by David Liss
“A murderer?” he demanded. “You had better choose your words with care, sir, lest you know my wrath.”
“If I could gather together all the gentlemen of this city who would welcome the chance to know your wrath, they could hardly fit in the opera house, sir. What fear I of so hollow a promise as your wrath? I shall brook no prevarication. I must know at once the nature of your dealings with Martin Rochester.”
“I’ve never heard of anyone named—”
I could scarce comprehend that he would lie thus, and the effrontery of it—the way in which he presumed me so easily deceived—filled me with outrage. I grabbed him by his coat collar and pushed him hard against the wall. From behind my back, I could hear Miriam begin to utter a protest and then stifle herself.
“I know you have had dealings with him. You will tell me about them.”
He held out his hands submissively, and I could see in his downcast gaze that he had no more fight in him. “I arranged to buy stock from him. Nothing more.”
I released my grip and took a step back, but I remained close enough to make him feel the threat of my presence. Proximity, I have learned, is often as effective as violence. “How did you conduct your business with him?”
“He would never meet with me, but he contacted me one day by letter, saying he knew of my interest in raising money upon the ’Change.”
“Your false projects,” I said.
“Projects, yes. He told me he could sell me South Sea stock discounted. I needed only arrange the sales and send him the money, and he would provide the stock.”
“And to whom did you sell besides Miriam?”
He shook his head. “No one.”
“And why have you been seeking him out? Why did you follow the messenger when I sent the note for Rochester?”
“I bought some shares myself. I then began to suspect there was something wrong. I was motivated at first by my desire to acquire the stock cheap, but I then began to wonder how he could have ordered the matter. When I tried to contact him, he had disappeared.”
“Very well. You will take me to see those shares now.” If I could lay my hands upon more false issues, I thought, then I might have some leverage with the South Sea Company. But I saw at once that I could never hope to acquire any forged stock from Deloney.
“There are circumstances that make that difficult.” He gritted his teeth as though the ineptitude of his lie caused him pain. But why would he lie? Because he had no wish to surrender his stock? No, for by now he knew it was false. There was only one answer that seemed within the limits of probability.
“You never bought any of the stock yourself.” I spoke it like a statement of fact.
He shook his head, half relieved, half shamed to have the truth aired. “No, I never did.”
Miriam stared at him, but he refused to meet her gaze. I guessed that he had lied to her, told her that he had invested heavily in order to convince her to do the same.
“You said you sold to no one but Miriam,” I observed. “How so? If this scheme was so profitable, why did you not exploit it further?”
“I had trouble finding buyers,” Deloney said haltingly.
“Of course.” I now understood clearly. I was not the only man to think on what was probable. “Your false projects had made your name a mockery to any man with a substantial amount to invest. You could find no investors, and your failed efforts no doubt injured Rochester’s plans—for men would begin to talk about the discounted stock as one more of your petty projects. Once Rochester learned of your reputation for false projects, he knew an association with you could only injure his schemes, and he severed all connections with you.”
That Deloney did not disagree told me I had guessed correctly.
“You knew the stock was false when you sold it to Miriam, did you not?” I announced, testing my theory by speaking it aloud. “You knew it was as false as those foolish projects that you concocted at your own escritoire. Miriam gave you six hundred pounds, even though you were aware that she needed this money in order to establish her own household.”
Deloney tried to move backward, but there was nowhere to go. “She could have sold the stocks herself. The fact that they were false did not undo their value.”
I leaned closer to him. “Martin Rochester killed my father, and he killed a woman I had sought to protect. If you know something of who he is or where I might find him, you had better tell me now. If you hold back any information, I swear to you that I shall seek my vengeance upon you as ruthlessly as I do upon him.”
“I tell you I don’t know,” he almost squealed. “If I knew how to find him, would I have been chasing after messenger boys at Jonathan’s?”
It was true that Deloney had been desperate to find Rochester and had no more idea how to do so than I did. There was nothing more to be gained from this man. It was only my desire to assert my manhood before Miriam that made me humiliate him once more. I took a step back, drew my hangar, and pointed the blade to his throat. “Return to me the two guineas I lent you in good faith.”
I saw at once that he opened his mouth to utter a lie, but he checked it. With trembling hands he reached into his purse and procured the coins, which, with great difficulty, he set upon the table.
I sheathed my weapon. “Go. And do not let me, or anyone of my family, see you no more.”
Deloney dared not even look at Miriam, but as though his legs had turned into puddings, he walked toward the door, opened it, and was gone.
I closed the door and turned to Miriam. She had seated herself, and she had buried her face in her hands. At first I thought she wept, but I suppose she sensed my gaze upon her and she looked up at me. Her face showed confusion, anger, perhaps even shame, but she shed no tears.
I pulled a chair over to her. “Why did you come here tonight?” I asked as gently as I could.
“What business have you to demand that of me?” she snapped, but she soon decided her anger was misplaced. She took a breath and straightened her posture. “I wanted to know the truth. I wanted to learn what you wished to learn—if he had deceived me knowingly, if he had been in league with this Rochester. I suppose I should not have learned the truth had you not arrived.”
