A Conspiracy of Paper (37 page)

Mrs. Bryce gasped. “Do you mean to say,” she began, “that you think Mr. Deloney is somehow involved in all of this?”

I had no desire to speak of my suspicions, so I only told the bookseller that my suspicion of Mr. Deloney had proved misguided.

“The fire that burned down Mr. Hodge’s shop,” I pressed on. “As you knew him, I cannot but wonder if you were in any way suspicious of this blaze.”

Mrs. Bryce shook her head. “I was not. As much as his death pained me, we cannot look for intent in all disasters. I thought nothing more of it than its sadness. Do you mean to suggest, sir, that you believe his shop was burned and he was murdered in order to prevent the publication of Lienzo’s pamphlet? Why, the very notion is fantastical.”

“I should have thought much the same,” I told her, “until very recently. I do not say I believe these allegations to be true, madam, but I believe them to be at least possible.”

“I suppose the first step must be to determine whether he had the pamphlet in his possession at the time the shop burned. As it happens, I took over his affairs after his death. He had stipulated as much in his will. Most of his materials were destroyed, but some of his record books remain. If you’d like, we can look through these.”

I thanked Mrs. Bryce and together we went to her study, where she presented to me a half-dozen volumes of ledger books that smelled of charring and mildew. Hodge had written in them in a dense but legible hand, and for the second time in a very short period I found myself feeling uneasy at studying the scribblings of a man whose life had been, in all probability, taken from him. Together we pored over the books for two hours, drinking tea as Mrs. Bryce explained to me notations and talked about particular works—if they had done well or poorly, if her husband had liked them or not. Finally, after we had been forced to strike several candles against the growing darkness, Mrs. Bryce found a line in one of the books: “Lienzo—conspiracy/paper.”

I stared at it. “It seems compelling evidence,” I said quietly.

Mrs. Bryce took her time responding. “It doesn’t prove anyone killed Mr. Hodge,” she said at last, “but all the same, I would appreciate it if you no longer frequented my shop.”

TWENTY-SIX

W
HEN
I
RETURNED
to my uncle’s house I found that old Isaac, the servant, awaited my return with a large package just delivered for me.

“Who is it from?” I asked Isaac.

He shook his head. “The boy who brought it wouldn’t say, sir. He gave it to me, held out his hand for a coin, and left without answering any questions.”

I hesitated for a moment, for I found something frightening in secret messages, and I did not like the idea of the players in this game seeking me out in my uncle’s home.

While I inspected the box, Miriam entered the room and greeted me casually. The look on my face gave her pause, however. “Does something trouble you?” I felt uncomfortable under the heat of her gaze upon my bruised eye, but at least she seemed to have forgotten her earlier coolness, and that was perhaps enough for me.

I showed her the bundle. She merely shrugged. “Open it,” she said.

I sucked in my breath and began to untie the packaging. Miriam looked on curiously as I opened it and found inside the most remarkable contents. It was a costume and a ticket to a masquerade ball to be held that evening at the Haymarket. A note affixed to the invitation read:

Sir,

You are encouraged to attend this ball of Mr. Heidegger’s tonight, where many of the questions you seek will be answered. In a place where all are disguised, one may feel free to speak openly. I look forward to our meeting in a place where I hope to prove myself,

A friend.

Miriam attempted to read the note, but I quickly folded it and hid it from her view.

“How intriguing,” Miriam noted. “It’s rather like a romance.”

“Rather too much like one,” I noted as I removed the costume. Perhaps this secret contact hoped to throw suspicion off me by casting me in the most obvious light, for the costume provided was that of a Tudesco peddler. The clothes were tattered robes accompanied by a floppy hat and a collection of inconsequential trinkets affixed to a tray. The mask covered the top of my face only, with eye-holes over two tiny, evil-looking eyes perched above a grotesquely huge false nose. Below and above the mask were ample quantities of false red hair to make an unruly cover over my own hair as well as to disguise the bottom of my face with an impenetrable thicket of false beard.

“Someone,” I noted, “has a grotesque sense of humor.”

“Does that help you determine who sent the costume?”

“Not particularly,” I mused, “unless it was my friend Elias.”

“Will you go?” Miriam asked me. She sounded excited, as though she found the idea of this intrigue thrilling—and like a romance, without any true risk of danger.

“Oh, I should think so,” I said.

But I did not wish to go according to the terms of my anonymous patron. I therefore sent for Elias, who was kind enough to exit himself from a rehearsal of his play to attend me at Broad Court.

