A Conspiracy of Paper (24 page)

Observing that I watched his movements, he squinted disapprovingly. “I await your commands,” he said tersely. “I have allotted a quarter of an hour at the utmost for this meeting, but I reserve the right to abridge that amount of time should I determine our conversation to be unproductive.”

I could never be certain with a creature like Bloathwait, but I believed that my presence unnerved him, and I felt a strange thrill, pressing upon this man who had so pressed upon me when I was a boy. We sat here as equals, or at least something not entirely unlike equals. At any rate, he felt it in his interest to listen to what I had to say. “And what is it you wish your conversation to produce?” I asked, opting to be deliberately elliptical.

Bloathwait blinked like an uncomprehending beast. “What expectations should I have? You have called upon me.”

Anxious to remove myself from his cold scrutiny, I thought I should avoid the issue no further. “I am here, Mr. Bloathwait, because I am inquiring into the matter of my father’s death.”

His face displayed no emotion, but he scrawled a note upon a piece of paper. “How very odd you should come to me.” He did not look up while he spoke. “Do you believe I know something of the operation of hackney coaches?”

I stung a bit at this rebuke. It occurred to me that, despite my efforts to puff myself up, I still felt somewhat childish in Bloathwait’s presence, as though he were an older kinsman or a teacher; unnerving him, I realized, left me feeling naughty, not powerful. I would get nowhere if I cringed each time he looked at me with disapproval, so I involuntarily clenched the muscles in my chest as I determined to treat him as I would any man.

“Hardly,” I said, affecting a bit of impatience. “But it is my recollection that you did know something of my father.”

He raised his head once more. “Your father and I both worked upon the ’Change, Mr. Weaver—each in his own way. I attended your father’s funeral as a courtesy, and no more.”

“But you knew something of him,” I pressed on. “Such is what I have heard.”

“I will not answer for what you have or have not heard.”

“Then I shall tell you,” I said, thrilled now to have taken control of our conversation. “I have been told, sir, that you made it a habit all your life to inquire into my father’s affairs. That you familiarized yourself with his business, with his acquaintances, with his comings and goings. I know that at least once you took some small notice of the comings and goings of his children, and that later you transferred your interest to the father himself.”

He offered me the slightest of smiles, exposing a wall of improbably large and crooked teeth. “Your father and I had been enemies. I see you have some recollection of our animosity. Though that enmity ended long ago on my part, I have learned that it is wisest to assume one’s neighbors less generous than oneself.” He paused for a moment. “I maintained a distant familiarity with your father in the event that he wished me harm. Such never proved to be the case.”

“I hoped,” I continued, “that because you did maintain such a familiarity you might have some idea on who should wish him harm.”

“Why do you believe anyone should wish him harm? I was led to believe that his death was an unfortunate accident.”

“I have been led to believe otherwise,” I explained. I proceeded to inform him of the suspicions of William Balfour.

Bloathwait listened like a student at a lecture. He took notes as I spoke, and appeared to ponder confusing aspects of my narrative. Then I finished, and he changed his attitude to one of mild amusement, shaking his head and displaying a condescending smile upon his little mouth. “If Balfour-the-son is only half as much a fool as Balfour-the-father, then he is twice as much fool as should be heeded. I shall tell you, I have no contempt for poverty—none whatsoever. If a man begins with nothing and ends with nothing, he is like most men upon the earth. Some men who grow rich become contemptuous of men who are poor or of men who began as poor. I only have contempt for men who were once rich and became poor. I have had my reversals—of course
you
know that—but a true man of business can reverse his reversals. Balfour squandered everything upon nonsensical pleasures, and he left nothing for his family. I scorn him.”

“I believe there is some merit in what his son claims. If not in the son himself,” I added after an instant.

He fingered the corner of a piece of paper. “Have you any proof of these suspicions?”

I thought it best to share no information yet. I wished to know what Bloathwait knew—not how he would react to what little information I already had. “Had I proof,” I said, “I should not require your help. I now only have suspicions.”

He leaned forward, as though to signal that he now wished to give me his full attention. “I shall tell you that I had something of a personal dislike of your father. I do not hesitate to say so. In matters of the Exchange, however, I could not but respect him, as I respect any man who supported the Bank of England. I shall therefore do all that I can to aid you, that I might honor all men who honor the Bank. I cannot say I believe your fantastical tale of plotted murders and missing issues, but if you wish to make some sort of inquiry, I shall in no way hinder you.”

