A Conspiracy of Paper bw-1

by David Liss

  And so began my work as protector, guardian, bailiff, constable-forhire, and thief-taker. It was this last duty that I had found most lucrative, for by bringing felons to justice I received not only the reward of my hirer but also the considerable forty-pound reward of the state as well. Three or four such bounties over the course of a year amounted to a handsome wage for a man of my station.

  I say with some pride that I quickly built a reputation for honesty, for it is well known that thief-takers are in general the most wretched of villains who care not for the guilt or innocence of the poor sod they drag before the magistrate, only for the reward that comes of conviction. When I set up my trade, I let it be known that I would have nothing to do with thief-takers’ tricks, and I concerned myself only with capturing villains and with recovering lost goods. I did so not only to avoid running afoul of the law, but so there might be a man that a victim of theft could trust.

  To my misfortune, employment as a thief-taker had become scarce at the time I begin my story, for a notorious villain named Jonathan Wild had begun to make a name for himself as Thief-Taker General. Wild appeared to work magic for the countless victims of robberies about London, for he could discover the whereabouts of nearly every thief in the city, and he could recover almost any stolen item. As we know now, and as many of us knew at the time, Jonathan Wild could do all of these things because there was hardly a prig in London who was not in his employ. When a man discovered an article had been stolen, he frequently found it more convenient to pay the same thieves to return the item than to hire a man such as myself who could offer no guarantees of retrieval. Wild never made guarantees, for he posed as a concerned citizen merely offering to help, but I had rarely heard that he failed to recover a stolen item. According to the custom, his victims placed notices in the Daily Courant announcing the items they wished recovered. It took no long amount of time for the victim to receive word of Mr. Wild, who would explain that he believed he might be of service if the good gentleman or lady would only be willing to offer the thief half or three-quarters of the value of the stolen item. It was no fair deal, but a fairer one than having to replace the property, so in this way the citizens of London retrieved their lost goods and praised the man who stole them. Wild, in turn, received far more money for his booty than he ever could have hoped for had he fenced it or attempted to resell it himself. He had grown so rich upon this scheme that it was said that he had agents in nearly every town of note in England and that he owned smuggling ships that sailed constantly from these shores to France and Holland and back again, loaded with contraband.

  Despite his great success, there were always those who knew Wild for what he was and would do no business with him. Sir Owen Nettleton was such a gentleman; he had come to me with a request only two days before my encounter with Mr. Balfour. Sir Owen was an engaging man, and I took an enormous liking to him immediately. He appeared in my receiving room, proud and jovial, slightly fat and slightly drunk. Some men were ashamed to come see me in my neighborhood—perhaps because Covent Garden was too unfashionable, perhaps because they did not wish publicly to enter the home of a Jew, but Sir Owen was nothing if not open and nothing if not conspicuous. With his unmistakable gold-and-turquoise coach left standing directly in front of Mrs. Garrison’s house, he walked in, boldly prepared to give his name to anyone who might request it.

  He was near forty, I think, but his clothing and spirit gave him a look of a man at least ten years his junior. He was naught but gay colors and silver thread and fancy embroidery, and his jolly face looked all the more wide and ruddy under the enormous canopy of his perfectly white full-bottom wig. Sitting comfortably in the chair before me, he talked of the gossip of the town and drank the better part of a bottle of Madeira before he even hinted that he had any business with me. Finally, he set down his glass and walked over to the window just behind my chair and peered at the street below. Standing so close to me as he was, I grew lightheaded in the fog of his liberal application of civet perfume.

  “It is a fine Sunday afternoon for October, do you not think so? A fine Sunday afternoon.”

  “It is a fine afternoon,” I agreed, by now somewhat eager for Sir Owen to come to his point.

  “So fine an afternoon it is,” he explained, “that I cannot tell you of my business indoors. We want fresh air, Mr. Weaver, and sunshine, I should think. Let us take a turn about St. James’s.”

