I SPENT THAT NIGHT visiting a few taverns and alehouses, hoping to learn something about Bertie Fenn, the driver who had run down my father. No one I knew could provide me with what I needed to know. Most had not heard of him, a few had, and an even smaller number knew of his association with a shadowy figure called Rochester. I could find no one who knew where he was, but I let it be known that I would pay handsomely for the information. I knew that by being so bold there was a chance that the man I pursued might learn of my search. This knowledge might entice him further into hiding, or he might come looking for me himself.
Having given up hope of learning anything more that night, I settled myself with a comforting ale at the Bedford Arms tavern upon the Little Plaza in Covent Garden. This tiny, dank stewpot attracted the regular jades and ruffians of the neighborhood, most of whom earned their keep through thieving and thus kept a cautious eye upon me as I sat at my corner table and drank my mug in silence. Sometimes, in such places, an acquaintance or two would stumble upon me and most times I would welcome the company, but I had no wish to drink with friends that night. I had too many puzzles through which to sort.
Chief among these was my father’s pamphlet and its implications. Could Elias’s philosophical musings have proved true? Could a chartered company like the South Sea truly turn to murder to further its business? I continued to find the idea fantastical, but I could not shake Elias’s conviction in light of the claims put forth in
The other principal concern upon my mind was the dark-eyed beauty who had just walked into the tavern with the clear intent of finding a man who would buy her a mug of wine. I do not wish for my readers to think that while I considered this lass I had lost all regard for Miriam; nothing could be more false. Indeed, I considered the pleasures of this accessible creature precisely because I believed Miriam’s charms to be forbidden. The twenty-five pounds I had sent to my cousin-in-law might purchase on my behalf some small measure of gratitude, but the matter of a few shillings here could have provided me with a much more intimate gratitude in a much more immediate way.
As I moved to raise my mug to this charmer, the door of the tavern burst open and a half-dozen men, most with pistols drawn, marched into the room. I instinctively reached for my hangar, but I saw at once that their business would not concern me, for at the head of this crowd stood none other than Jonathan Wild. His lieutenant, Abraham Mendes, scanned the room and then pointed to a scurvy-looking cove sitting with a pair of doxies at the far end of the tavern. If Mendes saw me, he made no sign of it. He shoved a few chairs out of his path and marched toward his prey.
This old fellow, a skinny mass of pocked skin and wisps of gray hair, could do naught but finish his ale and await Mendes and the others. Perhaps he had withheld booty from Wild, as Kate Cole had done, or perhaps he had simply grown too old to be an effective enough thief for Wild to justify keeping him about. It made no difference— Wild would now have him carted off to be tried and inevitably convicted. The great thief-taker would earn his reward and such public nabbings as this one would only enhance his reputation as a heroic enemy of crime.
Two of the men, under the supervision of Mendes, gripped the resigned sacrifice under the arms and hoisted him to his feet. Wild held back and scanned the room, hoping perhaps to gauge the mood of the tavern, and as he looked about, his eyes met with mine. I expected him to turn away, but instead he limped forward that he might speak to me.
“Good night to you, Mr. Weaver.” He bowed deeply. His smirk suggested that he knew of something funny— almost as though we shared a joke between us.
I lifted my mug in salute, but the look on my face made it clear that I meant not to honor him.
“I trust your current inquiry proceeds apace,” he said with roguish cheer.
I did not consider but that he meant the business with Sir Owen, for he had involved himself, if only indirectly, by ’peaching poor Kate. Was that the source of his delight? That he had sent a woman almost certainly to hang that she might be punished for something I had done?
“Such a tricky business, murder,” he continued.
“Your prosecution of Kate has shown it to be the trickiest business in the world,” I countered.
He laughed softly. “You misunderstand me. I care not for that business with Kate Cole. I talk of your present inquiry. As I say, a very tricky business. There are those who believe that if the villain is not found immediately he shall never be found, but I have every faith in your skills.”
I opened my mouth to respond, but nothing came forth.
It mattered not that I had no words. Seeing that his men awaited him, Wild bowed again and turned to lead them from the tavern.
The place erupted into a buzz the moment the thief-taker departed; for most of the patrons here, this arrest was more than a matter of gossip, it was a matter of business. I could hear the speculation on why Wild had chosen this man, why this old fool had it coming, and why, ultimately, each of these men who remained believed that they would never meet such a fate.
I looked up from my drink and saw that the dark and pretty lass sat now a few tables over, and she cast her eyes in my direction, hoping to catch my attention. I turned away, for my amorous mood had departed along with Wild. It was not the tyranny with which Wild ruled his soldiers that had soured my disposition, for in truth I had grown accustomed to such scenes. Rather, I could not but wonder about the words Wild had spoken to me. How had he become familiar with my inquiry into my father’s death? And, perhaps more important, why did he feel compelled to make sure I knew he had become familiar? I tried to make myself believe that his only concern was based upon our business rivalry, but there had been too much mischief in Wild’s expression for me to accept that explanation. I did not even dare guess why, but my inquiry surely meant something to him. If I were right, if I might trust my instincts, then before I could learn who had killed my father, I should inevitably have to contend with the most dangerous man in London.
I WASTED NO MORE time in approaching Perceval Bloathwait at his town house in Cavendish Square. Rather than writing him a sycophantic letter in which I begged him to meet with me, I took a more direct approach—one that worked more effectively than I had reason to hope. I simply arrived in the early afternoon and handed my card to a shabbily clad footman, who invited me to wait in a cramped parlor. The room suffered for a want of windows, and what little light it received was dampened by furnishings of dull brown and red tones and by the somber portraits of Puritans-no doubt Bloathwait’s ancestors—that hung crookedly upon the wall. I could find no books with which to pass the time, so for want of any other occupation I began to pace with slow intensity. I thought my footsteps might kick up a cloud of dust upon the old carpet, but Bloathwait’s furnishings were merely old, not dirty.
The modesty of the house surprised me, for as a member of the Court of Directors of the Bank of England, Bloathwait could only be opulently wealthy. Though he hardly lived in squalor, I had anticipated something more along the lines of splendor—large, open, sunny rooms, classical columns, splendid furnishings, and handsomely dressed servants. Perhaps, I thought, an older, unmarried man who dedicated himself to his business had no opportunity or inclination for pleasures.
I reassessed my position, however, when, after perhaps three-quarters of an hour, the entrance of a pretty servant girl interrupted my pacing. This lass was slightly plump, but pleasing in a dress whose neck was cut low to delight what I supposed to be the lascivious oglings of her master. She had pale yellow hair, delicious hazel eyes, and milky skin bespotted with freckles. At first oblivious to my presence, she stopped halfway through the room and yelped when she abruptly noticed me.
“Bless me,” she said as she pressed one hand to her breast. “I beg your pardon, sir. I didn’t see you there, nor knew you was there at all, or I wouldn’t have come passing through, with a visitor here and such. But it’s a long way to go ’round, and when there’s no one in here, I don’t see that there’s a harm in it, though Mr. Bloathwait, he’d have my hide if he knew I’d done it.”
I smiled at her and bowed. “Benjamin Weaver, at your service.”
“Oh,” she breathed, as though a man in a handsome coat had never before plied her with gallantries. She stared at me and then, remembering her place, perhaps, she cast her eyes downward. “I’m Bessie.” She curtsied, and I took some pleasure as her pale and freckled skin reddened. “The laundry maid.”
I knew it unusual for a bachelor like Bloathwait to employ female servants unless he required more of them than their scrubbing and their washing. If such was the case with Bessie, I thought, then her presence here
