A Conspiracy of Paper bw-1

by David Liss

  The crowd let out a cheer, and I, flooded with a mixture of confusion and relief, went immediately to Elias to check on his condition.

  “I am uncomfortable,” he said, “and should enjoy a few days of rest, but I don’t believe any of the damage was either serious or permanent.”

  I clapped him warmly on the shoulder. “I am sorry so much harm should have come to you, for you were following my plan.”

  “I presume you will find some way to make it up to me,” he said with an affected petulance.

  I grinned, pleased that Elias was uninjured in the main and held no grudge.

  “And I presume this reward you have in mind will in some way involve your cousin.”

  “The moment you are circumcised,” I told Elias, “she will be yours.”

  “You people do conduct a grueling business,” he sighed. “But tell me, how is it that the judge ruled in our favor? It seemed to me that the evidence of our case was but poor, and by your own admission you had shot the fellow. I feared to see you bound over for trial.”

  I shook my head at the puzzle. The only explanation was that someone had paid for the judge’s verdict, but I could not imagine who had provided Duncombe with sufficient funds for him to turn free a possible murderer—a dangerous act, for a judge might bring many difficulties upon his head for winking at so serious a crime. However, this was a case well disputed, and if forced to justify himself before any of his patrons, Duncombe could argue easily that he ruled for self-defense. But Duncombe’s strategy did not help me understand who could have provided the funds—or, for that matter, to what end. “I can only presume that some unknown friend, or perhaps even an unknown enemy, intervened on my behalf,” I told Elias, as I considered the matter aloud.

  “Enemy? Why should an enemy wish to offer such generous aid?”

  “Perhaps it would be worse for us to stand trial and speak what we know than for us to walk the streets where we may again fall victim to their machinations.”

  “You are a comforting friend, Weaver.”

  It turned out that Elias and I did not have long to wonder about the identity of our benefactor. As we exited the judge’s house into the chill of the night I saw an opulent coach parked immediately in front, and as the door opened I witnessed no other than Mr. Perceval Bloathwait, the Bank of England director, step forward.

  “I believe you owe me a favor, Mr. Weaver,” Bloathwait said in his dull voice. “Had my enemies at the South Sea arrived here first, they would certainly have paid heavily to keep you held over for trial. Not that they would have permitted a trial—no doubt too dangerous to allow a man like you to tell what he knows in a public forum. Once in Newgate you would certainly have been more susceptible to a variety of misadventures—gaol fever, fights with other prisoners, and so forth; I should never have seen you alive again.”

  “An idea that no doubt filled you with horror,” I said skeptically. Bloathwait had aided me only to further his own plans, and I could not quite bring myself to feel anything like gratitude.

  “As you know, I want you to get to the heart of this matter. I believe you must be getting close, for your enemies are growing significantly bolder. Well done.”

  I opened my mouth to respond, but my injured friend Elias forced his way past me to greet Bloathwait and bow at him profusely. “It is a great pleasure to see you once again, sir. It has been far too long since I have had the honor to serve you.”

  Bloathwait stared at Elias’s costume. “Do you know this vagabond, Weaver?”

  I tried to suppress a smile. “This gentleman is Mr. Elias Gordon,” I said, “who was injured tonight performing a service for me. I believe he once had the opportunity to perform a service for you as well. Something of a medical matter, if I am not mistaken.”

  Bloathwait waved his hand in the air. “You are that Irish surgeon who fawned over me one night in the theatre.”

  “Just so,” Elias agreed with surprising obsequiousness. I had once seen him covertly administer a triple dose of laxative to a gentleman who had made the mistake of calling him an Irishman, but for a man of Bloathwait’s wealth, Elias bore up under what he perceived as an insult.

  Bloathwait turned back to me. “I hope you will use this freedom I’ve purchased.”

  “I appreciate your assistance,” I said dryly, “yet I feel that you know more than you are letting on, Mr. Bloathwait, and I do not much enjoy being so toyed with.”

