A Conspiracy of Paper (50 page)

I thought that he would now surely flee, but his own rage and terror clouded his judgment. I have rarely in my life seen anything so horrific and yet comical as his face, now deep red—almost purple—in color, except for his lips, pressed together so hard as to be ghastly white. He stared at me, holding his blade outward. “You have ruined me,” he said in a low growl, barely audible over the noise of the terrified crowd.

He intended to run me through. I was sure of it. I could have escaped, I suppose. I might have gotten away unscathed, but I could not bear the thought of fleeing, of running from this villain whom I had labored so hard to find. So I did what he no doubt never imagined an unarmed sane man would do to a sword-bearing adversary; I rushed him.

I lunged forward, ignoring the sting that made me feel as if my limb should snap in two. Surprised at first by my dash toward him, Sir Owen held forth his sword in the hopes of running me through, but I was on no self-destructive course. Instead, using a trick I had learned fighting upon the streets, I dropped downward and tackled his legs, hoping to topple him as one does pins upon the bowling green.

Sir Owen dropped his sword and, propelled by his efforts to flee, fell backward. He escaped my grip and scurried back upon his legs like a crab, reaching his feet again at the time I did. Now, against the rail of the balcony, he stepped up, I suppose to gain greater leverage, and aimed a blow at me. We had been reduced to two men, deprived of rank and station, matching our strength in a contest of rage. And it is no idle boast, reader, that, in a contest of this order—of fist and brawn and willingness to take punishment—a lazy, well-fed baronet stood not a chance against me.

Sir Owen swung and missed.

Unbalanced by the exertion of the blow, he propped himself up against the railing of the balcony. He swung again—recklessly and aimlessly. He knew not what he did, and he flailed about wildly. In the confusion caused by this mad offense, and the further force of the impressive blow with which I responded, the baronet lost his balance, and with a fearful yelp, fell backward, thirty feet down, onto the stage where the actors had been intrepidly continuing with Elias’s play. Their efforts had been valiant, but I suppose even those most disciplined of players could not ignore the arrival of a large baronet flung from the heavens.

I remained still, breathing heavily, my heart pounding and, indeed, my limbs shaking. I could not think of what to do next. I think but a moment passed, though it felt to me an endless expanse of time, before it occurred to me to determine if Sir Owen still lived.

I leaned over the rail to see if Sir Owen was dead, merely unconscious, or perhaps unharmed and ready to flee. But before I could gather a look, I was grabbed by countless hands who forced me to the ground and held me immobile. I was no longer Sir Owen’s accuser. I was no longer the man who stood between a deranged fool with a pistol and the innocent theatre-goers. I was now a Jew who had attacked, perhaps killed, a baronet.

Two stout-looking gentlemen held me in place. They struck me as capable-enough bucks, but I could probably have evaded them if I chose. But I did not so choose. I should have to face the law sooner or later, and I had no desire to risk an injury in an attempt to escape.

Around me the crowd swarmed violently. Some ran to view the form of Sir Owen on the stage below. Others milled about, looking as dazed as cattle. The copper-haired woman in gold and black who had sat in Sir Owen’s box screamed violently while a young gentleman attempted to comfort her. She cried out for some minutes and then she began to sob more gently. The young gentleman wisely began to move her closer to the stairway that he might deliver her of the theatre.

“You must be calm, Miss Decker,” he said. “You must not agitate yourself.”

I stared. I knew not what to think. “Decker,” I said aloud. “Sarah Decker?”

One of the men who held me looked at me quizzically. He surely found my curiosity as unaccountable as it was inappropriate. “What of it?”

“Do you know her?” I asked him. “Do you know that woman?”

“Yes,” he said, his face wrinkled with confusion.

“That is Sarah Decker?” I asked. I began to feel disoriented, even a little dizzy.

“Yes,” he repeated, somewhat irritably. “She is to marry the very man you have tried to murder.”

I could do nothing but let the men lead me away.

