A Conspiracy of Paper

to work magic for the countless victims of robberies about London, for he could discover the whereabouts of nearly every thief in the city, and he could recover almost any stolen item. As we know now, and as many of us knew at the time, Jonathan Wild could do all of these things because there was hardly a prig in London who was not in his employ. When a man discovered an article had been stolen, he frequently found it more convenient to pay the same thieves to return the item than to hire a man such as myself who could offer no guarantees of retrieval. Wild never made guarantees, for he posed as a concerned citizen merely offering to help, but I had rarely heard that he failed to recover a stolen item. According to the custom, his victims placed notices in the Daily Courant announcing the items they wished recovered. It took no long amount of time for the victim to receive word of Mr. Wild, who would explain that he believed he might be of service if the good gentleman or lady would only be willing to offer the thief half or three-quarters of the value of the stolen item. It was no fair deal, but a fairer one than having to replace the property, so in this way the citizens of London retrieved their lost goods and praised the man who stole them. Wild, in turn, received far more money for his booty than he ever could have hoped for had he fenced it or attempted to resell it himself. He had grown so rich upon this scheme that it was said that he had agents in nearly every town of note in England and that he owned smuggling ships that sailed constantly from these shores to France and Holland and back again, loaded with contraband.

Despite his great success, there were always those who knew Wild for what he was and would do no business with him. Sir Owen Nettleton was such a gentleman; he had come to me with a request only two days before my encounter with Mr. Balfour. Sir Owen was an engaging man, and I took an enormous liking to him immediately. He appeared in my receiving room, proud and jovial, slightly fat and slightly drunk. Some men were ashamed to come see me in my neighborhood—perhaps because Covent Garden was too unfashionable, perhaps because they did not wish publicly to enter the home of a Jew, but Sir Owen was nothing if not open and nothing if not conspicuous. With his unmistakable gold-and-turquoise coach left standing directly in front of Mrs. Garrison’s house, he walked in, boldly prepared to give his name to anyone who might request it.

He was near forty, I think, but his clothing and spirit gave him a look of a man at least ten years his junior. He was naught but gay colors and silver thread and fancy embroidery, and his jolly face looked all the more wide and ruddy under the enormous canopy of his perfectly white full-bottom wig. Sitting comfortably in the chair before me, he talked of the gossip of the town and drank the better part of a bottle of Madeira before he even hinted that he had any business with me. Finally, he set down his glass and walked over to the window just behind my chair and peered at the street below. Standing so close to me as he was, I grew lightheaded in the fog of his liberal application of civet perfume.

“It is a fine Sunday afternoon for October, do you not think so? A fine Sunday afternoon.”

“It is a fine afternoon,” I agreed, by now somewhat eager for Sir Owen to come to his point.

“So fine an afternoon it is,” he explained, “that I cannot tell you of my business indoors. We want fresh air, Mr. Weaver, and sunshine, I should think. Let us take a turn about St. James’s.”

I found his proposal perfectly agreeable, so we headed downstairs, where we subjected ourselves to the baldly curious stares of my landlady and three of her equally corpulent and bitter friends who sat hunched around a card table, playing at piquet for small stakes. Mrs. Garrison’s mouth surely dropped as she saw me enter Sir Owen’s handsome equipage.

Now, I have lived in London almost all of my life, and I have many times witnessed the spectacle of St. James’s Park on a glorious Sunday afternoon, but owing in no small part to the social estrangement that comes with being a Jew of limited means, I had never thought I should someday participate in it. Yet there I was, strolling by the side of a fashionable baronet, feeling the sun full on my face as I made my way about the park along with countless fashionable ladies and gentlemen. I flatter myself that I was not swept away by the vivacity of it all, but it was a dazzling entertainment to witness the bowing and the curtsying, the display of the latest coat styles and hair fashions, of wigs and ribbons and silks and hoops. I think that Sir Owen may have been the perfect man to initiate me into this world, for he knew a fair portion of gentlemen and ladies, and he doled out and received his share of bows, but he had not so many acquaintances as to make taking a step impossible. So we strolled among the beau monde, the fragile warmth of the dying summer upon us, and Sir Owen told me of his difficulties.

