate dead and who would want to create havoc to be blamed upon the Jacobites—and the Tories by extension. Dogmill gets to remove Yate and promote the election of his man, Hertcomb.”

  “Ha!” He slapped his hands together. “I knew it had to be that villain. He’s had it out for us gang leaders all along, you know. I ain’t surprised he went for Yate. But don’t it seem strange that he didn’t go after me first, what with my being more powerful and such?”

  “I hardly know his reasoning. It seems to me that you must keep yourself apprised of Dogmill’s doings. Have you heard aught of this?”

  “Not a word,” he told me. “It’s as quiet as can be. I ain’t heard nothing, which is why what you say surprises me. Believe me, I spend more than a share of my time keeping an eye on him and his doings. I can’t claim to have loved Yate, but he was a porter’s man like me, and if Dogmill goes about killing us, I want to know.”

  “Would he have some reason for wishing an ill to Yate and not to you?”

  “Yate was but a girl in pants, you know. He hardly knew how to press back against Dogmill. As for me, I held my ground with that fiend. I told him no when I meant no, and he understood the words when they come from my mouth and into his ear. I’m the man on the quays, Weaver. I’m the man who looks after the porters and tells Dogmill to heave to when he says there’s to be no more picking up the loose tobacco or no more taking a moment to catch the breath. I can’t see him going for Yate and not for me.”

  I could little determine if Greenbill’s objection merely reflected his pride or if he had something of value to offer. “You cannot think of any reason for Dogmill to harbor a particular anger toward Yate?”

  He shook his head. “It don’t make sense. Yate gave way under pressure, he did. Dogmill would’ve liked to have seen all the porters under Yate. Now he has to worry about them all working with me, and he can’t much like that. Besides, how would he have done it? Yate was killed in the midst of my boys. None of us saw him do it. None of us saw Dogmill—and you can best believe we’d have seen that villain in all his vapidity.”

  “Surely he must have an agent to do his violent work.”

  “None that I ever saw,” Greenbill said. “Believe me, we’ve had many a dealing with him that felt sour as a lemon, and he never once presented a rough or a Swiss to do his bidding. He thinks himself man enough to pummel and punch, and if there was any killing to be had, he’d have it for himself. Anything otherwise don’t come in line, to my thinking.”

  I thought it well that my life did not depend on his thinking. I found it hard to believe that Dogmill would risk being seen about on such murderous errands, but it did seem odd to me that he never hired roughs on his own.

  “And how is it you have Wild asking questions for you and such?” Greenbill now demanded to know. “I heard he put in a word on your behest at your trial, too. Have you and he come to be friends?”

  “That would overstate the case. Wild and I are not friends, but he seems to bear some dislike for Dogmill. He offered to help me find Clark and Spicer, but I shall not seek his assistance again.”

  “Quite wise, that. You don’t want him turning you in for the bounty.”

  “Only a scoundrel would do that,” I agreed.

  “An unkind characterization, but I shan’t dispute it. The posthumous question is what you will do now. Will you take out Dogmill?” he asked eagerly. “That should be a pretty piece of revenge. If he done what you say, cutt
ing his throat should answer.”

  It would seem that Greenbill wanted to turn me into his private assassin. I would exact my revenge on Dogmill, and Greenbill would be left with no real rival and no central authority in the tobacco trade. “I have neither the means to do so nor the desire.”

  “But you can’t let him ruin you and go about sullying your name.”

  I saw no reason to perpetuate this conversation. Greenbill clearly had no information for me, and I should gain nothing by entertaining his encouragement for murder. I thought for a moment to urge him to do the job himself, but then I thought he might take me up on it, and Dogmill would be of no use to me dead. I therefore stood and invited Greenbill to finish his ale and depart at his leisure.

  “That’s it, then? You won’t do the manly thing with Dogmill?”

  “I’ll not do as you suggest, no.”

  “And what about me? Do I stay in London or flee?”