THIRTY-FOUR

I
THOUGHT THAT
I should be brought before the magistrate that night, but this proved not to be the case. Perhaps there were far too many witnesses to call on—witnesses of degree and rank—and the hour was too late to begin such an affair. In any case, the gentlemen who held me turned me over to the constables, who locked me in the Poultry Compter for the night. I fortunately had enough silver on me to procure a private closet on the Master’s Side that I might avoid the horrors of that jail, for the Common Side is among the most foul and wretched of places upon this earth.

My closet was small, smelling of mold and perspiration, and furnished with naught but a broken wooden chair and a hard straw bed, which, had I used, I would have been forced to share with a colony of gregarious lice. I sat down on the chair and attempted to think of some course of action. It was hard to know what to think or how to proceed, for I knew not with what I would be charged come morning. Much would depend not only on Sir Owen’s condition but also on the nature of the witnesses the constables brought forward.

My case was dire, and I concluded that I had few options other than to impose on my uncle, and ask of him to offer something to the magistrate that I might not be bound over for trial. I could in no way be sure that a bribe would work. If Sir Owen was dead, I should certainly be charged with manslaughter, if not murder—no bribe could hope to convince him to alter his ruling if it was a clear attack against a man of Sir Owen’s breeding. But if the baronet was only injured, I flattered myself that I might hope to escape a trial.

I called for the turnkey and told him I wished to procure of him some paper and a pen, and then I wished to send a message. I was not certain I would have enough silver upon me for the exorbitantly priced goods, but as it turned out the prices mattered little. “I can sell you paper and pen,” the short, greasy-skinned fellow told me as he tried to keep his stringy hair from his eyes, “but I can’t have nothing delivered for you.”

“I don’t understand,” I said, still in something of a stupor. “For what reason?”

“Orders,” he explained, as if that one word clarified everything.

“Whose orders?” I had never heard of a prison refusing to allow its inmate to send messages. I had never heard of a turnkey refusing to earn a little silver by doing so.

“I can’t say,” he replied stoically. He began to pick at some loose skin about his neck.

I believe my voice betrayed my inability to believe what I heard. “Does this apply to all the men you hold here?”

He laughed. “Oh, no. The other gentlemen are free to send such messages as they like. How else could I buy my bread? This is only for you, Mr. Weaver. We can’t let
you
send any messages. That’s what we been told.”

“I should like to speak to the master of the prison,” I told him in a stern voice.

“Certainly.” He continued to pick away. “He’ll be in sometime tomorrow afternoon. I don’t think you’ll still be here, but if you are, you can speak with him then.”

I considered my options for a moment. Breaking this fellow’s neck struck me as a pleasant enough method to get what I wanted, but not a very wise one. I thought on a less violent plan. “I shall make your arranging for a message to be delivered well worth your while.”

He only smiled. “It’s already been made worth my while to see otherwise. Shall I fetch you that paper and pen?”

“Who has paid you to prevent me from sending messages?” I demanded.

He shrugged. “I can’t tell you that, sir.”

He hardly needed to, for I had my suspicions. “Do you really wish to commit yourself to dealing with a man such as Wild?” I asked the guard.

He merely smiled. “Well, I reckon that in certain kinds of trade, one cannot but deal with Mr. Wild, don’t you think?”

I thought on my uncle’s words:
Mr. Mendes likes to say that in certain
kinds of trade, one cannot but deal with Wild
. “Give my regards to Mr. Mendes,” I muttered.

He showed me a rotted grin. “You’re a clever one, aren’t you? I’m almost sorry I tangled with you, sir, but that Wild’s a mite cleverer, I suppose.”

I sent the impudent blackguard away. I could not believe my illfortune. My lines of communication had surely been severed in order to make it impossible to send precisely the sort of message I wished to send. If I should be prevented from reaching my uncle, it was almost certain that whoever plotted against me would also see to it that I stood trial. I could not imagine the South Sea Company would relish such a thing—indeed, if I were bound over for trial I should consider my life at risk at every moment, for the South Sea Company had much to lose from a trial. The Bank of England had a great deal to gain, however, and I could only assume that Bloathwait was behind this plot to isolate me.