I thought it best to acknowledge what he clearly believed to be his generosity. “Thank you, Mr. Bloathwait.”

He stroked his chin thoughtfully. “I also do not like the idea that someone might murder one of your race with impunity,” he continued. “I hardly need tell you that we Dissenters suffer from nearly as many disabilities as you Hebrews, and I should hate to think that any man might strike down another without fear of punishment so long as his victim is not a member of the Church of England.”

“I respect your sense of justice,” I said cautiously.

He leaned back in his chair and spread his hands upon the expanse of his chest. “I wish I knew of something that might help you. I can only tell you this: in the weeks before his accident, I heard some rumors about your father. I heard that he had somehow become an enemy of the South Sea Company.”

I concentrated on looking no more than mildly curious, though I wished to ask a thousand questions—none of which I could formulate. That Bloathwait had heard talk of enmity between my father and the Company proved little, but it confirmed the importance of the pamphlet that my uncle had uncovered.

“Tell me more about what you heard.”

“I fear there is no more,” he said with a casual wave of his hand. “Men do not speak openly against the Company, Mr. Weaver. It is far too powerful to cross. I only heard that your father had engaged himself upon some business that might injure the South Sea. I never learned the nature of the business or the injury.”

“From whom did you hear these things?”

He shook his head. “I could not say. It was long ago, and I thought nothing of it at the time. Men who do business often exchange information casually. I regret that I took no further notice.”

“I regret it too.”

“Should I learn anything further, I will certainly contact you. I can only advise you that if you truly believe your father to have been murdered, then you must look to what he might have done to anger the men of the South Sea Company. You must then determine what course of action such a Company might take.”

“What
could
a man have done to anger the Company?”

Bloathwait exposed his palms in a gesture of ignorance. “I cannot say how the managers of the South Sea think, sir. If a man were to threaten their profits, would they lash out against him? I do not know. But I can think that your father had no greater enemy when he died.”

“Do you believe, then, that the Company would have its agents kill a man who threatened profits?”

“I never said so,” Bloathwait responded coolly. “I merely state that the directors of the South Sea are ambitious men. I would not guess to what lengths they might go to protect their ambitions.”

I could not trust the disinterested air with which he hinted at the villainy of the Company. When I was a boy, Bloathwait had proved himself to be an ambitious plotter, and he had not become a man of such importance without learning subtlety. His caution in discussing the Company surely disguised the extent to which he wished me to believe his implications.

“These ambitions,” I said, using the same easy tone as Bloathwait, “threaten the Bank of England, do they not? The South Sea Company is your most dangerous rival. I should think you would benefit greatly if I discover any wrongdoing on the Company’s part.”

Bloathwait’s face darkened, and in an instant I saw the man of my boyhood—enormous, determined, and terrifying in his intensity. “I think you go too far.” He spoke in a deep, hostile whisper. “Do you suggest that I would threaten other men’s business out of petty motives? You came here looking for my assistance, and I have told you what I know. I find your insults as inexplicable as they are rude.”

“I meant no rudeness.” I attempted a conciliatory tone, though what came from my mouth sounded like an angry retort.

He shook his head to show his contempt for my clumsy effort at recovery. Our discourse now resembled lines in a stage play more than it did conversation—neither of us spoke anything like truth, but we dared not venture too far from our roles.

“You may show yourself out,” he said quietly, hoping to convey the demands of his affairs rather than the insult of my accusation. “I have no more time for you. I wish you well of your inquiry, and if I stumble upon information that might help you, I shall send it along.”

I pushed myself to my feet and bowed. I had just turned when he called my name.

“I cannot guess what your inquiry will yield, Weaver, but should you learn anything of the South Sea Company that seems to be of”—he paused to consider his words—“of an incriminating nature, I beg that you will come to me with your information before you go elsewhere. I promise you that the Bank will pay you handsomely for your consideration.”

I bowed again and left the study.