  I had by now reached the door. “I see no reason for you to flee.”

  “If I stay, don’t you think Dogmill might kill me?”

  “He might,” I conceded, “but that is no concern of mine.”

  I had no love for the two men who had testified against me at my trial, but neither did I take pleasure in the news of their deaths. That the murderer should think fit to put the blame on my shoulders provided me with more reason for worry. And while I was reluctant to credit the words of a man like Greenbill, I found troubling his belief that Dogmill could not be my man.

  There was but one person I knew of who might be of some small use to me. I therefore waited until darkness had just fallen and then, dressed as myself rather than as Mr. Evans, I slipped, via the window and alley, out of Mrs. Sears’s house and made my way to visit Mr. Ufford.

  This time Barber, the manservant, admitted me at once, and gave me such a cold look that I determined I could not prolong this stay, for if he knew my true identity I cannot believe he would have hesitated to inform the nearest magistrate—whether in accordance with or in defiance of his master’s wishes, I could not say.

  Ufford was in his parlor with a glass of port by his side and a book upon his lap. I could not believe but that he had just now been awakened to visit with me.

  “Benjamin,” he said, setting aside his thin volume, “have you discovered the author of those notes? Is that why you’ve come?”

  “I am afraid I have not obtained any new information in that matter.”

  “What are you doing with your time? I have tried to be patient with you, but you seem to be acting with the most unrestrained frivolity.”

  I handed him a news sheet, folded to the story of Groston’s murder. “What do you know of this?” I asked.

  “Less than you, it would seem; I never trouble myself with these sordid crimes. Perhaps if you were more interested in finding the author of those notes instead of going about killing all these low sorts of people, we would both be better off.”

  I paced for only a few steps and then turned to him once more. “Let us be honest with each other, Mr. Ufford. Was Groston killed as part of a Jacobite scheme?”

  He blushed and turned away from me. “How should I know the answer to that question?”

  “Come, sir, it is well known that you have Jacobitical sympathies. I have heard tell that the men who are truly powerful in that movement eschew you, but I do not believe it. It would be of some use if you can illuminate this matter for me.”

  “Eschew me, indeed. What makes you think I have anything to do with that noble and justified movement?”

  “I haven’t an interest in games, I promise you. If you know something, I’ll thank you to tell me.”

  “I can tell you nothing,” he said with a simper, clearly meant to imply that he knew more than he would say.

  What to do next? He surely thought he played at a great game, but it was one whose rules he hardly knew. I had in my time faced thieves and murderers, wealthy landowners and men of influence. But Jacobites seemed to me another species altogether. These were not men who knew how to deceive when necessary; they were men who lived in a web of deception, who hid in dark spaces, disguised themselves, came and went unseen. That they knew how to do these things was proved by the fact that they yet lived. I hardly believed myself an equal to their cleverness. However, I believed myself more than an equal to Ufford, and my patience with him was running thin. I therefore thought it wise to educate him, if only a little, as to the consequence of my impatience. That is to say, I slapped his face.

  I did not slap him particularly hard. Still, from the look in his eye, one might think I had struck him with an ax. He reddened and his eyes moistened. I thought he would cry.

  “What do you do?” he asked me, holding up his hands as though such a gesture could deflect another blow.

  “I slap you, Mr. Ufford, and I shall do so again and with far more force if you don’t begin being honest with me. You must understand that the world wishes me dead, and it wishes me dead because of a business in which you involved me. If you know more than you have said, you had better tell me now, because you have awoken my anger.”

  “Don’t hit me again,” he said, still cringing like a beaten dog. “I’ll tell you what you want to know—as best I can. Jesus, save me! I hardly know anything at all. Look at me, Benjamin. Do I seem like a master of espionage? Do I seem like a man who has the ear of powerful plotters?”

  I could not but admit that he did not.

