A Conspiracy of Paper (36 page)

Kate, however, showed no interest in my concerns. “I care nothin’ for yer troubles, and I know full well that it’s Wild what’s be’ind mine. And I know there’s nothin’ with Wild and Roch’ster, so there’s nothin’ ya can say or do to Roch’ster to ’elp me.”

I attempted to reason with her for near another quarter hour, but she would not budge. I thought of evicting her from the cell I had provided, but that could do me no good. So I left her, determined to try again and determined to think of something that would offer me the leverage to make her speak.

T
HE NEXT DAY
I received a message to meet Virgil Cowper at Jonathan’s. I arrived a quarter of an hour before our planned meeting time, but found him at a table by himself, huddled over a dish of coffee.

“What have you found?” I asked, sitting across from him.

He hardly even looked at me. “There is no evidence that Samuel Lienzo ever subscribed to any South Sea issues.”

I cannot claim this information greatly surprised me. Considering what I knew of my father’s stance about the Company and the Bank of England, I should be surprised to learn he had been a stock-holder.

“However,” he continued, “Mr. Balfour is another case altogether. He had owned stock worth more than twenty thousand pounds.”

I knew not how successful a businessman Balfour had been, but twenty thousand pounds was an astronomical amount to invest in but a single fund. And if that fund should prove ruined, I should think nearly any investor should prove ruined too.

“You said
had
owned,” I thought aloud. “He did not own, then, at the time of his death?”

“I cannot comment on the time of his death, but the records show that Mr. Balfour bought his stock near two years ago and sold it again fourteen months later—about ten months ago. The stock rose not insignificantly in that time, and he made himself a handsome profit.”

If Balfour had sold his stock ten months ago, then his transaction with the South Sea Company had come and gone ten months before his death. How, then, could his supposed self-murder be linked to the Company?

“To whom did he sell?” I inquired.

“Why, he sold back to the Company, sir,” Cowper cheerfully informed me.

That was hard luck, for had he sold to another individual, I could trace that person. Once again the trail ended with the Company, and once again, I could think of no next step.

“I did come across another name,” Cowper then informed me. He smiled crookedly, like a thief upon the street offering to sell a costly handkerchief cheap.

“Another name?”

“Yes. Related to one of the names you gave me.”

“And what name is that?”

He ran his index finger along the bridge of his nose. “It will cost you another five pounds.”

“And what if this name means nothing to me?”

“Then you have wasted your five pounds, I should think.”

I shook my head, but I counted out the coins all the same.

Cowper quickly pocketed them. “The name I came across is also Lienzo. Miriam Lienzo—address listed as Broad Court, Dukes Place.”

I worked my jaw over nothing. “That is the only Lienzo you found?”

“The only one.”

I could not even take the time to consider what it meant that Miriam owned South Sea stock. With Cowper here, I needed to be sure about my father and Balfour.

“Is there another possibility?” I inquired. “About the other name, Samuel Lienzo?”

“What sort of possibility?” He affected a laugh and then stared without interest at his coffee.

I thought on how I could word my idea. “That he thought he had stock when he did not.”

“I’m sure I do not understand you,” Cowper said. He moved to drink from the dish, but he could not bring himself to place it to his lips.

“Then let me be more precise. Is there a possibility that he owned forged South Sea issues?”

“There is no possibility,” he said hastily. “Now, if you will excuse me.” He began to stand.

I was not prepared to let him depart. I reached out, grabbed his shoulder, and forced him back down. Perhaps I did so a bit too roughly. He grimaced with discomfort as I shoved him onto his bench. “Do not toy with me, Mr. Cowper. What do you know?”

He sighed and pretended to be unimpressed with my bellicose manner. “There have been rumors around South Sea House, but nothing specific. Please, Mr. Weaver, I could lose my position for even speculating that such things might exist. I wish to speak no more about it. Do you not understand the risks I take by telling you as much as I have?”

“Do you know anything of a Mr. Martin Rochester?” I demanded.

His face now turned bright red. “I told you, sir, that I would not discuss the matter.”

I rejoiced inwardly, for Cowper had just inadvertently given me far more information than I could have hoped for: in his mind, it seemed, forged stock and Martin Rochester were related concerns. “What amount could entice you to change your mind?”