I felt some relief as I made my way out, for I believed that I should always relish keeping my distance from Bloathwait. For now, however, I knew that I might not enjoy so much of a distance as I should like. He had confirmed what I already knew—that my father had made the South Sea Company his enemy. The mere existence of this enmity did not prove a murder, but it gave me somewhere to press my inquiry. More to the point, Bloathwait had shown himself willing to aid me in my efforts, so long as the South Sea Company suffered for it. I comforted myself with the thought that should I become convinced of the guilt of the Company or its agents, I should have a powerful, if dangerous, ally.

As I walked toward the door, I stopped and asked a stooped man of middle years if he knew Bessie’s whereabouts, but this worthy shooed me away. “Off with ye,” he snapped and bared his teeth like a goat. “Bessie’s fool enough without having her head turned by the likes of ye.”

I bowed meekly and made my way from the house. But I had an idea in my head that I would be back, and the next time I would not go through such formal channels.

SEVENTEEN

T
HE NEXT AFTERNOON
, Elias came to pay me a visit, puffed up with joy and quite ready to hug himself. He had hardly walked through my door before his news exploded forth. “There’s been a terrible misfortune with a brother playwright,” he said with pleasure. “Some blockhead named Croger, who was to have had a play completed for Cibber, has gone and died without finishing his work. Absolutely dead. My play has been accepted and is to be performed next week.”

I heartily congratulated my friend upon his good fortune. I turned to reach for a decanter that we might share a celebratory drink, but Elias had somehow reached it before I turned around, and he handed me a glass. We drank to his success, and he threw himself down in one of my armchairs.

“Is this not unusual, for a play to be rushed into production so quickly?” I asked.

“Shockingly uncommon,” he assured me, “but Cibber is the sort of theatre manager who is always determined to have something new early in the season, and when he heard my
Unsuspecting Lover
, he was entirely taken with it. In no small part, I think, because I designed the character of Count Fopworth to be played by Cibber. As I read through the play—and I can tell you, reading through an entire play by one’s self, trying to get all the inflections just so, is no easy task—he kept interrupting when I read Fopworth to exclaim, ‘I think there may be something in this piece,’ or ‘That has a delightful turn.’ The key is not to write plays that are good, but rather to write plays with roles for the manager. I am so very pleased with myself I shall burst.”

I listened to him talk at some length about Mr. Cibber, about the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane, about the actresses he liked there, and so forth. Elias then explained to me that he would be exceptionally busy with the rushed rehearsals, but that he still wished to assist as best he could with the inquiry. I then told him of my encounter with Bloathwait, and I asked if he had ever heard of Martin Rochester, the man my father’s slayer now worked for, but Elias shook his head.

“I cannot think how to track him down,” I complained. “A man no one can find working for another no one knows. Perhaps if I haunt Jonathan’s I might learn something of use.”

Elias smiled. “Can you be certain that you will be spending your time wisely?”

“I cannot,” I explained. “It merely appears to me to be my best option. I hope,” I said with a smile, “to study the general and to learn the particular.”

He nodded. “Very good, Weaver. In the absence of knowledge, you seek out likelihoods. There is hope for you yet.”

Elias pushed himself out of his chair and walked with an unsteady gait to my decanter, which he was displeased to find spent. “What say you, Weaver, that we go forth and celebrate my success? We shall visit the bagnio of your choice and talk probability with the whores.” I saw him looking about my shelves for another bottle of wine.

“I should like nothing better,” I assured him, “but I fear I must continue with this inquiry.”

“I suspected as much,” he replied, having no small difficulty with the word
suspected
. He then treated me to several soliloquies from his comedy, and though he forgot most of his words, I applauded vigorously. He then announced that he had whoring to attend to and more game bucks than I with whom to share his amusement. He made several attempts at the door handle, and then clumsily departed.

I listened to Elias make loud work of Mrs. Garrison’s stairway, and then sat myself at my desk and once again attempted to read through my father’s pamphlet. I cannot pretend to be shocked to say that my father was no more accessible in prose than he was in conversation. Consider the very first words of this document:

We cannot but be aware that in recent years there has been a general cry, indeed an uproar, over the growing powers in certain factions of Exchange Alley—factions that have made their intentions clear and have striven, against the better wishes of those who would see the nation prosper, to undo that which has been so boldly done in the Kingdom’s interest.

