He shrugged. “A small man upon the Exchange. No more. A jobber.”
A jobber. This Martin Rochester was a jobber, and the man who killed my father was in his employ. The man at the Anchor Brewery had likened Rochester to Jonathan Wild—not a jobber, but a master thief. Perhaps Elias was right about the corruption of ’Change Alley, for now it seemed that in the person of Martin Rochester, finance and theft found a single voice.
“I have heard,” I said, pushing as far as I might, “that he is a great man.”
“From whom have you heard this arrant nonsense?”
I spoke without pause. “From the man who killed my father.”
Adelman pursed his lips into an ugly and twisted shape. I could only presume he wished to display this disgust, for he was quite clearly a man who knew how to disguise his feelings. “I shall not linger long,” he said, “for if you keep the company of such men, I do not wish to be numbered among them. Let me only say this, Mr. Weaver: you sail your ship upon treacherous waters.”
“Perhaps I require insurance.” I grinned at him.
Adelman responded to my gibe with characteristic seriousness. “No company will insure you. You are in danger of foundering.”
I thought to make another quip, but changed my mind and considered his words. The man I spoke to was no street filth whose threats could be laughed off. He was one of the wealthiest men in the Kingdom and one of the most powerful, too. Yet he took the time to speak with me, to attempt to frighten me off my course. I could not take this matter lightly, nor could I dismiss it with clever phrases. I had not the slightest idea of what Adelman’s interest was in my inquiry nor what his involvement might be in the deaths of my father and Balfour, but I could not ignore the fact that a man of his position hovered above me in a public place, speaking of my doom.
I stood up very slowly, until I dwarfed him at my full height. We stared at one another, each like a fighter sizing up his opponent in the ring. “Do you threaten me, sir?” I asked after a moment.
He impressed me greatly, for he showed no sign of intimidation. He did not merely pretend to disregard my greater size and the anger upon my face. He truly cared nothing for it. “Mr. Weaver, the difference between us in family, fortune, and education is so great that your question, asked in so bellicose a manner, truly does you little credit. You must recognize that I condescend to speak to you as an equal, and you have now taken advantage of my generosity. No, I do not threaten you. I merely wish to advise you, for you neither see nor care to see the path upon which you embark. Exchange Alley, sir, is no game of fists within a ring, in which might prevails. It is not even a chess game, in which all pieces are laid upon the board and each player sees all and the most accomplished man sees best. It is a labyrinth, sir, in which you will see only a few feet before you; you can never know what it is that lies ahead, and you can never be sure from which direction you came. There are men who stand above the labyrinth, and while you try to learn what is beyond the next turn, there are those who see you and the path you seek with perfect clarity, and it is but a small thing to block you. Please make no more of what I say. I do not suggest that your life or your safety are in danger. Nothing so dramatic. But to learn the things you wish to know— even if none of your suspicions are true—you may have to cross men who share no direct guilt in your father’s death, yet believe that your inquiries will expose them in ways they have no wish to be exposed. These men can and will block your passage. You will never see their hands or suspect how they move the pieces. You cannot succeed.”
I did not lower my gaze. “Are you one of these men?”
“Should I tell you if I were?” He smiled. “Perhaps so. I would have nothing to lose.”
“Such men,” I said, my quiet voice hardly audible above the din of the room, “attempted my life two nights ago. If you know who they are, inform them that I shall not be deterred.”
“I know not men who would execute so foul a plot,” he said hastily. “And I am sorry to hear of the attempt. I can promise you that no man of business engages in such tricks. You must have been the victim of an enemy from one of your other ventures.”
I said nothing at this speculation that was, after all, not improbable.
Adelman now attempted to soften slightly. “I do admire you, sir; I have not lied about that. Despite your enthusiastic rudeness, I wish you well. You show the world that not all Jews are loathsome beggars or dangerous schemers. I believe that your father would want you to use your talents to enrich yourself and to strengthen your family, not to waste your time upon a fool’s errand that will make you enemies you will never know and harm you in ways you will never see.”