Miriam and I sat in the parlor, though she hardly spoke to me. I remained in contemplation while she read a book of verse. Several times I believed she had been upon the cusp of speaking to me, but she held herself back. I wished she would tell me what was upon her mind, but my own thoughts were so occupied with the matter at hand that I could hardly think of how to frame my question. So I said nothing until Isaac brought Elias into the room. I could see from the look upon his face that he was poised to produce some quip at the expense of my people, but he held his tongue upon seeing Miriam, whose beauty stopped him in midbreath.

“Weaver,” he said, “I see you have been wise in not speaking of your cousin’s loveliness, for such treasures must be kept in secret, lest they be stolen.” He bowed deeply to Miriam.

“But he has not kept you a secret, sir,” Miriam replied, “for he has told me of his great and trusted friend Elias, on whom he depends more than any man alive.”

Elias bowed again, beaming with pride.

Miriam grinned with pleasure. “He has also told me that his great friend is a libertine who will tell any lie that he might undo innocence.”

“Good God, Weaver!”

She laughed. “Perhaps he said no such thing, and I merely draw my own conclusions.”

“Madam, you misunderstand me,” Elias began desperately.

“Elias,” I snapped, “we have urgent business, and time is not our ally.”

A waggish smile washed over Elias’s face. “What has developed, my less-than-jovial Jew?”

Under the circumstances I thought it best that Miriam leave the room; she knew nothing of these matters, and I had no wish to introduce her to my intrigues.

Once Miriam left, I showed Elias the note and invitation. “What know you of these balls?”

“You cannot be serious,” he said. “Heidegger’s masquerades are the very pink of the fashion. I should be ashamed of myself if I did not attend them regularly. Only the most fashionable sort can count on procuring an invitation.” With that he produced a pair of tickets from his pocketbook. “I shall attend tonight, accompanied by Miss Lucy Daston, an ambitious young lady with a small but nevertheless crucial role in a comedy soon to take Drury Lane by surprise.”

“You will indeed be there,” I said with a smile, “but instead of a beautiful actress, I think you would have a far superior time escorting a more manful companion.” I grinned at him. “And I have the very costume for you.” I showed him the disguise that came with the invitation.

Elias stared in horror. “Gad, Weaver, surely you mock me. Can you expect me to give up my evening with fair Lucy in order to wander about Heidegger’s dressed as a bearded mendicant? I shall never get this close to such a beauty again; it seems as though every time I take a liking to an actress she disappears, only to become one of Jonathan Wild’s whores. And you do not seem to understand the effect my failure to bed this wench will have on my constitution.”

I placed an arm about his shoulder. “I must say I am delighted with you. You come here with a ticket and, I am confident, a costume I might borrow. I think we shall have a splendid time.”

Elias picked up the costume and stared at the mask. “It is true that Lucy lacks your wit,” he said mournfully, “but I must say that you are a devilish harsh companion. I have no other friends who ask me to do such things.”

“And that is why you spend your time with me.” I grinned.

“Will your uncle reward me for my efforts when we capture the murderous fiend?”

“I am certain. If you were not already to be rich of the proceeds of your play, your help in this matter would make you a rich man.”

“Splendid!” Elias chirped. “Now, let us talk about this widow cousin of yours.”

M
ASQUERADES, AS MY READER
will know well, were at the very height of their popularity at the time of this history, but until one has actually attended such a gathering, its precise nature cannot be imagined fully. Think of a large, gorgeously decorated space, exquisite music playing, delectable foods passed about in abundance, and hundreds of the most absurdly dressed men and women intermixing freely. Anonymity made women bold and men bolder, and the hiding of one’s face left one free to expose parts of one’s mind and body normally left concealed in public.

To complement the disguise of the costume, no one spoke in his true voice, but obscured it with the masquerade squeak. Thus, to envision the assembly, think only of the Haymarket full of shrill and squawking Pans and milkmaids, devils and shepherdesses, and of course countless black, hooded dominos—the ideal costume for men who enjoyed the hunt of the masquerade but lacked the imagination, desire, or sense of humor to dress as a goatherd, harlequin, friar, or any of the characters in vogue. While the string band played delightful tunes from Italy, these identical blackened figures—enshrouded in shapeless robes, faces covered with masks that hid the visage above the nose—moved about the room as wolves circling a wounded hart.

In such a black disguise I, too, moved about. I had originally thought to borrow Elias’s costume—with an appropriate sense of self, my friend had planned on attending dressed as Jove, and we traveled to his lodgings, where I found that the Olympian’s robes fit too snug upon me, so we set out to procure a masquerade domino.

Elias took me to a tailor with whom he was friendly—that is to say, he currently owed him no money—and whose shop was well known to masqueraders. Even as we entered we saw a pair of gentlemen purchasing dominos. And as we engaged upon the errand, I made an effort to inform Elias of all I had recently discovered—most distressingly, the news that old Balfour had once owned twenty thousand pounds’ worth of South Sea stock.