“Not any amount.” He stood up and made his way from the coffeehouse.

I sat there for some moments, staring at the pulse of the crowd around me, uncertain of how to proceed. Could the South Sea Company have killed old Balfour to regain its twenty thousand pounds? Clearly not, for I now had learned that he had sold the stock back to the Company itself. More than that, if their dealings were as massive as my uncle suggested, measured in the millions, then twenty thousand pounds were as nothing to so grand an institution. Could it be that there was something else here—something I had overlooked? What if their motivation was not the money, but the ruin itself? I had assumed all along that old Balfour had been killed for money while my father had been killed for another reason—a reason related to the theft of old Balfour’s estate. Now it appeared that those assumptions were wrong—or at the very least dubious.

My thoughts were then interrupted by one of the house boys who came through crying out the name of a gentleman for whom he had a message. I bethought myself of a wonderful idea, and immediately called for a paper and pen and wrote out a brief note. I then summoned the boy over and slipped a few pence into his hand.

“Call out for this in a quarter of an hour,” I told him. “If no one claims it, tear it up.”

“Certainly, Mr. Weaver.” He flashed a silly grin and began to trot off.

I grabbed his arm. Not hard, but just enough to make him stop. “How do you know my name?” I asked, freeing him from my grip. I had no wish to make him feel threatened.

“You’re a famous person, sir,” he announced, pleased with his knowledge. “A boxer, sir.”

“Are you not a little young to have seen me fight?” I inquired, half to myself.

“I never saw you fight, but I heard about you. And then you was pointed out to me.”

My face betrayed nothing. “Who pointed me out?”

“Mr. Nathan Adelman, sir. He asked me to let him know if I saw you. Though he had no message for you.” His voice trailed off, for the first time, I think, suspecting that Adelman might not have wished him to say anything to me. He covered up the damage he had done by showing me another grin.

I gave him a few more pence. “For your trouble,” I said, hoping my money would dissuade him from thinking too hard on his blunder.

The boy ran off, giving me some time to think of what he had said. Adelman wished to know if I made my way to Jonathan’s. I could not suppose there was anything too sinister in that. One thing I had come to believe was that Adelman told the truth when he said that even men who had nothing to hide would wish to impede my inquiry. I knew not if Bloathwait’s suspicions, like my father’s, of false South Sea stock were true or not, but I did know that even the rumor of it would be horribly damaging to the Company—so much so that Virgil Cowper had been afraid even to listen to talk of such a thing.

In a quarter of an hour, as promised, the boy reappeared, ringing his bell loudly. “Mr. Martin Rochester,” he bellowed. “Message for Mr. Martin Rochester.”

I thought it something of a stroke of brilliance on my part. I had no expectation that Rochester would be here, that he would reveal himself so easily—he had done far too much to keep himself hidden for that, but I thought this display might shake something loose. And I was correct.

I cannot say that all conversation stopped. Indeed, many conversations continued oblivious to the boy’s cry. But some stopped. I watched as men deep in argument ceased speaking in mid-sentence and looked up, mouths still open like befuddled cattle. I saw men whispering, men scratching their heads, men scanning the room, looking to see if anyone answered the call. The boy strolled through the room and could not have received more attention if he had been the finest actress of the stage, come to strut naked through a gentleman’s club.

The boy made a complete pass, and then shrugged and returned to his duties. Slowly, the jobbers who had been disturbed by my experiment returned to their other interests, but within a few minutes I saw a man stand and begin to walk after the boy.

It was Miriam’s lover, Philip Deloney.

I watched him exchange a few words with the boy and then leave. I stood up and walked over to the boy, who was busy collecting dirtied dishes from tables.

“Did that man say what he wanted?”

“He wanted to know who sent that message, Mr. Weaver.”

“And what did you tell him?”

“I told him you did, sir.”

I laughed softly. Why not tell him? “What did he say?”

“He asked to see it, but I told him I’d already torn it to bits, just like you said.”

I could not fault the boy his honesty. I thanked him and made my way out of Jonathan’s.

A strong wind struck me as I opened the door and headed into the Alley. What interest could Deloney have with Martin Rochester? Was it simply coincidence that he had an intimacy with Miriam and also involved himself with the man I believed responsible for my father’s death? I could not answer that question with any certainty. But I knew that I could no longer consider my interest in my cousin Miriam a distraction from my work. I could no longer doubt that her lover somehow had a connection to the death of my father.