I slept not at all that night, but neither did I think much on what had happened to me nor of what I had seen. I sat in my uncomfortable, broken wooden chair and tried to banish it all from my mind. But I could not quite dismiss the sight of pretty Sarah Decker. If she
was
Sarah Decker, who had I met earlier that day, and what could that meeting mean? I found myself, as Adelman had said, in a labyrinth in which I could not see what lay ahead or even behind. I only knew where I was—and I was trapped.

T
HE NEXT MORNING
I was brought to the magistrate. Justice Duncombe faced me in his house on Great Hart Street. “I am astonished,” he said, and clearly he was so. “Mr. Weaver, once again, and a matter of murder, once again. Really, sir, I see I must lock you up forthwith before you depopulate the entire metropolis.”

I swallowed hard at the word
murder
. I must confess that the situation terrified me, for it boded ill to say the least. “Am I to understand that Sir Owen is indeed dead, your honor?”

“No,” Duncombe explained. “The physician has explained that Sir Owen’s wounds are superficial and that he is expected to make a full recovery. There is the matter of this other fellow, the footman, Dudley Roach, who is indeed quite dead. Tell me, Mr. Weaver, are you pleased or displeased about the expectation of Sir Owen’s recovery?”

“I must confess I am of mixed emotions,” I said boldly, “but in truth I should prefer him to be alive that he might be forced to confess of his crimes. I hope he will be well guarded that he might not escape.”

“It is your crimes that we are here to discuss,” the magistrate sneered, “not those of a baronet.”

I held myself straight and spoke with confidence. “I am convinced the witnesses of the event will testify that Sir Owen fired a gun at me and attacked me. It was he who shot this footman, who was but an unfortunate witness to Sir Owen’s rampage. I wished only to defend myself and to apprehend a man whose crimes should be notorious. That I injured him was an accident—no more.”

“From what I hear of the constables,” he replied, “that is not the case. It appears you attacked Sir Owen, and if he was zealous in his defense, the outcome of the conflict may justify his concern. If you incited him with an attack, and he felt the need to defend himself, the charge of manslaughter must be brought against you, not Sir Owen. Do you not agree?”

I did not agree, and I told him as much.

Duncombe asked me an endless series of questions about what had happened, and I answered as best I could without revealing anything of the forged South Sea issues. I said only that I had come to learn that Martin Rochester had committed several murders and that Sir Owen was indeed Martin Rochester. As it had the night before in the theatre, this information elicited no small surprise. Duncombe stared at me with astonishment, while the crowd in the courtroom erupted in a loud murmur. The magistrate banged his gavel and restored a respectful quiet.

“If you knew this man to be what you say,” he asked me, “why did you not seek a warrant for his arrest?”

This question surprised me, and I had no answer. I feared Duncombe believed my confusion a sign that he had caught me in a lie.

He questioned me for what felt like hours, though I believe it was not nearly so long. Duncombe then began the task of questioning the witnesses. I shall not ask my reader to endure what I endured, listening to the endless details of my conflict with Sir Owen. It is enough to say that more than a dozen witnesses offered testimony, and none of them sought to exonerate me.

Faced with the arbitrary nature of our legal system, I had cause to worry, for if someone in power wished me bound over for trial, then I could see no way to avoid that fate. And it was not without some self-condemnation that I considered the death of this innocent footman. While he had fallen victim of Sir Owen’s somewhat changeable humor, it was a humor I had provoked, and I now knew that I had provoked Sir Owen based on a deception. Someone had gone to a great deal of difficulty to make certain that I believed Sir Owen had lied to me. Someone had arranged for an impersonator to expose me to lies that could only make me believe Sir Owen a rascal. I no longer knew what to believe.

Duncombe’s questioning of the witnesses lasted more than four hours, and I was too exhausted by its conclusion even to guess how the judge would rule. I could see no reason why he would not bind me over for trial, and this prospect terrified me. At last, having heard all the witnesses, the judge announced that he was ready to make his decision.

I sought for signs in the way he held himself, wishing to know my fate before he could pronounce it, but I could divine nothing from the judge’s stern and unflinching countenance.