“It is the nature of a man like Deloney to lie. He is naught but deception and foolish greed.”
Miriam, to my dismay, understood the insult I had intended, but she did not bristle at it. “Please understand, Benjamin, that when you are trapped, when a person is trapped, any escape seems so much like a good one. I know it was foolish of me to trust him, but our association gave me pleasure, made me feel free. I had command over something in my life.”
“Would you have felt free had he lodged his child in your belly?” I asked pointedly.
Miriam gasped. Her head snapped back. “How dare you make such an accusation?”
“I accuse you of nothing, but I am not unfamiliar with the ways of such men as Deloney.”
“Or of widows such as myself?” she demanded.
“I apologize,” I said, though my words dropped from my mouth with leaden thickness. “It is no place of mine to dictate your behavior. Soon you will be your own mistress, and you will be able to make any decisions you see fit.” The thought sat with me rather ill, however, for I had little faith, based on the decision I had seen, that Miriam would prove skillful at managing her affairs.
Miriam raised her eyebrows slightly. She appeared to sense my thoughts. “You need not worry about me selling my little fortune to the first gentleman who comes along. I am not interested in marrying any such grasping fools. I do not suppose the man I should like to marry exists.”
I took a deep breath. “Perhaps the man you seek is one who knows both the ways of our people and the ways of the English. Someone who can help guide you into English society while protecting you from its evils and excesses.” My heart raced in the silence that followed my speech.
Miriam looked nervously at her hands. “I cannot imagine where I might fi
nd such a man,” she said quickly, “and I cannot believe you can tell me.”
“I can,” I said softly, “for he sits before you.” I own that my voice trembled as I spoke.
She stared at me as though it had never occurred to her that I would say such a thing, though I had flattered myself that I had only said as much as she expected. She rose to her feet, attempting to order her thoughts. At last she stood and offered me a nervous smile. “I think it best that we both pretend this conversation never took place. We should return to your uncle’s house.”
I stood and faced her manfully. “Miriam, if I have offended you—”
She met my gaze with more boldness and assurance than I would have expected. “Offense is not important,” she told me, her voice hardly more than a whisper. I listened to her words, but my eye fixed upon the sweet smile of her lips. “You must know that I like you prodigiously. I admire you, and I think you a very worthy man, but you cannot imagine for an instant that I could learn to endure what you offer. At South Sea House, they spoke of a man you had killed, and here tonight you spoke of a woman who died under your protection. You removed your blade and held it to Philip’s throat as though you had done so a thousand times, and as though you could kill him and think nothing of it.” She could not meet my gaze. “I am not the woman for you, Benjamin.”
I could say nothing. There were no words with which I could counter this too-just complaint. We had been born of the same station, but my decisions had placed me far below this woman. I had made my own way, and because I could not undo what I had done, I could only act in accordance with the life I had chosen.
I leaned toward Miriam and kissed her gently upon the lips.
The moment dazzled me. She did not move—either away from me or toward me—but she closed her eyes and kissed me back. I smelled nothing but the dizzy mingling of her sweet breath and her floral perfume. I had never kissed a woman such as she—a woman of wealth and station and intelligence and wit. It was a kiss that made me hungry for more.
I pressed forward, and in doing so broke the spell. Miriam opened her eyes and pulled away from me, backing up only a few small steps, but enough to impose a wall of awkward space between us. I know not how long we stood there, saying nothing, I looking upon her, she upon me. I heard only the sound of footsteps in the hall and my own deep breathing.
“My uncle has offered me a position,” I said. “I could trade in the Levant. I could be something other than a man you fear. If I made a mistake when I left my father’s house, I can right that error.”
Miriam let out a slight gasp—almost inaudible, and sounding as though she had choked upon the air. Her eyes moistened; they clouded over like windows in a rainstorm. She blinked and blinked, trying to make her tears disappear, but the tears betrayed her and trickled down her face. “It cannot be.” She shook her head only slightly. “I do not wish to marry Aaron once more. I could not bear to see you try to become him for my sake. I should only hate myself.” She wiped at the tears with her fingers. “I should come to hate you too.” She attempted a smile, but it failed her, and instead she turned from me and opened the door.
I could not call after her. I could not move to hold her back. I had no argument with which to refute what she said. I had only the passions of my heart, and I knew that for the world, and for Miriam, these were not enough. I watched her descend the stairs and hand the tapman a coin to procure her a hackney.
With nothing else to do, I rang the bell and called for a bottle of wine, which I used to wash away the taste of Miriam’s lips.
THE NEXT MORNING my head and heart ached with equal urgency, but such pain only made me wish for distractions.
I made my way once more to Bloathwait’s town house, determined this time I would speak with him whether he would or no. I waited at the door for several minutes before his scruffy servant appeared. He glanced at me, by now familiar with a face he had denied a half-dozen times. “Mr. Bloathwait is not in,” he said.