I
WANDERED UNTIL
I was close to Grub Street, where the bookseller, Mrs. Nahum Bryce, had told me I should find the shop belonging to Christopher Hodge, who had published my father’s pamphlets. At Grub Street I stepped into a public house to inquire the location of Hodge’s business, but the tapman there only shook his head.

“Shop’s gone, it is,” he said. “An’ Hodge went with it. Fire, it was—terrible one what killed him and pretty badly scorched a couple of ’prentice boys with ’im. Coulda been much worse, I reckon, but at least it happened when he’d given most everyone a night off.”

“A fire,” I repeated. “When?”

The tapman looked up, trying to recall. “I’m thinking three, four months now,” he speculated.

I thanked him and made my way to Moor Lane, where I once again called upon Mr. Bryce’s widow. She emerged from the back of his shop, a quiver in the corners of her mouth betraying some small amusement upon seeing me again. I requested a private audience, and she escorted me through the back to a small parlor of sorts, where I sat upon an aging and somewhat threadbare settee. She took an armchair across from me and instructed one of the apprentices to bring us tea.

“How may I be of service to you, sir?” Mrs. Bryce asked me.

“I wish to inquire of some information you gave me that I found most odd. You see, I find it very strange that you would advise me to seek out a Mr. Christopher Hodge of Grub Street when Mr. Hodge’s shop, along with Mr. Hodge, appears to have burned down some months ago.”

Mrs. Bryce’s mouth opened and closed several times, as she attempted to form some thought. “You astonish me,” she began at last. “And it pains me, sir, for you to believe that I should in some way deceive you. Were I a man, I might call you out for such an error; as I am a woman, I must understand that you do not know me, and any insult you offer me is an insult to a person you think me to be—a person who does not exist.”

“I stand ready to offer you my apology if I have in some way misjudged you.”

“I never seek an apology, I assure you. Only that you should not be convinced of a falsehood. As I recall, sir, when you inquired of the publisher of Mr. Lienzo’s pamphlets, I mentioned Christopher Hodge, for he had, indeed, sent to press some writings of Mr. Lienzo’s. I know much about Mr. Hodge’s doings, for he was a great friend of my husband’s and of mine. Indeed, after Mr. Bryce’s death, Mr. Hodge provided me with a great deal of assistance in running this business. I was not ignorant of his death, for it touched upon me very deeply. But as to my failing to inform you of Kit Hodge’s passing, I need only remind you that you interrupted my narrative to ask me about Mr. Deloney, and you then abruptly rushed off. If I omitted any details you may have sought, you must consider that the fault rests with you, sir, for having departed in such a haste.”

I stood and bowed. “You are just in your censure, Mrs. Bryce. I have been hasty.” I returned to my seat.

“It is no matter. As I say, I only wished for matters to be clear in your mind. Although,” she said, and I could see from the grin she attempted to suppress, that she was perhaps about to say something that might amuse her, “I find this accusation of deception most interesting. For it occurs to me that Mr. Deloney returned to my store just yesterday, and I asked him if he had been contacted by you, sir. When I told him your name, he assured me that he had never gone to school with you, and he then abused you with some names I shall never repeat. So, you see, sir, from my point of view, it appears very much as though you have been deceiving me.”

I could do nothing but laugh, and heartily too. I rose again to my feet and bowed at Mrs. Bryce. “You have corrected me, madam, and I thank you.”

She only returned her charming widow’s smile. “I must say your response astonishes me. And I should very much like to hear more why you felt compelled to deceive me on the score of your relationship with Mr. Deloney.”

“Mrs. Bryce,” I began, “I shall be honest with you, but I hope you will forgive me if I am circumspect as well. I have been hired to determine if there was something other than accidental in the death of Samuel Lienzo, and I have come to suspect that there may indeed be, and that his death may be related to information he had obtained—information he wished to publish in a pamphlet. I held, and lost, a manuscript copy of the pamphlet, and I wished to know if Mr. Lienzo had attempted to publish a copy of it before his death. If I was deceptive, or if I suspected you of deception, it is only because this inquiry has imparted upon me the need to be both discreet and suspicious.”