“No wonder he was ruined,” he said, as I slipped a black domino over me and adjusted the hood. “To lose so much. Inconceivable.”

I put the mask upon my face, and looked in the mirror. I looked like a great black apparition. “But according to my man at South Sea House, Balfour sold the stock long before his death.”

Elias fiddled with the sleeves in his fastidious way. “Could your man not inform you to whom he sold?”

“He sold to no one,” I said, as I slipped the domino off. “He sold back to the Company.”

I stepped forward from the secluded area to purchase the costume. Elias had grown red in the face, as though he could not stand to breathe. I knew he wished to tell me something in private, but he had to wait until I had paid for my costume and the tailor had wrapped it for me. After these excruciating minutes had passed, we stepped out in the street, and afforded privacy by noise and distraction, Elias let forth a long breath.

“Have you no idea how that sounds, Weaver? You cannot just sell back to the Company. Stock is not a trinket that you can return to the shop.”

“If Cowper wished to sell me misinformation, would he not have sold me believable misinformation?”

“You did believe it,” he pointed out, pushing his way past a slowmoving gathering of old ladies. “But I take your point. Perhaps what he wished was to make you suspicious.”

“I shall go mad,” I announced, “if I must always suspect people of telling me lies so that I shall know they are lying. What ever happened to telling a man lies he meant a man to believe?”

“The problem with you, Weaver,” Elias announced, “is that you are too invested in the values of the past.”

After dining and taking a bottle of wine, we arrived at the masquerade, and I spent much of the evening drifting about, sometimes speaking to Elias, but mainly keeping my distance, so that it would not be obvious that the begging Jew was with me—or even that he had come with help should he need it. I was nevertheless shocked when, near enough to Elias to hear his conversation, yet inconspicuously acquiring a drink of wine from a serving boy, I saw a woman with a stunning shape, dressed as some Roman goddess or other, approach Elias, and from behind her mask, which entirely obscured her face, squeaked, “Do you know me?”

When Elias squeaked the same response in reply, the goddess said, “I should think I do, Cousin. I must say, your costume is the talk of the ball.”

Unable to contain myself, I stepped forward and grabbed her by her arm. “Good Lord, Miriam,” I whispered in my own voice. “What is it you do here?”

It took her but a moment to sort out the confusion. “You surprise me,” she said, peering from one side of my hood to the other, as if to find some fissure that should allow her to see my face. “Why did you give away so original a costume?”

I ignored the question. “Is my uncle aware that you attend such events?” I asked evenly.

She laughed it off, though I could see I had insulted her. “Oh, he works late at his warehouse tonight, you know. And Mrs. Lienzo is always asleep long before I must leave the house.”

“Have you eaten the food?” I asked her.

Her eyes sparkled underneath her mask. “You are certainly preposterous, Benjamin. What do you care if I keep the dietary laws? They are nothing to you.”

“You must go home,” I said. “This ball is no place for a lady.”

“No place for a lady? Every fashionable lady in town is in attendance.”

Elias leaned forward, sticking his enormous orange false beard between us. “She’s got you there, Weaver.”

The string band struck up with a sprightly tune, and shocking myself as much as Miriam, I set a hand upon my cousin’s elbow, and without so much as asking for her permission, I guided her to the dance floor. I astonished myself, I say, because I was no accomplished dancer—indeed, even as I approached the dozens of couples, already turning about the floor with absolute grace, my throat tightened with apprehension. This business of dancing belonged to the genteel, not to a man of action such as myself. I hoped to show Miriam that I was not without some polite skills, but I feared I would show her the very reverse.

I comforted myself with the thought that I did have some experience behind me. When I had fought under Mr. Yardley’s protection, he insisted that his boxers take dancing lessons, for he believed that from dancing one learned a kind of agility that invariably served even the most powerful man in the ring. “The strongest country blockhead you find,” he had said, “even if he could tear you in half, shall never be able to touch you if you can but cut capers ’round him.”

I could not be certain of Miriam’s response to my rather abrupt decision to serve as her partner, for her mask covered almost all of her face, but her lips parted with surprise, and speechlessly we commenced our movements about the floor. I felt a bit lumbering and oafish, and I could tell that Miriam struggled not to stumble upon my graceless motions, but she nevertheless followed my lead, and if I was any judge of these things, enjoyed herself somewhat.

“You know,” she said at last, a grin suspended beneath her mask, “that I am already engaged to a dancing partner for this night. You have committed a great social affront.”

“We shall see if he challenges me,” I grumbled, attempting to maintain my balance. “Who is this dancing partner of yours?” I asked after a moment, though I knew the answer full well.

“Is that your concern, Cousin?”

“I think it is.”