  “I know only that the South Sea Company is somehow involved and, in ways I do not understand, so is that rascal Jonathan Wild. But I know little more.”

  “What of Martin Rochester?” I asked.

  “Yes, there is Rochester, is there not? Such goes without saying.”

  I could barely contain my fury. Why would no one tell me anything of this phantom? “Have you any idea where I can find him?” I asked.

  Bloathwait stared at me. “Where you can find Rochester? I see I have overestimated you, Weaver. I should have thought you would have reasoned that out by now.”

  “Reasoned what out?” I own I snapped rather than spoke.

  Bloathwait’s small mouth curled into a smile. “There is no such man as Martin Rochester.”

  I felt like a man who suddenly awakens in a strange place, knowing not where he is or how he has arrived there. How could there be no Martin Rochester? For what had I been searching? I concentrated to gather in my passions and form these questions. “Every man upon the Exchange has heard of him. How can there be no Martin Rochester?”

  “He is a mere apparition of a stock-jobber,” Bloathwait explained in his grand manner. “He is a shield under which another man or men do business. If you want to learn who killed your father, you do not need to find Martin Rochester; you need to learn who he is.”

  I needed some time to consider this revelation. It explained why no one knew him, certainly. But how could this apparition do business with so many and still remain unknown? “Gad,” I mumbled to myself, “how very wretched.”

  I noticed that Elias had stopped simpering. “This is the villainy of which I have warned you,” he said. “Our very enemy is constructed of paper. The crime is paper and the criminal is paper. Only the victims are real.”

  I could not share Elias’s philosophical horror. I still believed there were such things as questions with answers, and I wished very much to believe that any veil of deceit, no matter how cleverly placed, might be torn away.

  “A man of paper,” I said aloud. “Do you have any idea of his real identity?”

  Bloathwait shook his head. “He could be one man or he could be an entire club. I cringe to see that you have been wasting your time seeking out a flesh-and-blood man when you could have been endeavoring to get to the bottom of this matter. I should see if I might sell you back to the judge for all you are apparently worth.”

  “Regardless of who this man is,” Elias said, “should we not know more of what he is? What is his connection to the South Sea Company?”

  Bloathwait flashed us a scowl. “You have not even learned so much as that?”

  I thought on what Cowper had said; I had asked him of Rochester hard on the heels of my asking about the stock forgery. I told you, sir, that I would not discuss the matter. I could draw only one probable conclusion. “Rochester is the purveyor of false stock,” I said to Bloathwait.

  He stared at me and nodded very slowly. “You may yet serve,” he said.

  I ignored his reserved praise. Did he think me a dog he might pat upon the head?

  “You know where you may call upon me should you require anything further,” Bloathwait said. He then entered his carriage, and his horses slowly trotted off, leaving me and Elias perhaps more confused than ever.

  ELIAS MET WITH ME the next morning. The hesitation in his walk suggested that pain still hindered his movements, but he appeared otherwise quite well. He informed me that he had pressing business at the theatre, but he was happy to lend me such time as he had. We sat in my uncle’s parlor, sipp
ing tea, trying not to think of the disasters we had narrowly escaped the previous night.

  “I cannot think of how to continue,” I said. “There are so many men involved, and I have so many suspicions. I know not how to sort it out, who to visit, nor what questions to ask.”

  Elias laughed. “I believe you have struck upon the problems of conspiracies. There are men who wish to keep you from uncovering the truth about this particular matter, but there are others who are only privately villainous and have their own little truths to hide. When you confront a conspiracy it becomes monstrous hard to distinguish between wretched villainy and ordinary, common lies.”

  I nodded. “Last night Bloathwait confirmed my suspicion that Rochester, whoever he might be, is the vendor of the false stock. Several men have suggested that it was Rochester who had my father run down, which would certainly make sense if my father threatened the false-stock trade. It is therefore likely that Rochester is responsible for the various assaults upon my person, and indeed now your person.”

  “Soundly argued,” Elias agreed.

