A Conspiracy of Paper

But Bloathwait’s terror did at last end. When I had not seen him for some time, I asked my father about it, but he only slammed his fist upon the table and shouted that I was never to speak that name aloud again.

I cannot say the name was never spoken of in the house, though. Sometimes, among my father’s business associates, I would hear the word Bloathwait mentioned in hushed whispers, and always my father looked over his shoulder to see if there was a witness, a witness who might strip away his mask of indifference and take note of the secret shame beneath.

Until the day I quit that house, I never dared utter his name to my father, but this great, sinister enemy—this man who had been my antagonist, and in a strange way an ally, exposing to me in the most irrefutable terms the failures of my father—remained firmly set in my fancy. I had no difficulty in recognizing him when I saw him next, now grown older, fatter, a lampoon of his former self. I had last looked upon his face, not as a child, but at my father’s funeral, when I had turned away from the service, and walked though the damp London afternoon, and seen him standing at a distance of perhaps fifty feet, looking at us, his little eyes fixed upon the huddle of Jewish men muttering their prayers. Strangely, I knew neither fear nor horror, though in retrospect I believe he looked a horrific figure, wrapped as I remembered him in a black outer coat, his wig, wet with rain, pressed against his face. A servant stood, ineffectually holding an umbrella above his head, and two more stood at the ready, awaiting his commands. When I noticed him, my initial thought was of recognition, as though he were a great friend and one I should be glad to see. Driven by instinct, I almost raised my hand in a wave, but in an instant I recollected his face, and froze, staring at him. He met my gaze and did not flinch. Rather, he offered me a slight smile, amused and menacing, and then turned to enter his carriage.

I devoted little attention to matters of politics and commerce, but London is a city in which great men are known to all, and I could not but be aware that this man who had once been so monstrous an enemy of my father was now a figure of some prominence—a member of the Court of Directors for the Bank of England. The Bank of England was the enemy of the South Sea Company, and the Company wished my inquiry to cease. I could not tell what it was, or how these matters fit together, but my uncle’s refusal to name Bloathwait, to allow his name to cross his lips, made plain to me that I had no choice but to talk to this enemy once more to learn if a villain from the past had returned to take my father’s life.

I DO NOT WISH to produce in my reader the impression that I had no pursuits but those described in these pages, nor any acquaintances than those herein detailed. I knew my nature to be a single-minded one, however, and I thought it best to clear myself of all outstanding obligations before I plunged myself further into this inquiry. In the days that followed my visit to my uncle’s house, I completed some business I had with a regular patron of mine—tailor who catered to the city’s quality and who often found his bills neglected by gentlemen whose fortunes had turned. Many such gentlemen take advantage of this country’s liberal statutes and appear in public on Sundays when they know the bailiffs cannot arrest them for their debts. Thus, their creditors suffer while debtors parade about under the denomination of Sunday Gentlemen. I, however, in the service of my patrons, chose to maintain a much more flexible view of the law than did the bailiffs. I had a long-standing agreement with Bawdy Moll, who allowed me to pluck debtors off the streets on Sundays and deposit them in her gin house until Monday reared its more agreeable head. Rare was the man who would not accept of Moll’s liquor once locked in her dungeon, and with our debtor disoriented and unable to produce a coherent story of his illegal arrest, I would contact a proper bailiff—unaware of the larger scheme—who would make the arrest. It was a simple operation, for which I received an amount equal to 5 percent of the outstanding debt and Moll received a one-pound gratuity.

Having secured a slippery fellow who owed my tailor friend in excess of four hundred pounds, I canvassed a few of my acquaintances to see if they knew something of the elder Balfour or his death, but that proved a fruitless venture. More successful was a visit to a young actress—whose name it would be indelicate to mention—with whom I kept some small acquaintance. She was a beautiful girl with bright blond hair and azure eyes and a sly smile that always made me believe she should play a trick upon me at any moment. I often took comfort in her idle chatter, for the world of the stage was so far from the world of my ordinary exploits, but on this occasion I could take no such refuge, for I listened to her tell me that she had learned she would play Aspasia in The Maid’s Tragedy only because the role had been abandoned by a woman who had fled the theatre to become Jonathan Wild’s whore. But I soon forgot the name of this enemy as I enjoyed several delicious hours in this woman’s company. It was something of a shame that she always found herself cast in tragic roles upon the stage, for she had a kind of wit about her that I found irresistible. An evening with this charmer was spent as much in laughter as it was in amorous intrigues. But I digress, for these adventures are of little relevance to this history.