  He must have sensed my acknowledgment of his ineptitude, because he took a deep breath and lowered his arms. “I know a few things,” he said with a nod, as though convincing himself to move forward. With one hand he reached up and gingerly touched the slightly red flesh of his face. “I know a bit, it is true, because I may have some sympathies that—well, it is best not spoken of. Not even here. But there is a coffeehouse near the Fleet where men of that way of thinking are like to congregate.”

  “Mr. Ufford, I am led to believe that there are coffeehouses on every street where men of that way of thinking are like to congregate. You will have to do better, I’m afraid.”

  “You don’t understand,” he said. “This is not some gin house where bricklayers go to besot themselves with drink and pretend to know something of politics. This place, the Sleeping Bear, is where men of import go. What you want to know—well, someone there will surely be able to tell you.”

  “Can you give me a name? Someone with whom I may speak?”

  He shook his head. “I have never been there myself. It is not for the likes of me. I have only heard of its centrality to the cause. You will have to make do on your own, Benjamin. And please, for mercy’s sake, leave me alone. I’ve done all I can for you. You must ask no more of me, bother me no more.”

  “You have done all you can for me?” I demanded. “Why, you have all but put my head in the noose, involving me as you have with your Jacobitical intrigues.”

  “I could never have imagined you would come to such harm!” he shouted. “I could not have known that these men threatened me because of my political interests.”

  “Perhaps not,” I said, “but neither did you offer to help me. I think you nothing but a fool—one who dabbles in things too great for him. Such men always expose themselves before the world.”

  “Of course, of course,” he muttered.

  I could not but doubt that Barber, his man, had gone to get some sort of assistance for his master, so I made my way from that house as quickly as I could.

  Night was full upon me as I found my way to the Sleeping Bear, located on the first floor of a handsome little house in the shadow of St. Paul’s. The interior was well lit and lively. Nearly every table was occupied, and some were quite crowded. Here were men of the middle ranks, some perhaps of a better station, who sat with food and drink and lively conversations. I saw no representatives of the softer sex except for a gaunt woman hard on old age who served them.

  My plain style of dress fit in as well as I could hope, but I nevertheless
found all eyes upon me in an instant, staring at me with near murderous intent. Never one to shrink from a cool welcome, I strode at once to the barman, an unusually tall old fellow, and asked him for a pot of something refreshing.

  He glared at me and offered me my drink, though I was certain he had thought I said a pot of something wretched, for the drink he gave me was old and warm and tasted like the leavings of yesterday’s patrons. I turned to the man and, setting aside the unpleasantness of his drink, thought to engage him in some other conversation, but I saw from the hard look in his eyes that he was not of a conversational nature, so I took my pint and found one of the few empty tables.

  I sat there, holding my pot but hardly daring, for the sake of my health, to drink from it. Some of the men around me resumed their conversations in hushed whispers, though I sensed that the talk now centered around me. Others merely stared malevolently. I remained in that state for but a quarter of an hour before a fellow came and joined me. He was perhaps ten years older than I, well dressed, with thick white eyebrows and a matching wig—overly long and of the sort already out of fashion in those days.

  “Are you waiting for someone then, friend?” he asked me, in the thick accent of an Irishman.

  “I came in from the street to take the chill off,” I said.

  He flashed a warm grin in my direction and raised the bushy shelf of his brow. “Well, there are a number of places hereabouts where a fellow might do that, but, as I imagine you’ve already noticed, there’s something of a chill in here, if you get my meaning. I recollect that at the Three Welshmen down the street they serve a fine mutton stew and have a mulled wine wondrous for this cold. Certainly you’d be welcome there.”

  I looked around. “I believe the owner of the Three Welshmen would thank you for your praise, but this is no private place. The sign outside advertises it as a public coffeehouse. How can it be that I cannot take refreshment here?”

  “The men who come here—well, they come here all the time, and there’s none that come here that don’t do so regular.”

  “But surely each of these men must have come here for the first time once. Were they all used as I am?”