  “We further know that Rochester will go to seemingly any length to stay hidden, but our greatest chance of concluding this inquiry is in bringing Rochester to light. If we cannot locate him, as indeed it seems we cannot, perhaps we can locate his other victims.”

  Elias clapped his hands. “I believe you may be on the verge of striking a very sound blow.”

  I smiled. “Is it not probable that we might find some of his enemies—the holders of false stock, or those who have had violent dealings with him? When I attempted to deliver my false message at Jonathan’s, many a man looked up when the boy cried out the name of Rochester.”

  “I hardly think you can question every broker upon the ’Change,” Elias observed.

  “Not the brokers, but what about his buyers? As you say, the ones who have no idea that they have been wronged. They are the ones, Elias, because not knowing they have been wronged, they know not that they have something to fear.” My heart began to race. I saw at last a solution. “We must find them. They will lead me to Rochester.”

  I could not tell if Elias was more excited by the idea or by my enthusiasm. “Good Gad, Weaver. That look upon your face is one of inspiration. I hardly know you any longer.”

  I told him of my idea, and Elias helped me work out the details. We then traveled to the offices of the Daily Advertiser, and placed the following advertisement:

  To Any and All Persons

  Who have bought stock from, or sold stock to,

  Mr. Martin Rochester

  You are asked to attend

  Mr. Kent’s Coffeehouse, in Peter Street, near Bloomsbury Square

  this Thursday between the hours of noon and three,

  at which time you will receive compensation

  for your time

  After conducting our business, we returned to the street to make our way home. Elias and I both covered our noses with handkerchiefs as we passed a pauper pushing a cart of spoiled mutton. “It is an audacious stroke,” I mumbled, as we hurried past this foulness.

  “Rather,” Elias agreed, “but I believe it cannot fail. Your enemies, sir, know who you are and what you are about. They have been able to make you come to them, and they have been able to find you. Now you, sir, must expose their weaknesses. This rascal Rochester has gone to great lengths to protect his identity, but no one can be so careful as to be undetectable. He has made mistakes, and we shall find them soon enough.”

  “It cannot but be otherwise,” I agreed, fired by the thrill of decisive action. “I suspect this false identity of his was never meant to withstand the degree of scrutiny we shall unleash upon him.”

  Elias nodded. “You begin to understand the theory of probability,” he said. “From the general necessity of the existence of victims, you will find the particular of the villain.”

  “If only we still had my father’s pamphlet.” I could not easily estimate the loss of that document. “If we still had it in hand, I imagine we might have done some pushing here and there with a very powerful tool.”

  “I believe you did,” Elias pointed out. “Is that not why the document was stolen?”

  He was quite correct. I would have to learn to think more as he did if I was to outwit these villains.

  THE IDEA OF THE advertisement filled me with a glowing pleasure in my own ingenuity, and I longed to inform my uncle of what I had done. The door to my uncle’s study sat ajar, and I approached in the hope of finding him unoccupied, but I soon saw my mistake. Several voices came from within, and I should have turned away, thinking only to return at a more convenient time, but I discovered something that sat ill with me. One of the men who spoke was Noah Sarmento, and while I had no love for the man, I could feel no surprise to find him in my uncle’s presence. No, it was a second voice that struck me, for it belonged to none other than Abraham Mendes, Jonathan Wild’s man.

  I quickly retreated—too quickly, for I heard hardly more than a word or two of their conversation, but I dared not linger where I might be caught spying so boldly upon my own kinsman.

  Instead I walked outside and waited upon the street, pacing up and down for the better part of an hour until I saw Sarmento and Mendes leave the house together. Perhaps I should say they left simultaneously, for there was nothing cooperative, or even congenial, about the way these two men acted with each other. They merely departed from the same place at the same time.

  I stepped forward before they could part, however. “Ho, gentlemen,” I said with affected gaiety. “How good to see you both. Especially you, Mr. Mendes, emerging so unexpectedly from my uncle’s house.”