“Did not Mr. Bloathwait inform you that he was always to be in for me?” I inquired, as I pushed past him. “I think you will find yourself to be glad I did not take your denial to heart.”
I moved forward at a steady and only slightly hurried pace, but this servant rushed to move before me and block my path. I would have none of it, and shoved him aside, this time with a small measure of violence, knocking him slightly against the wall. I suffered no more interference and made my way to Bloathwait’s study. I knocked once and then opened the door to find the man at his desk with his shaved head exposed. His wig hung on a hook behind him, and his pale and beveined head bobbed up and down as he wrote furiously upon a piece of paper.
“Weaver.” He looked up, and then returned to his writing. “Forced your way in, did you?”
“Yes,” I said. I reached his desk and stood there, not taking a seat.
Bloathwait looked up once more, and this time he set aside his quill. “You’ll not get far if you allow servants and little men to block your path. I hope you didn’t hurt poor Andrew too much, but if you had to, do not trouble yourself about it.”
“Do you mean to say,” I nearly stammered, “that you had your servant deny me in the expectation that I would force my way in to see you?”
“Not the expectation, but certainly the hope. I make it my business to know what sort of men I’m dealing with. Now, please stop standing before me. You look as eager as a hunting dog. Sit down and tell me what you have to say for yourself.”
A little stunned, I sat down. “You have not been entirely honest with me, Mr. Bloathwait,” I began.
He shrugged.
I took that as permission to continue. “It has come to my attention that before he died, my father sent some sort of message to you. I wish to know the content of that message. I also wish to know why you withheld this contact from me.”
Bloathwait’s tiny mouth pouted. I could not say if he smiled or frowned. “How did you learn of the message?”
“From the messenger.”
He nodded. “The note contained some information that he believed could do a great injury to the South Sea Company. He proposed we set aside our differences in order to bring this information to light.”
“The information being the existence of forged South Sea issues?”
“Of course.”
I dug my fingernails into my palms. “You knew of the forged stock from the beginning, but you said nothing to me. You offered to share with me any knowledge you might have, and yet you kept this from me. Why?”
Bloathwait merely smiled. “I thought it in my best interest to do so.”
“Mr. Bloathwait, I have only recently had a very distressing encounter at South Sea House, where their agents sought to convince me that any suspicions I might have of that Company are fabricated by their enemies: the Bank of England, and no doubt you in particular. I find their claims very disturbing, sir, and your reluctance to share information with me makes their claims even more disturbing. So, again, I must ask you about your reluctance to share information with me.”
“I admit I was not entirely forthright with you, Mr. Weaver. I told you that I would give you any information to aid in your inquiry. Such was clearly not the case. You have found me out. I have given you what information I have wanted you to have and no more.”
“But why?” I demanded. “Do you want the South Sea Company exposed or no?”
“Oh, I do. I do indeed. But in my own way, sir. On my own schedule.”
I was silent for a moment as I considered the consequences of using violence against a man of Bloathwait’s stature. “I wish to see the message you received of my father.”
“I am afraid that is not possible. I have destroyed it.”
“Then I wish for you to tell me, as nearly as you can recall, what it said.”
He showed me a tight-lipped smile. “Your question suggests that you have your own suspicions of what it said. Perhaps you should tell me.”
I sucked in a brea
th of air. “I believe,” I said, attempting to keep my voice from wavering, “that there is only one reason why my father would have contacted you after so many years—after all the unpleasantness that passed between you. He believed himself to be in some danger, and he sought your help because those who threatened him were the enemies of the Bank of England. Thus by helping you he might have secured his own protection.”
“Very clever. You have guessed the nature of the message precisely.”
“And what assistance did you offer?” I breathed.
“Alas,” Bloathwait said, his face a mockery of contrition, “I had scarcely time to contemplate the import of your father’s message before his horrific fate befell him.”
I rose to my feet. I understood that I had as much information as I would receive of Bloathwait, and I believed I understood why he told me what he did and told me no more. I turned then to exit the room, but I briefly stopped myself and looked back. “I am most curious,” I said, “about the nature of your relationship with Mr. Sarmento.”
Bloathwait let out another laugh. “Sarmento.” He said the name as though it were the first word of a poem. He then picked up his pen. “My relationship with Sarmento is much like my relationship with you, sir.” He stared at me for a moment before continuing. “That is to say, he does what I wish of him. Good day to you.”
Bloathwait returned to writing, and I walked from his study knowing that I would need to do so immediately if I was to escape without harming him.
THIRTY
IT WAS FRIDAY AFTERNOON, and my uncle had returned from his warehouse early. I met him in the parlor and joined him in a glass of Madeira. The wine helped calm me after my meeting with Bloathwait, and it also gave me courage to ask my uncle uncomfortable questions. He had been kind to me, given me a home, offered me funds, and aided my inquiry. But I still did not know that I could trust him, nor understand why he kept information from me, or even what his motives were.
“Before he died,” I began, “my father contacted Bloathwait. Did you know that, sir?”