  I found his proposal perfectly agreeable, so we headed downstairs, where we subjected ourselves to the baldly curious stares of my landlady and three of her equally corpulent and bitter friends who sat hunched around a card table, playing at piquet for small stakes. Mrs. Garrison’s mouth surely dropped as she saw me enter Sir Owen’s handsome equipage.

  Now, I have lived in London almost all of my life, and I have many times witnessed the spectacle of St. James’s Park on a glorious Sunday afternoon, but owing in no small part to the social estrangement that comes with being a Jew of limited means, I had never thought I should someday participate in it. Yet there I was, strolling by the side of a fashionable baronet, feeling the sun full on my face as I made my way about the park along with countless fashionable ladies and gentlemen. I flatter myself that I was not swept away by the vivacity of it all, but it was a dazzling entertainment to witness the bowing and the curtsying, the display of the latest coat styles and hair fashions, of wigs and ribbons and silks and hoops. I think that Sir Owen may have been the perfect man to initiate me into this world, for he knew a fair portion of gentlemen and ladies, and he doled out and received his share of bows, but he had not so many acquaintances as to make taking a step impossible. So we strolled among the beau monde, the fragile warmth of the dying summer upon us, and Sir Owen told me of his difficulties.

  “Weaver,” he began as we walked along, “I am not a man to hide his feelings. I shall tell you straight away that I like your looks. You strike me as a man I can trust.”

  I smiled inwardly at his manner of expressing himself. “I shall in every way attempt to be worthy of that trust.”

  Sir Owen stopped and glared at my face, moving his head from side to side as he inspected my features. “Yes, I like your looks, Weaver. You dress like a man of sense, and you conduct yourself like a man of sense, too. I might not even know you to be a Jew, though I suppose your nose is perhaps a bit larger than an Englishman would strictly permit—but what of it?”

  I resumed our perambulation, hoping movement would bring Sir Owen to a more relevant topic of conversation.

  “And you’re a game-enough-looking spark,” he continued. “I would wager you are a man who likes his pleasures. I can assure you I am. I shall be bold with you. I like gambling, and I like whores. I like whores very much, sir.”

  Pressed on by his spirit, I said, “And do they like you, Sir Owen?”

  For an instant I feared I had offended him, but he burst into a laugh as thick as a dish of chocolate. “They like my money tremendously, Mr. Weaver. I can assure you of that. They like it as much as the masters of the gaming houses. For all men—and women too—like money. I like money,” he droned, losing his thoughts as a group of pretty young ladies crossed our path, all a-giggle over a broken parasol.

  “As you like whores,” I offered in assistance.

  He snapped his fingers. “Quite right. Whores. Yes, well my fondness for whores has gotten me into a bit of trouble, I’m afraid.” He paused to laugh at a joke he thought of. “But I don’t need a surgeon. Not that kind of trouble. Not this time. You see, I had an amorous encounter last night with a whore not content to be a simple whore, not content to earn an honest living for an honest tumble. It seems I took upon myself a bit too much wine, and this little jade took upon herself every possession I had.” Sir Owen cut short his narrative to bow deeply to an excessively painted lady who displayed an elaborate dress of greens and yellows and wore her hair piled high, after the Hanoverian style. She took some small notice of the baronet, and continued on her way. Sir Owen then proceeded to
explain to me that he had been lured into taking a walk with the whore after, as it happens, he had been weakened with spirits, which he had been encouraged to drink far beyond even his considerable measure. When he awoke in an alleyway, his coat, watch, shoes, sword, purse, and pocketbook had been taken. “I’m not a man who carries a grudge,” he assured me. “I am willing to let her keep all—but I must have my pocketbook back. It has much in it that is of value to me—and to me only. It is very important that I retrieve it, and that I do so as soon as possible.”

  I thought about this for a moment. “Do you know this whore’s name or where I might find her?”

  He grinned. “When I was a young man, the parish vicar always told me that being a whoremonger would be my undoing, but this is precisely where being a whoremonger has done me service. I know her name, indeed, for I have seen her going about her trade, if before last night I have not had the displeasure of knowing her, shall we say, intimately. I think perhaps in her way of whoring, men seldom return for more. Her name is Kate Cole, and I’ve seen her many a time at an alehouse called the Barrel and Bale. I believe she takes a room there, but I am not certain.”

