and to generate confusion.
Sir Owen, I knew, was of the temperament of these fellows, but hardly of an age where such diversions are acceptable. A man of his standing would no doubt seek higher ground, and I therefore sought him upon the upper levels. Rather rudely, I think, I made my way to the balconies, shoving aside all who stood in my path. Without concern for propriety, I stuck my head in many a box, looking for my man. The aisles were thick with gentlemen and beaux and ladies and coquettes who had little or no concern for what happened upon the stage, caring only for the latest gossip or the opportunity to take note of one another. The theatre was, as it remains today, a fashionable place of making and improving acquaintance. That there are men and women below who perform for their entertainment is merely an added delight—or, for some, a distraction.
I should have behaved in a subtle manner to make my approach invisible, but my frenzy and expression must have betrayed me, for the object of my search saw me at the precise moment I saw him. He was in a box across the way with another gentleman and two ladies of fashion. Our eyes locked for a moment, and I was sure at that instant that he knew what I knew, and he knew that I was in no mood to let the wheels of ineffectual justice grind over this matter.
I dashed through the hall outside the balconies—as much as the crowd would permit dashing—and boldly entered Sir Owen’s box. I must have cut a dreadful figure, my clothes somewhat disheveled, my hair awry, my face flushed from heavy breathing. The baronet’s companions stared at me with utter disbelief—as though a tiger had suddenly wandered into their box. One of the ladies, a pretty woman of copper hair in a gold-and-black gown, placed a hand to her mouth.
“How unexpected,” Sir Owen stammered. He stood up and dusted himself off awkwardly. “Did we have an appointment?” he asked in a low tone. “I must have erred terribly. I do apologize. Perhaps we can meet on another occasion.”
“We shall meet now,” I said, unimpressed by his efforts to salvage the situation from social ruin. “It is best if your friends know what you are.”
I knew I had frightened the woman in the gold-and-black gown, for she now placed two of her gloved fingers in her mouth and began to chew upon them. The other gentleman, a gouty older fellow—far too old for the young woman he held in attendance—proved no less fearful than his companions of the other sex. He pretended to look out into the audience for an acquaintance, muttering to himself that the rascal was not to be seen.
“Good God, Weaver.” Sir Owen cast twitchy glances between me and the people in his party. “We may discuss of this matter later, I say. I shall come pay you a visit in the morning.”
“Yes,” said the gouty man, emboldened by Sir Owen’s restraint. “Run along, I say.”
I ignored this man. “Sir Owen,” I hissed, barely able to contain my rage, “you will come with me now.”
“Go with you?” he asked incredulously. “Are you mad, Weaver, to think you may order me about? Where would I go with you?”
“To South Sea House,” I said. I had no intention of taking him there, but I wished to let him know that I knew of his connection to that place.
He laughed aloud. “I think not. I find it wisest never to go to such places, I assure you.”
“Nevertheless,” I told him, “you will attend me there.”
Sir Owen was trapped. He knew it. He wanted desperately to talk his way out of this confrontation, and he could not think how. “You have quite forgotten yourself. I am a gentleman, in the company of a gentleman and ladies. You may have business with me, but I assure you there is an appropriate time and place. I have no patience for any hot-tempered Jews just now, so get you gone and I shall call on you should I see fit.”
I felt nothing at that moment but a murderous rage. I confess, reader, that I was an eye-blink away from grabbing this pompous villain by the neck and strangling him upon the spot. For him to affront me in this way when he had committed so terrible a crime against me and my family was more than I could endure. I think that this rage I felt must have indeed shown itself upon my face, for Sir Owen saw it. He saw what was in my heart and he knew he was seconds away from feeling my wrath.
In a word, he ran.
It was well that Sir Owen was no young or sprightly man, for while my leg ached terribly, I was able to keep pace with him. He dove quite suddenly into the crowd and rudely shoved several gentlemen and ladies aside, and I suspect the moment he behaved so abominably in public he knew there was no turning back, for how could he account for this behavior? This realization only made him desperate, and he knocked patrons out of the way with increasing determination, rushing for the exit as if it were the gateway to safety itself. I, for my part, attempted to play the courteous pursuer, but there can be no doubt that I was guilty of my share of bruises and bumps.
I knew not where Sir Owen hoped to go, and in truth I suspect he knew not either, for soon he found himself at the end of the balcony, no stairs in sight, and nowhere to go but toward me or thirty feet down to the stage. Panicked, he reached into his waistcoat and revealed an ornately decorated pistol of gold and pearl. I too had my pistol upon me, but I was not reckless enough as to fire it in so crowded a venue.
Seeing him remove his weapon, the ladies in our immediate vicinity let out a series of horrified and shrill cries, and this sound sent a wave of panic that spread throughout the theatre. I heard the rumble of footsteps below as half the crowd looked upward and the other half scrambled for a better vantage from which to view the commotion. Understanding the precariousness of his position, Sir Owen attempted a narrative that would shield him from the censure of others.
“Weaver,” he shouted, “why do you pursue me?” He turned to the crowd, which had begun to settle. Sir Owen placed one hand on his hip and thrust his chest outward—as now he found himself the central attraction in the theatre, perhaps he thought he should conduct himself like a tragedian. “This man is mad. It is in Bedlam he belongs, not at the playhouse.”
“Surely it is you who do not belong here,” I said calmly, “for such a poor performance would put even Drury Lane to shame.”
This quip drew a few laughs from the audience, but only unsettled Sir Owen even more. “Perhaps you should give some thought to who I am,” he said, waving his pistol about, “and what courtesies belong to me.”
Having reached an impasse, I thought it best to lay my cards on the table and see what came of it. “As you have surmised,” I shouted, for during my time as a pugilist I had learned a thing or two about projecting my voice, “I have discovered that you are indeed the same person as Martin Rochester, the most notorious and unscrupulous stock-jobber ever to live. Consequently, I know you to be responsible for several murders: those of Michael Balfour, Kate Cole the whore, very likely Christopher Hodge, the bookseller, and, of course, my father, Samuel Lienzo.”
A murmur went up in our surroundings. “What? Sir Owen is Martin Rochester?” Below I saw young men pointing upward. Women of his acquaintance gasped in shock. The words
Sir Owen responded to this accusation about as badly as he could have. He was trapped. He could think of nothing. I had exposed him before all of London. Perhaps if what I had said was untrue and he had laughed off the accusations he might have preserved his name and his reputation, at least for that evening. Rather than countering my claims, however, he acted the part of a desperate man. He fired his pistol at me.
The crack of the pistol forged a momentary pocket of silence in the excited theatre, and the smell of burning powder hung in the air. Everyone, even the desperate players upon the stage, paused to inspect their persons for signs of penetration. It was my good fortune that Sir Owen possessed no good aim, and he missed my person, but a liveried footman who stood some ten feet behind me, gawking at my confrontation with the baronet, fared not so well. The ball of lead struck him squarely in the chest, and he staggered backward and dropped to the floor. He gaped with utter surprise at the red stain that spread across his livery. It was as though someone had tipped over a bottle of wine upon a tablecloth and no one could think of what to do. He looked upon his injury for a quarter of a minute, and then, without letting out a groan, he toppled over and expired.
I could hear nothing in the theatre but the actors haplessly intoning their lines below. This quiet passed in but an instant, however, and the panic rose from a light simmer to a boil as the patrons rushed to the exits to escape Sir Owen’s murderous rampage. Unwilling to let him pass me by in the mayhem, I plunged forward, intending I