What I believe is relevant, however, is that on my late-night retreat from her lodgings I met with a misadventure I could only assume to be tied to my inquiry. My actress lived not far from my own lodgings, across the Strand, in a small outlet off Cecil Street, an area I thought too isolated and too near the river for an attractive lady’s comfort. It was her habit to send me home late at night, after her landlady had gone to sleep and before she rose again, and I had no great objection to the arrangement, preferring the comfort of my own rooms. That night, having paid my tribute at the temple of Venus, I set out to make my way back to Mrs. Garrison’s. It was dark as I walked up toward Cecil Street, and not a soul stirred that I could see. I could hear the waters of the river, and I could smell its dank, fishy odor. It had begun to rain slightly, and a cool mist filled the air. I pulled my coat about me and headed into the darkness of my ill-lit way home. When I was a boy, the streets of London had been reasonably lighted with lamps, but in the few years before this tale those lamps had fallen into disuse. These dark streets had become lost to honest folk, taken over by the wretched denizens of the alleyways, gutters, and gin houses.

If my reader lives in London, he will understand that no man, no matter how formidable and no matter how well armed, can walk the dark streets of this city without trepidation. Such had always been the case, I suppose, but matters had grown far worse as Jonathan Wild’s rascals began to take for themselves the freedoms of the city. Had I lived farther from my paramour than I did, I should have sought to procure a hackney, but I would not be able to do so until upon the Strand, and from there I felt I could safely make my own way. Thus I walked cautiously, attempting to keep my wits about me, though my mind was distracted by the memories of a pleasant evening as well as a bit muddled from two or three bottles of a pleasing vintage.

I had walked only a few minutes when I heard footsteps behind me. Whoever followed was skillful, for he matched his gait precisely with my own, making his footfalls all but impossible to discern. I could only presume it was a footpad who had made his way up from the river and had been delighted to find fair game upon these streets. I kept my pace steady, not wishing to let him know that I heard him, but I grabbed the handle of my hangar with a resolve to be ready for him with my blade. I thought about bringing forth my pistol, but I had no desire to fill yet another prig with lead, and it was my hope that I could defend myself without killing my assailant. It was certainly not overly optimistic to believe that the sight of a brave man with a drawn weapon would be enough to end the matter. The city, this prig might realize, was surely full of easier prey.

I continued to walk, and he continued to keep apace. The mist began to turn into a steady rain, and a strong wind picked up from the river. I found myself shivering slightly as I walked, hearing my heart pound as if behind my ears, just as I heard the rhythmic tapping of the stalker’s footfalls. I could not tell when he would strike, but I found it strange that he waited so long. We were alone, and no footpad could hope for more favorable conditions. Indeed, he had nothing to gain by waiting, but he continued only to keep pace. I thought to turn around and challenge him to force the issue and to end the conflict, but I flattered myself that I might reach the Strand—and safety—without risking a struggle. I should have loved to have faced any ruffian of this order in a fair match, but I had no knowledge of his weaponry. He might have a brace of pistols pointed at me, and by frightening him I would only secure my demise. Perhaps, I thought, he was new at his trade and did not understand how ideal the conditions were. If so, I might keep walking until I should find company and the matter would end without confrontation or violence.

At last I saw a hackney coach up ahead, barreling in my direction. I could not imagine where it headed at such a speed, for the street went nowhere one might need to get to quickly. Despite its frenzied pace, I felt certain that if I signaled to him, the coachman would stop and permit me to ride at least to the nearest well-lit spot, where I might procure my own transportation. I feared he might not see me in the dark, so I stepped forward into the road, and drew my hangar, hoping that such light as there was would reflect off the thin blade and signal my distress.

I waved my arms as the coach drew nearer, but it did not slow down. Indeed, I realized as it approached that the horses were not going to run by me, but rather into me, and so I took myself a few steps backward, continuing to wave as I did so. As I changed my course, so too did the horses, and I could not but conclude that this madman