A Conspiracy of Paper

see him meddling in the affairs of ’Change Alley, buying and selling stocks in the manner of—well, in the manner of your people, Weaver—but he believed there were ample opportunities for a man who kept his wits about him. So how can it be that his finances were so”—he paused briefly to choose his terms—“ill ordered. Do you think it any coincidence that both our fathers, very rich men of acquaintance, should have died suddenly and mysteriously within the span of a single day, and my father’s holdings reveal themselves to be in chaos?”

As he spoke, Balfour’s face revealed no small number of passions: indignity, disgust, discomfort, even, I believe, shame. I thought it passing strange that a man out to expose so terrible a crime displayed no attitudes of outrage.

The claims he made, however, sparked within me an agitation, which I sought to contain by setting my mind to the facts before me. “What you present does not offer any kind of evidence of murder,” I said after a moment. “I cannot see how you have reached this conclusion.”

“My father’s death was made to look like self-murder so that a villain or villains could take his money with impunity,” he pronounced, as though he unveiled a discovery of natural philosophy.

“You believe his estate to have been robbed, and your father to have been murdered to hide this robbery?”

“In a word, sir, yes. That is what I believe.” Balfour’s features settled, for a brief moment, into a look of languid contentment. Then he eyed his empty wineglass with nervous longing. I obliged him by refilling.

I paced about the room, despite the distracting ache of an old wound in my leg—a wound that had ended my days as a pugilist. “What is the connection between these deaths, then, sir? My father’s estate is solvent.”

“But is anything missing? Do you even know, sir?”

I did not, so I ignored what I considered a presumptuous question. “It is in your best interest that I be blunt. Your father has died recently, under terrible conditions, and unable to leave a legacy. You have grown up with the expectation of wealth and privilege, with every reason to believe you would live a gentleman’s life of ease. Now you find your dreams dashed, and you look for ways to believe it is not so.”

Balfour reddened dramatically. I suspect he was unused to challenges, particularly challenges from men such as myself. “I resent your words, Weaver. My family may be under disabilities at this moment, but you would do well to remember that I am a gentleman born.”

“As I am,” I said, looking directly into his reddish eyes. It was a harsh blow. His family was an upstart, and he knew it. He had earned that most ambiguous title of gentleman through his father’s aggressive dealings as a tobacco merchant, not through the majesty of his bloodlines. Indeed, I recalled that old Balfour had made a bit of a stir among the more established tobacco merchants by angering the men he hired to unload his vessels. Dock laborers have, by custom, always been given scant wages, and they have evened out their earnings through a kind of quiet redistribution of the goods they handle. For vessels carrying tobacco, the process is known as “socking”; the laborers merely plunge their hands into the bales of tobacco, sock away as much as they can hold and then resell it on their own. True enough it was a kind of sanctioned theft, but years ago tobacco merchants had realized that their porters were helping themselves to the cargo despite any measures meant to prevent them, so they simply cut the wages and looked the other way.

Old Balfour, however, had taken the unhappy step of hiring men to inspect the workers and make sure no one socked his goods, but he refused to raise wages proportionately. The laborers had grown violent—smashing open several bales of sot weed and boldly liberating their contents. Old Balfour only relented once his brother merchants convinced him that to pursue this mad course was to risk riot and destruction of all their trades.

That this merchant’s son should assert that his was an old family was patently absurd—it was not even an old trading family. And while in those days there was, as there is now, something decidedly English about a wealthy merchant, it was a relatively new and uncertain assertion that the son of such a man could claim the status of gentleman. My declaration that our families were of a piece sent him into a kind of fit. He blinked as though trying to dispel a vision, and twitched irritably until he regained himself.

“I think it no coincidence that my father’s killers made his death appear self-murder, for it makes all ashamed to discuss it. But I am not ashamed. You think me now penniless, and you think I come to you begging for your help like a pauper, but you know nothing of me. I shall pay you twenty pounds to look into this matter for one week.” He paused so I might have time to reflect on so large a sum. “That I should have to pay you anything to uncover the truth behind your own father’s murder is the more shame for you, but I cannot answer for your sentiments.”

I studied his face, looking for signs of I’m not sure what—deceit, self-doubt, fear? I saw only an anxious determination. I no longer questioned that he was who he claimed to be. He was an unpleasant man; I knew that I disliked him immensely, and I was certain that he felt no love for me, yet I could not deny my interest in what he claimed about my father’s death. “Mr. Balfour, did anyone see what you claim to be this falsification of self- murder?”

He waved his hands in the air to demonstrate the foolishness of my question. “I do not know that anyone did.”

I pressed on. “Have you heard talk, sir?”

He stared at me in astonishment, as though I had spoken gibberish. “From whom would I? Do you think me the sort to correspond with men who would talk of such things?”

I sighed. “Then I am confused. How can I find the man who committed a crime if you have no witnesses and no contacts? Into what, precisely, am I to look?”

“I do not know your business, Weaver. It seems to me that you are being damnably obtuse. You have brought men to justice before—how you have done it then, you are to do it now.”

I attempted a polite, and I admit, condescending smile. “When I have brought men to justice in the past, sir, it has been in instances wherein someone knew the villain’s identity, and the task lay before me to locate him. Or perhaps there has been a crime in which the scoundrel is unknown, but witnesses saw that he had some very distinctive features—let us say a scar above his right eye and a missing thumb. With information of this nature, I can ask questions of the sort of people who might know this man and thus learn his name, his habits, and finally his whereabouts. But if the first step is your belief, what is the second step? Who are the right people to inquire of next?”

“I am shocked to hear of your methods, Weaver.” He paused for a moment, perhaps to drive home his distaste. “I cannot tell you of second steps nor of which rascals are appropriate for you to speak with regarding my father’s murder. Your business is your own, but I should think you would consider the matter of sufficient interest to take of me twenty pounds.”

I was silent for some time. I wanted nothing so much as to send the man away, for I had always been willing to go considerable lengths to avoid contact with my family. Yet twenty pounds was no small amount to me, and while I dreaded the terrible day of reckoning, I knew I needed some external force to push me toward reestablishing contact with those whom I had long neglected. And there was more: though I could not then have explained why, the idea of looking into a matter so opaque intrigued me, for it occurred to me that Balfour, despite the bluster with which he presented his notions, was right. Had there been a crime committed, it seemed only reasonable that it could be uncovered, and I liked the thought of what a success in an inquiry of this nature could do for my reputation.

“I expect soon another visitor,” I said at last. “And I am very busy.” He started to speak, but I would not let him. “I shall look into this matter, Mr. Balfour. How could I not? But I have not the time to look into this matter right away. If your father has been killed, then there must be some reason why. If it is theft, we must know more details of the theft. I wish you to go inquire as nearly as you can into his matters. Speak to his friends, relatives, employees, and whomever else you think might perhaps harbor some of the same suspicions. Let me know where I can find you, and in a few days’ time I shall call on you.”

“For what shall I pay you, Weaver, if I am to do your work for you?”

My smile this time was less benign. “You are, of course, right. When I am at liberty, I shall speak to your father’s family, friends, and employees. That they do not dismiss me, I shall be certain to tell them that you have sent me to ask questions of them. You might wish to inform them in advance to expect a Jew by the name of Weaver to inquire closely into family matters.”

“I cannot have you bothering these people,” he stammered. “Gad, to have you asking questions of my mother . . .”

“Then perhaps, as I suggested, you would like to look into this yourself.”