  I nodded. I’d never heard of this whore, but there were thousands of her trade in London. Even a man of Sir Owen’s enthusiasm could not expect to know them all. “I shall find your Kate Cole for you, then.”

  He proceeded to describe her looks to me in great detail—giving me more information than I should necessarily require to find a woman in a full state of dress. “I trust,” he then said, lowering his voice, “that I need not discuss discretion with you at any great length. Surely a man in your position understands the needs of a man in my position.”

  I told him I understood perfectly, though I wondered why he should choose to parade about the park with me if he desired secrecy.

  Sir Owen surprised me by guessing my thoughts. “I do not mind that the world knows I’ve been to see you, or even that I’ve been to see you for your help in recovering stolen goods. But I would prefer that you say no more. It is none of the world’s business what I have had stolen or how I lost it.”

  “I agree entirely,” I told him with a reassuring nod. “I think you will find all men I have dealt with will attest to my discretion.”

  “Splendid. If men wish to speculate what it is I do with you, let them,” he said haughtily. “If they profane my name, they will certainly answer for it, for there’s not a man in London who would dare offer me insult. I am, I assure you, no mean swordsman,” he told me as he theatrically gripped the handle of his hangar, “and I’ve spent more than a few dawns at Hyde Park defending my honor.”

  “I take your meaning,” I told him, although I did not. Did he mean to boast or to offer a warning? “I do have a further question,” I proceeded. “Sir Owen, may I ask why you do not seek out Mr. Jonathan Wild, for he is the man most sought in the matter of stolen goods.” And he would no doubt be far more likely to return the goods with all haste, I added silently, for this whore was almost certainly in his employ, along with so many of London’s thieving whores.

  “Wild is a thief,” he said in a measured voice, “and everyone in London knows it—at least they know it if they are not fools. A man like you—I am certain you know it. I believe this whore to be in his stable of thieves, and I’ll be damned to hell for eternity, sir, before I pay money for what is rightfully mine to the very scoundrel who took it of me in the first place. I tell you, I know not how London considers him a public servant, when he is nothing but a mountebank whose elaborate tricks have left him rich and the city fleeced.” His face had by now turned a deep ruddy color. Conscious that he had grown overly warm, he took a moment to compose himself. “Tell me,” he said more coolly, “what should you ask for the recovery of a pocketbook?”

  “Have you any banknotes within it?” I inquired.

  “Yes. I think about two hundred and fifty pounds.”

  “My fee, Sir Owen, is usually one guinea for an item such as a pocketbook and then 10 percent of the value of the notes. I shall round it off to an even twenty-five pounds.”

  “That is certainly what Wild would charge as well, and I shall have none of it. I’ll pay you twice as much as Wild would ask, for I want my money to land in an honest man’s hands. You will find this whore for me, and return to me my pocketbook and its contents, and I shall pay you fifty pounds. What say you, sir? Surely a pugilist like yourself is not afraid to cross Wild’s path?”

  I felt an exuberance at the thought of so enormous a fee, for like almost everyone else in London, and indeed the nation itself, I maintained some uncomfortable debts. And like the Earl of Stanhope, our First Lord of the Treasury, I had grown considerably skilled at paying off a creditor here and there that I might avoid ruin and still maintain myself in a fashion I could not, in the strictest sense, afford. Fifty pounds would make an enormous impact on my little share of ready money, but even if the thought of so much money made me giddy, I showed Sir Owen only my cool determination. “I delight in crossing Wild’s path,” I promised him. Though Wild and I had met only once, our competition was a vigorous one, and I enjoyed nothing more than tracking down the goods his men stole. I made it my policy, when possible, to avoid impeaching thieves in Wild’s employ, for their master had no similar scruples, and my mercy toward these prigs had earned me some little gratitude.

  Sir Owen smiled broadly. “I like a man of your spirit,” he said, and then grabbed my hand with a wrenching vigor.

