With his good hand, Arnold tried to reach into his pocket, but he had to stretch across his body and by the way he twisted his face the pain must have been horrific. Finally, against the weight of my hand, he slammed his teeth together and grabbed a purse from his pocket, and in a jerky and agonized motion, threw it upon the table.
I told Elias to look inside, and he did, taking out the packet of letters. They were as Sir Owen had described —a thick bundle bound with a yellow ribbon and sealed with a wax imprint. I had him hand them to me, and I quickly counted that there were four separate packets, each a half-inch or more thick. Even in the flurry of the moment, I could not but smile to think what a prolix correspondent the libertine baronet turned out to be.
I placed the bundle in my pocket and told Elias to hold down Arnold’s hand as I pulled out my dagger. Now the blood began to flow with an unchecked burst. Arnold slipped from my grasp and dropped to the floor, uttering low, growling noises.
“Give him the money,” I said to Elias.
I could see the way he thought behind his shifting gray eyes.
“Give him the money,” I said again. “That was the bargain.”
There must have been something about the way I spoke that ended the argument, for Elias sighed, agonized about letting go of the twenty pounds unnecessarily, and dropped the purse upon the table. Each of Arnold’s companions reached forward to grab it.
Elias looked ready to make a running escape, but I shook my head at him. There was no need to run. Arnold lay defeated, and no one would trouble us. I considered drinking an ale before I left to show my contempt, but I had no one to gratify but myself, and the drink was not to my liking. Instead I smiled with grim satisfaction and held the door for Elias as we departed.
SEVEN
THE MORNING FOUND ME refreshingly calm. I was pleased to have retrieved Sir Owen’s documents, and I felt tolerably confident that the business of Jemmy’s death would pass without any serious harm. Hard upon noon, Mrs. Garrison announced that Sir Owen was below to see me, and when the baronet entered my rooms he could not have shown more pleasure in my success. He clutched his letters from my hand and pressed them to his bosom. He sat down and then immediately stood up again and paced about the room. He asked for a drink and then asked for another one, having forgotten about the first.
Sir Owen insisted upon paying me a bonus, and after some formal protests, I accepted reimbursement for the expenses I had met in my dealings with Kate and Arnold. This gesture was a generous one, for it doubled his original fee and it significantly improved my little stock of money. Sir Owen then convinced me to join him for a meal that he should pay for, so he would not have to collect the letters, as he said, without having shown some measure of the fellowship his gratitude bred within him. I attended him to a local ordinary, and ate and drank heartily, and I remained with Sir Owen until near two o’clock in the afternoon, when he said he had appointments to keep. Before we parted, however, he shocked me by asking me to join him next Tuesday evening at his club.
“It is no formal affair, I assure you,” he said, reading the astonishment on my face. “I thought it might be of some advantage to a man in your position to have occasion to introduce yourself to some gentlemen.”
“I would be delighted to attend,” I told him in earnestness. “And I would hold myself in your debt for your generosity.”
Sir Owen cleared his throat and shifted in his seat. “You, shall we say, understand that I am in no way proposing you for membership.” His voice trailed off.
“I quite understand,” I cut in quickly, wishing to defuse his embarrassment. “I am, as you have surely surmised, anxious to meet gentlemen who may someday have need of a man such as myself. And a recommendation from you is a powerful thing.”
Pleased with my understanding, Sir Owen gave me a friendly clap upon the back and thanked me again for my effort to retrieve his papers. Then, after a protracted farewell, he made his retreat.
With a satisfied stomach and a head full of good wine, I thought to myself that it was time to discharge my duties. I therefore took a hackney to Mr. Balfour’s lodgings off Bishopsgate to see what, if anything, he had learned from his inquiries into what his father’s family knew of that death. I hoped he would have learned nothing. I hoped he would have concluded the fruitlessness of his search and discharged me from this affair with an unblemished conscience.
I found Balfour in a respectable set of rooms in a respectable home, but he sat in his parlor as though it fit too snug upon him. He held himself unnaturally erect in his chair, as if afraid to recline. He wore almost precisely the same suit of clothing that I had seen upon him the previous day, though he had made some effort to clean the cloth of some lint and remove the more conspicuous stains.
I stood before him, my hat tucked under my arm. He stared at me. He crossed his legs. I expected him to offer me a chair, but he studied me with an expression that could have been either anxiety or boredom. “Next time you wish to speak to me,” he said with a slow and deliberate tone, “please inform me in advance. We shall establish a meeting place more appropriate than my own residence.”
“As you wish,” I replied with a broad smile, meant to irritate him, for I found Balfour’s penniless superiority filled me with both anger and contempt. “But as I am here, I shall make myself comfortable.” I noticed a decanter of wine on the mantel, and still warm from my luncheon with Sir Owen, I thought a bit of wine was just the thing. “Would you care for some?” I asked, as I poured for myself.
“You are insufferable,” he snapped. “This is my home, sir!” His hands clutched at a newspaper that rested in his lap.
I took a seat and slowly sipped the wine, an inferior claret. It was not undrinkable but it tasted sour in comparison with the fine drink Sir Owen had provided. I suspect that my host saw the signs of my displeasure, for he moved to open his mouth. I thought it best to avoid what I was sure would be an expression of his ungrounded pomposity, so I began rapidly. “Mr. Balfour, you have hired my services, but I am not a servant. After all, we have a mutual interest in the inquiry you wish to set me upon. Now, shall we discuss the particulars of this situation?”
Balfour glowered at me for a moment and decided that impassivity was his best option. “Very well. I am afraid you will have to do the work yourself, which is, I expect, why I am paying you. I have spoken to my father’s chief clerk, and he has informed me that my suspicions are not unfounded. He claims the estate was much poorer at my father’s death than he, the clerk, had any reason to suspect.”
“Indeed,” I noted coolly.
“As I believe I mentioned, my father had profited somewhat from the late rivalry between the Bank of England and the South Sea Company—all that fluctuation of stock prices. He spent his time down in ’Change Alley, with the Jews and other foreigners, buying this stock and selling that.”
“And some of these stocks are missing?”
He shrugged as though I had just rudely changed the subject. “I know nothing of the details. I have no head for things such as finance, but in light of the profits he made from these dealings, his accounts are inexplicable. According to the clerk, you understand.”
“I see. Can you tell me what else you learned?”
“Is that not enough? What I have learned is that a financial person believes my father’s death suspicious. What more do you require?”
“Nothing,” I said, “to make me wish to look into this matter further.” I had spoken this before I had realized it to be true. Now, as I sat across from Balfour, sipping his poor wine, I realized the course upon which I found myself. I would certainly have to learn more of my own father’s dealings, and to do so I would need to talk with my uncle. After my years of wandering, this jackanapes Balfour would be the man to send me home.
Pushing this idea from my mind, I pressed on with Balfour. “I fear I require much more if I am to unearth anything that might help you to recover your estate. Your mother is still living, is she not? I believe you mentioned her last time we spoke.”
Balfour reddened, I thought inexplicably. “I say, sir! You ask unaccountably impertinent questions. What is my mother to you?”
“I suspect your mother may know something that could be of use. I really do not understand why you must make everything difficult. Do you wish my help or no?”
“Certainly I wish your . . . services. That is why I have put you in my employ. That does not give you license