“Mr. Weaver, you are without doubt a dangerous and excitable man, and you clearly agitated Sir Owen, but you never obligated him to produce a weapon nor to discharge it so recklessly. I suspect you may give me cause to wish, in future times, that Sir Owen had been a better aim, but that is not our concern here today. I find no reason to charge you with manslaughter. If Sir Owen wishes to prosecute you for assault, then I fear I shall see you before this court shortly. I heartily wish you may work things out amongst yourselves. You may go.”

I realized later that I should have felt myself awash with relief, but perhaps I was too disordered. I knew not how to understand his decision. I could only presume that Duncombe had been bribed on my behalf, but who had interceded for me? Had my uncle been informed of my danger in time to intervene? If so, why was he not in the court?

I made my way through the crowd, wanting only to remove myself from that horrid building—before the magistrate changed his mind, I thought. Elias later told me that he was there and grabbed my arm as I passed him, but I have no recollection of seeing him. I shoved my way forward, moving with the plodding determination of a dull ox until I escaped from the confines of the judge’s court and breathed in the foul-smelling and misty air of the London afternoon. As bad an odor as was in the air that day, and as cloudy and unwelcoming was the weather, I basked in it with a satisfaction I cannot describe. It was a moment of relief, and the knowledge that the relief would be but fleeting made it all the more sweet.

My reverie lasted but a minute, and when the world crystallized before me, as it does after one rubs his eyes, I immediately recognized the coach and the East Indian servant boy as belonging to Nathan Adelman. I stared at the chair for a moment until Adelman poked his head out the window and invited me in.

I stared blankly. I felt as though uttering any sound should take more strength than I had.

“We have won the day, I see.” He was not quite grinning, but he glowed with satisfaction. “No easy man, that Duncombe, but he saw reason in the end. Climb in, Weaver.”

“I am astonished,” I said as I stepped up into his coach, “to see you emerge as my ally. I should have thought the Company would be nothing but delighted to witness my ruin.” I took a seat across from the great financier, and the coach heaved forward, headed to I knew not where.

Adelman smiled at me, as though we were to go for a charming ride in the country together. Indeed, his plump little form had every appearance of the proper English gentleman. “I believe that before last evening we would have delighted in your ruin, but things have now changed, and I can assure you that you should be grateful that we struck a bargain with the justice here before our friends at the Bank of England. You can be certain they would have seen to it that you stood trial.”

“Of course.” I nodded. “I would have been forced to explain my actions, and this explanation would involve the public revelation of Sir Owen’s involvement in the forging of South Sea issues.”

“Precisely. In the end, I am grateful for your involvement, for we have learned the identity of Rochester, and he will no longer cause the Company any difficulties.”

I breathed in deeply. “I am no longer convinced that Sir Owen is Martin Rochester, only that someone has gone to great lengths to make me believe it so.”

Adelman stared at me. “I have no doubt that Sir Owen is the man. The Company, I can assure you, has no doubt. And it seems that there are others that have no doubt.”

“How do you mean?” I inquired.

“Sir Owen,” he said slowly, “is dead.”

I am not ashamed to own that I grew disoriented, and I grasped at an armrest inside the coach. “I was assured his wounds were superficial.” I could not understand what Adelman told me. If Sir Owen was dead, why had I not been charged with murder?

“The wounds he received from his fall were superficial,” Adelman explained. His voice was calm, controlled—almost soothing. “But he received other wounds. As he left his physician’s house this morning, he was set upon by a ruffian who stabbed him quite mercilessly in the throat. Sir Owen survived this attack by only a few minutes.”

I knew not if I felt anger or elation, fear or joy. “Who was this ruffian?” I demanded.

“The villain quite escaped.” He flashed me a smile, a look of unrestrained mischief. I should have liked to have seen villainy, but there was something boyish, pranksterish about his look. Adelman wished me to know that the South Sea Company had disposed of Sir Owen. “It’s rather shocking he could have gotten away, with all those people there,” he said, smirking. “Sir Owen was a man with many enemies, and I suppose we shall never know the truth of it.”