  I smiled as I governed my hand’s retreat from Sir Owen’s enthusiastic grip. “I shall make every effort to retrieve your possession with all haste and contact you the moment I have any news to report.”

  Sir Owen stepped to the side of the path to let a handsome collection of young couples pass us. “I like you, Weaver,” he said. “I have never been a bigot in matters of religion, and now I can see why. What signifies whether or not a man eats pork? Get me my pocketbook, and I shall say you are as good a man as any and better than most.”

  I sensed that I had been dismissed, so I bowed to Sir Owen and allowed him to walk over to a group of gentlemen of his acquaintance. I turned to make my way home, fired by a fierce determination to resolve Sir Owen’s matter as quickly and as efficiently as I might. I had such confidence in my skills that I considered his pocketbook as already in my possession. In my sanguine mood, such as I was, I could not have known that the business would erupt so dangerously.

  THREE

  IT SHOULD HAVE BEEN a simple matter. I dressed the part of a gentleman—ostentatious coat and sword, overflowing wig, gleaming silver buckles upon my shoes. I had learned to appear the perfect gentleman when, in my less scrupulous days, I had spent some time traveling about the country working as what we called a spruce prig. I would present myself to a landlord like a gentleman, rent a furnished lodging with no more security than my appearance, and then proceed to clean the place of everything of value. Now, with more honorable motives, my task was to imitate a man of means in the service of undoing theft, and this task called for a particular sort of gentleman. I therefore put some padding about my midsection, making myself look more inclined to fat than muscle. Knowing that the evening would call for drunkenness, and that drunkenness was indeed the enemy, I fortified myself as best I could. I first took down as much cream as I might hold, for it would help to absorb the spirits I drank. Next I gargled with wine, and spilled some about my clothing, giving myself the scent of a man who required little more to render him senseless. Having thus prepared myself, I hired a hackney to take me to the alehouse, sat myself down in a well-lit spot, and boisterously called out for wine.

  The Barrel and Bale was what one might expect of such places in the more colorful parts of town. It was near the river, close by the Temple Bar, but its patrons were mainly porters and journeymen, sprinkled with a few Templars looking for relief from their studies of the law. I stood out in this place, but I was not conspicuous. They had seen my type before—indeed, they had seen my type in
Sir Owen. So with few eyes upon me, save those who wondered how they might become better acquainted with the contents of my purse, I sat at my table and watched the mixture of life circulate. The alehouse was full, but not packed as such places can get. The smell of filthy bodies and cheap perfumes and thick, choking tobacco made a man labor for each breath. I heard no music but that of the shrill laughter of women and the shouts of men and the unmistakable clatter of dice upon the tabletops. A wounded soldier insisted on standing upon his chair every quarter hour and howling forth a bawdy song about a one-legged Spanish whore. He bellowed with little regard for tune until his friends dragged him down, and, in the jovial manner of such men, beat him until he was quiet.

  My refined readers may only know of these places from reports they have read, but I had traveled through suchlike dark havens many times before, and I had little difficulty disregarding the turmoil around me. I had a mind for business, and as the baronet had given me a description of the woman I sought, I scanned the room repeatedly, trying hard to appear a drunk in search of company. I tried too hard, I think, for I had to turn several women of Kate Cole’s profession away. A man such as I was, who looked well-moneyed and, if I may be so bold, was far more attractive in person than the more usual patron come in search of companionship, could always depend upon finding favor among the ladies.

  The one I sought, according to Sir Owen, was not more than nineteen, she had bright red hair, a fair and freckled complexion, and a prominent mole upon the bridge of her nose. Finally I saw her sit down at a table and engage in a conversation with a vicious buck who, by his look, could have served himself well in the ring. He was a tall, wide, muscular piece of flesh, with a face misshapen into an immutable scowl. I could see that the back of his hand revealed the mark of a branding, so I knew he had run afoul of the law at least once in his life—no doubt on a matter of theft, but I should have been surprised if that had been the only crime to his credit.