I bitterly thanked Mr. Adelman for his good wishes and watched him effortlessly insinuate himself into the conversation of a group of grim-looking gentlemen. I sat staring blankly for some time, thinking on what Adelman had said, and then returned to the pamphlet, though my concentration was now shattered. So I thought on the things I had now learned.
My mind wandered fitfully, and I took to scanning the room, wondering who among these men knew who I was and what I was after. Who among them could perhaps easily tell me something of use, but would not do so because a fund might fall by ten points should the truth out? What would my father have done? I wondered. Would he have spoken the truth, uncovered a terrible crime, if it had meant losing a great deal of money? What about my uncle? Indeed, what about me?
I had nothing to gain from remaining at Jonathan’s, though I thought it might be worth my while to make an appearance with some regularity until I resolved the current inquiry. Tired and somewhat frustrated, I made my way home, where I hoped to take some sleep.
When I walked through the door, however, I was astonished to hear what I took to be my uncle’s voice coming from the parlor. I approached slowly, unsure what to make of his presence in my home, but the tone of his voice was light, even cheerful. And I thought I even heard Mrs. Garrison laugh.
“I do not believe now is the time to look to East India funds,” my uncle was saying as I entered the room. My landlady and my uncle, playing cards clutched in their hands, were seated at the small table, whose velvet top was strewn with piles of small coins. “And I cannot support the South Sea Company. Government issues, madam, funded by the Bank of England, are your wisest investment.” He sipped at a dish of chocolate that had been laid out for him.
“Oh, Mr. Lienzo, you are so very learned in these matters,” she said with a puerile titter, the likes of which I had never heard burst from her mouth, “but I fear that right now you have rather lost your investment.” She set her cards upon the table. “You owe me four pence, sir,” she announced, in a tone that made it clear that her designs on my uncle were of the amorous variety.
My senses had been too heavily assaulted in the past few days, and I could in no way consider allowing this silliness to continue. “Uncle,” I announced as I walked into the room, “I am astonished to see you here.”
“Mr. Weaver, sir,” Mrs. Garrison cooed, “you never told me you had such a charming uncle.”
“That is because I knew you would attempt to beat him at cards. Now the secret is out.”
My uncle cleared his throat and stood up. He stroked his beard as he ran through a gamut of facial expressions, searching, perhaps, for the one that best fit the moment. “Benjamin, we must speak at once.” He bowed to Mrs. Garrison. “I thank you for your entertainment, madam. You have been most kind. And if you wish to look into the funds, please let me know, and I shall find an honest man who shall meet your needs admirably.”
Mrs. Garrison curtsied. “You are too kind, sir.”
“Shall we talk in my rooms, Uncle?” I suggested.
“By all means.” He collected a bundle of papers pressed into a sheepskin folder and then followed me up Mrs. Garrison’s narrow and steep stairway. When we reached the top, I saw my uncle was agitated and breathing hard. I opened the door, invited him to sit, and opened a bottle of claret that I hoped he would find refreshing.
He clutched his wine in both hands and stared straight ahead, his eyes suddenly having lost their focus. “I am no longer a young man to muster this kind of energy. But still I am clever enough to impress myself,” he said with a smile. He studied the look upon my face and saw that I did not smile in return. “You have no curiosity about what I have to tell you?”
“I am curious at any business that leads you to turn my landlady into a coquette, Uncle.”
He smiled. “She is a bit of a talker, is she not? But there is no harm in kindness to the ladies, I believe. It is what I always told Aaron, and I hope it is a lesson you may learn as well. But I have come to talk rather about the matter of Samuel’s death and to review our progress.”
“There has been little progress, I’m afraid. I grow discouraged,” I said as I took a seat across from him. “I have learned many things, developed many suspicions, but I cannot know if they have anything to do with the