  “What do you want, Weaver?” Sarmento asked sourly.

  “And you,” I continued, now driven by nothing but bluster. “You, my good friend, Mr. Sarmento. I have hardly seen you since—when was it now?—ah, yes. It was after the masquerade where you lurked in the crowd just after a failed effort to assassinate my person. How do you do, sir?”

  Sarmento clucked disgustedly, as though I had mentioned something ribald in polite company. “I neither understand you nor wish to,” he said, “nor shall I spend any more time with a man who speaks nonsensical stuff.” He spun sharply and affected to walk off with dignity, but he repeatedly turned to see if I pursued, and did not stop straining his neck until he rounded the corner and disappeared from sight.

  I thought to give chase, but Mendes went nowhere, as though he dared me to inquire into his business. I had no doubt I should be able to break Sarmento at the time of my choosing, but Mendes was quite another matter.

  “I am pleased to see you in so fine a mood, sir,” he said to me. “I hope your inquiry treats you well.”

  “Yes,” I said, though my good spirits had now dissipated. “At this moment I inquire into a very curious matter indeed. I inquire into your presence in my uncle’s house.”

  “Nothing simpler,” he told me. “I had a matter of business to resolve.”

  “But the details, Mr. Mendes, the details. What matter of business might that be?”

  “Merely some fashionable cloth that Mr. Lienzo found upon his hands and that a sometimes too-zealous government would not let him easily dispose of. He entrusted me with these goods some months ago, and having found a buyer, I only wished to pay your uncle what he was owed.”

  “And Sarmento’s role in all of this?”

  “He is your uncle’s factor. You know that. He was with your uncle when I arrived. Surely,” he added with a grin, “you do not suspect your uncle of some mischief, do you? I should hate to see you break with him as you broke with your father.”

  I stiffened at these words, which I knew he meant most provocatively. “I should be careful, sir. Do you in truth wish to test whether or no I am a match for you?”

  “I meant no challenge,” he told me, in a voice of oily mock-conciliation. “I speak only out of concern. You see, I, who have lived many years in this neighborhood, saw the pain your father felt at havi
ng lost his son to the plague of pride. Both his and yours, I believe.”

  I opened my mouth to respond, but I could think of nothing to say, and he proceeded apace. “Shall I tell you a story of your father, sir? I think you might find it most interesting.”

  I stood silent, hardly able to guess what he would say.

  “Not more than two or three days before the accident that took his life, he called upon me in my home and offered me a handsome sum of money to perform a task for him.”

  He wished to make me ask, and so I did. “What task?”

  “One I thought strange, I promise you. He wished me to deliver a message.”

  “A message,” I repeated. I could hardly hide my confusion.

  “Yes. I thought it most incomprehensible, and with every effort to avoid appearing to put on airs, I told Mr. Lienzo that I thought it somewhat beneath my station to deliver messages. He appeared embarrassed, and he explained to me that he feared someone might intend him harm. He thought a man of my stripe might be able to deliver the message both safely and inconspicuously.”

  This story hurt far more than I would have anticipated. Mendes had been hired to perform a task that I might have done had my father and I been upon speaking terms. My father had needed a man upon whose strength and courage he could depend, and he had not called upon me—perhaps he had not even thought to call upon me. If he had, I wondered, how should I have responded?

  “I brought the message to its recipient,” Mendes continued, “who was, at that time, at Garraway’s Coffeehouse in ’Change Alley. The man opened the note and muttered only, ‘Damme, the Company and Lienzo in the same day.’ Do you know who this recipient was?”

  I fixed my gaze hard upon him.

  “Why, the very man you asked Mr. Wild about. Perceval Bloathwait.”

  I licked my lips, which were now quite dry. “Did Mr. Bloathwait have a reply?” I asked.

  Mendes nodded, strangely pleased with himself. “Mr. Bloathwait asked me to tell your father that he thanked him for the honor he did him by sharing this information, and that he should keep it to himself until he, Bloathwait that is, had a chance to reflect upon it.”