After this first sentence, I determined to begin a course of judicious skimming, which produced a flurry of accusations about the South Sea Company and praise of the Bank of England that swam mercilessly before my eyes. Some portions held my interest more than others; I could not but read closely where my father postulated a conspiracy within the great Company itself: “This forgery can only have been perpetrated with the co-operation of certain elements within South Sea House itself. The Company is as a piece of meat, rotted and crawling with maggots.”

I spent perhaps another hour with the manuscript, skimming about, hoping that somewhere my father had distilled his ideas into an apprehensible conclusion. Once disabused of this hope, I then determined that to understand the issues, my time should be spent not before my father’s pamphlet but in the heat of the fire. So I dressed myself in my best waistcoat and coat, carefully combed and tied my hair, and left my rooms with a very neat appearance. I then made my way to Jonathan’s Coffeehouse, where I was determined to spend a few hours among the engineers of the London financial markets. If I was to understand their intrigues, I reasoned, it was necessary I gain a better feel for these stock-jobbers.

I found the coffeehouse just as vibrant as it had been the day before, and though it was a less entertaining place to spend an afternoon than in a house of pleasure with a drunken Scot, I found myself of the opinion that Exchange Alley, with its bustle of activity, had much of interest. I took a seat at a table, called for a dish of coffee, and began leafing through the papers of the day.

I listened to men shout at one another across the room, debating the merits of this issue or that. Voices cried out to buy. Voices cried out to sell. I could hear arguments conducted in every living language and at least one dead one. Yet, confusing though it may have been, I felt I learned a great deal, and I took a certain pleasure at remaining there, feeling as though I were a bit of the stock-jobbing Jew upon the ’Change. There was something truly infectious about the exuberance of this place where momentous events were always about to happen, a fortune was always about to be made or lost. I had been in many a coffeehouse before where men argued about writers or actresses or politics with unbridled vehemence. Here men argued about their fortunes, and the results of their arguments produced wealth or poverty, notoriety or infamy. The stock-jobber’s coffeehouse turned argument into wealth, words into power, ideas into truth—or something that looked strikingly like truth. I had come of age in an unambiguous world of violence and passions. I felt myself to be among a different species of man now, in a strange and alien land ruled not by the strong but by the cunning and the lucky.

After perhaps three-quarters of an hour, I noticed my uncle’s clerk, Mr. Sarmento, among a group of men I did not recognize, vigorously engaging in their business. A series of documents lay upon a table, and several of the men were reading over these papers. This ritual continued for some time, and then the men all departed on seemingly amicable terms.

Sarmento had in no way indicated that he had seen me, yet when he was done with his business, he folded up his papers and walked purposefully over to my table.

“Shall I join you, Mr. Weaver?” he asked in a tone as blank and inscrutable as his face. I could find nowhere any trace of the puppy who had bounded after Mr. Adelman at my uncle’s house. Here I only saw the grim visage of a man who found life but a series of greater and lesser tensions.

“I should be delighted,” I said with a politeness that hung in the air like a foul odor.

“I cannot imagine what business brings you to this coffeehouse,” he said absently. “Are you thinking of involving yourself in the funds?”

“Yes,” I said dryly. “I believe I shall pursue a life as a licensed broker upon the ’Change.”

“You are mocking me, but you have still not answered my question.”

I took a sip of coffee. “What do you think I am doing here, Mr. Sarmento?”

He appeared astonished at this question. “I would not think you so bold as to speak of it openly. I never presume to judge Mr. Lienzo’s business, but I should hope for his sake that you would be subtle. You still recall, I hope, what your family is.”

Sarmento was hard to read, but he had the look of satisfaction that comes with having pieced together a complex puzzle. “What do you know of the matter?” I asked gently. I thought perhaps I could mislead him into telling me—I do not know what. I only knew that I did not trust him nor he me, and that struck me as reason enough to push onward.

“I assure you I know enough. Perhaps more than I ought.”

“I should very much like to know more than I ought,” I said with great calm.

Sarmento smiled in return. It was the crooked and misshapen smile of a man to whom mirth came unnaturally. “I do not believe you would. Do you know what I think, Mr. Weaver? I think you have ambitions that are well beyond your abilities.”

“I am grateful for your good opinion of me.” I bowed slightly.

“What? Must we conduct ourselves with the duplicitous politenesses of our English neighbors? That is not our way—all of this ‘you honor me’ and ‘I am your servant’ rubbish. We say what is on our minds.”