“Weaver,” he began as we walked along, “I am not a man to hide his feelings. I shall tell you straight away that I like your looks. You strike me as a man I can trust.”

I smiled inwardly at his manner of expressing himself. “I shall in every way attempt to be worthy of that trust.”

Sir Owen stopped and glared at my face, moving his head from side to side as he inspected my features. “Yes, I like your looks, Weaver. You dress like a man of sense, and you conduct yourself like a man of sense, too. I might not even know you to be a Jew, though I suppose your nose is perhaps a bit larger than an Englishman would strictly permit—but what of it?”

I resumed our perambulation, hoping movement would bring Sir Owen to a more relevant topic of conversation.

“And you’re a game-enough-looking spark,” he continued. “I would wager you are a man who likes his pleasures. I can assure you I am. I shall be bold with you. I like gambling, and I like whores. I like whores very much, sir.”

Pressed on by his spirit, I said, “And do they like you, Sir Owen?”

For an instant I feared I had offended him, but he burst into a laugh as thick as a dish of chocolate. “They like my money tremendously, Mr. Weaver. I can assure you of that. They like it as much as the masters of the gaming houses. For all men—and women too—like money. I like money,” he droned, losing his thoughts as a group of pretty young ladies crossed our path, all a-giggle over a broken parasol.

“As you like whores,” I offered in assistance.

He snapped his fingers. “Quite right. Whores. Yes, well my fondness for whores has gotten me into a bit of trouble, I’m afraid.” He paused to laugh at a joke he thought of. “But I don’t need a surgeon. Not that kind of trouble. Not this time. You see, I had an amorous encounter last night with a whore not content to be a simple whore, not content to earn an honest living for an honest tumble. It seems I took upon myself a bit too much wine, and this little jade took upon herself every possession I had.” Sir Owen cut short his narrative to bow deeply to an excessively painted lady who displayed an elaborate dress of greens and yellows and wore her hair piled high, after the Hanoverian style. She took some small notice of the baronet, and continued on her way. Sir Owen then proceeded to explain to me that he had been lured into taking a walk with the whore after, as it happens, he had been weakened with spirits, which he had been encouraged to drink far beyond even his considerable measure. When he awoke in an alleyway, his coat, watch, shoes, sword, purse, and pocketbook had been taken. “I’m not a man who carries a grudge,” he assured me. “I am willing to let her keep all—but I must have my pocketbook back. It has much in it that is of value to me—and to me only. It is very important that I retrieve it, and that I do so as soon as possible.”

I thought about this for a moment. “Do you know this whore’s name or where I might find her?”

He grinned. “When I was a young man, the parish vicar always told me that being a whoremonger would be my undoing, but this is precisely where being a whoremonger has done me service. I know her name, indeed, for I have seen her going about her trade, if before last night I have not had the displeasure of knowing her, shall we say, intimately. I think perhaps in her way of whoring, men seldom return for more. Her name is Kate Cole, and I’ve seen her many a time at an alehouse called the Barrel and Bale. I believe she takes a room there, but I am not certain.”

I nodded. I’d never heard of this whore, but there were thousands of her trade in London. Even a man of Sir Owen’s enthusiasm could not expect to know them all. “I shall find your Kate Cole for you, then.”

He proceeded to describe her looks to me in great detail—giving me more information than I should necessarily require to find a woman in a full state of dress. “I trust,” he then said, lowering his voice, “that I need not discuss discretion with you at any great length. Surely a man in your position understands the needs of a man in my position.”

I told him I understood perfectly, though I wondered why he should choose to parade about the park with me if he desired secrecy.

Sir Owen surprised me by guessing my thoughts. “I do not mind that the world knows I’ve been to see you, or even that I’ve been to see you for your help in recovering stolen goods. But I would prefer that you say no more. It is none of the world’s business what I have had stolen or how I lost it.”