I rankled at the idea that I performed the Englishman, that I pretended to something I was not. That this man was a member of my race filled me with a kind of shame. It was a strange thing, for I had grown so used to thinking of myself as a Jew in a very particular way—listening to what the Britons around me had to say about Jews, wondering how I should feel about their words. But here was something else; over the last decade I had little experience of thinking of myself as a Jew in relation to other Jews. Now Sarmento made me feel something else—a kind of strange defensiveness, as though I were a member of a club, and I wished to see him cast out.

“Of what do you wish to speak, Mr. Sarmento?” I asked at last.

“Tell me about your conversation in Mr. Adelman’s carriage the other night.”

I pressed my hands together so as to appear a man deep in thought. In fact, I
was
deep in thought, but I wished to appear thinking thoughts of cleverness, not of confusion. “First, sir, you speak of my business with Mr. Lienzo, and now you inquire of my business with Mr. Adelman. Is there any business I have of which you do not wish to speak?”

“Business?” he asked in astonishment. “Is it business you conduct with Adelman?”

“I did not say that we had reached any agreement,” I explained. “Only that we spoke of business. But I would still very much like to know why you inquire so nearly into my affairs.”

“You misunderstand me,” Sarmento stammered, suddenly attempting to appear obsequious. “I am merely interested. Even concerned. Adelman may not be the man you think him to be, and I do not wish for you to suffer.”

“To suffer, you say? Why, did I not see you fawning all over Adelman the other night, and now you wish to warn me off him? I cannot claim to understand you.”

“I am a man who knows his way about ’Change Alley, sir, and you do not. You would be wise to remember this. But men such as Adelman and your uncle are men of business, trained in the arts of deception and flattery.”

I abruptly sat up straight, startling Mr. Sarmento. “What say you about my uncle?”

“Your uncle is not a man to be trifled with, sir. I hope you do not take him lightly. You perhaps see him as a kindly older gentleman, but I can assure you he is extremely ambitious, and it is an ambition I have come to admire and to emulate.”

“Explain yourself more clearly,” I demanded.

“Come, come. I know you are steeped now in your family
business
. Your uncle throws you a few coins, and you fetch them like a dog. But even you must surely see that it is strange that your uncle should have such a fond friendship with a man hated by your father.”

My uncle throw me coins? Adelman hated by my father? I wanted to know more, but I dared not expose myself by asking.

“Do not play with me,” I said at last. “And I should remind you to watch your tongue when you speak to a man who would not think twice about ripping it from your head.”

“I have no time for games,
Weaver
.” He mocked my name with his pronunciation. “I am also, I promise you, not a man to be trifled with. You are no longer in the ring, and you cannot beat men out of your way. If you wish to fight in ’Change Alley, sir, you will find you are outmatched by men such as myself, and here we use far more dangerous weapons than our fists.”

He looked at me in the most unanimated fashion, as though he shared a table with a piece of vegetation. There was nothing threatening about the gestures of his body, nor the look in his face. “I confess I don’t know how to understand you, sir,” I said finally. “You seem for all the world to wish to threaten me, and yet I know of no reason why you should be my enemy.”

Sarmento again offered me something not entirely unlike a smile. “If you have no wish to be my enemy, then I have no wish to threaten you.”

“What is it you fear of me?” I asked him. “That I shall assume your place in my uncle’s business? That I shall marry Miriam? That I shall challenge you to fight me? Let us be honest with each other.”

“I scorn your mockery,” he said—I cannot say angrily, for his tone changed not a whit. “You would be well advised to be cautious of me. And of your uncle—and his friends.”

Before I could respond, Sarmento had risen to his feet, shoved a short trader out of his way, and forced his way into the crowd. I was unsure of what he meant to imply about my uncle, but his warning me of Adelman troubled me more than anything else he had said, for Sarmento now wished to make insinuations of a man whom, at my uncle’s house, he had wished nothing more than to please.

Driven by curiosity, I arose from my table and made my way toward the exit, where I saw Sarmento just leaving. Waiting a moment, I followed suit, and watched him head north toward Cornhill. Once upon this busy street, it was easy for me to follow closely. He walked briskly, weaving in and out of the greedy mobs come to do business upon the ’Change.