Bloathwait listened like a student at a lecture. He took notes as I spoke, and appeared to ponder confusing aspects of my narrative. Then I finished, and he changed his attitude to one of mild amusement, shaking his head and displaying a condescending smile upon his little mouth. “If Balfour-the-son is only half as much a fool as Balfour-the-father, then he is twice as much fool as should be heeded. I shall tell you, I have no contempt for poverty—none whatsoever. If a man begins with nothing and ends with nothing, he is like most men upon the earth. Some men who grow rich become contemptuous of men who are poor or of men who began as poor. I only have contempt for men who were once rich and became poor. I have had my reversals—of course
“I believe there is some merit in what his son claims. If not in the son himself,” I added after an instant.
He fingered the corner of a piece of paper. “Have you any proof of these suspicions?”
I thought it best to share no information yet. I wished to know what Bloathwait knew—not how he would react to what little information I already had. “Had I proof,” I said, “I should not require your help. I now only have suspicions.”
He leaned forward, as though to signal that he now wished to give me his full attention. “I shall tell you that I had something of a personal dislike of your father. I do not hesitate to say so. In matters of the Exchange, however, I could not but respect him, as I respect any man who supported the Bank of England. I shall therefore do all that I can to aid you, that I might honor all men who honor the Bank. I cannot say I believe your fantastical tale of plotted murders and missing issues, but if you wish to make some sort of inquiry, I shall in no way hinder you.”
I thought it best to acknowledge what he clearly believed to be his generosity. “Thank you, Mr. Bloathwait.”
He stroked his chin thoughtfully. “I also do not like the idea that someone might murder one of your race with impunity,” he continued. “I hardly need tell you that we Dissenters suffer from nearly as many disabilities as you Hebrews, and I should hate to think that any man might strike down another without fear of punishment so long as his victim is not a member of the Church of England.”
“I respect your sense of justice,” I said cautiously.
He leaned back in his chair and spread his hands upon the expanse of his chest. “I wish I knew of something that might help you. I can only tell you this: in the weeks before his accident, I heard some rumors about your father. I heard that he had somehow become an enemy of the South Sea Company.”
I concentrated on looking no more than mildly curious, though I wished to ask a thousand questions—none of which I could formulate. That Bloathwait had heard talk of enmity between my father and the Company proved little, but it confirmed the importance of the pamphlet that my uncle had uncovered.
“Tell me more about what you heard.”
“I fear there is no more,” he said with a casual wave of his hand. “Men do not speak openly against the Company, Mr. Weaver. It is far too powerful to cross. I only heard that your father had engaged himself upon some business that might injure the South Sea. I never learned the nature of the business or the injury.”
“From whom did you hear these things?”
He shook his head. “I could not say. It was long ago, and I thought nothing of it at the time. Men who do business often exchange information casually. I regret that I took no further notice.”
“I regret it too.”
“Should I learn anything further, I will certainly contact you. I can only advise you that if you truly believe your father to have been murdered, then you must look to what he might have done to anger the men of the South Sea Company. You must then determine what course of action such a Company might take.”
“What
Bloathwait exposed his palms in a gesture of ignorance. “I cannot say how the managers of the South Sea think, sir. If a man were to threaten their profits, would they lash out against him? I do not know. But I can think that your father had no greater enemy when he died.”
“Do you believe, then, that the Company would have its agents kill a man who threatened profits?”
“I never said so,” Bloathwait responded coolly. “I merely state that the directors of the South Sea are ambitious men. I would not guess to what lengths they might go to protect their ambitions.”
I could not trust the disinterested air with which he hinted at the villainy of the Company. When I was a boy, Bloathwait had proved himself to be an ambitious plotter, and he had not become a man of such importance without learning subtlety. His caution in discussing the Company surely disguised the extent to which he wished me to believe his implications.
“These ambitions,” I said, using the same easy tone as Bloathwait, “threaten the Bank of England, do they not? The South Sea Company is your most dangerous rival. I should think you would benefit greatly if I discover any wrongdoing on the Company’s part.”
Bloathwait’s face darkened, and in an instant I saw the man of my boyhood—enormous, determined, and terrifying in his intensity. “I think you go too far.” He spoke in a deep, hostile whisper. “Do you suggest that I would threaten other men’s business out of petty motives? You came here looking for my assistance, and I have told you what I know. I find your insults as inexplicable as they are rude.”
“I meant no rudeness.” I attempted a conciliatory tone, though what came from my mouth sounded like an angry retort.
He shook his head to show his contempt for my clumsy effort at recovery. Our discourse now resembled lines in a stage play more than it did conversation—neither of us spoke anything like truth, but we dared not venture too far from our roles.
“You may show yourself out,” he said quietly, hoping to convey the demands of his affairs rather than the insult of my accusation. “I have no more time for you. I wish you well of your inquiry, and if I stumble upon information that might help you, I shall send it along.”
I pushed myself to my feet and bowed. I had just turned when he called my name.
“I cannot guess what your inquiry will yield, Weaver, but should you learn anything of the South Sea Company that seems to be of”—he paused to consider his words—“of an incriminating nature, I beg that you will come to me with your information before you go elsewhere. I promise you that the Bank will pay you handsomely for your consideration.”
I bowed again and left the study.
I felt some relief as I made my way out, for I believed that I should always relish keeping my distance from Bloathwait. For now, however, I knew that I might not enjoy so much of a distance as I should like. He had confirmed what I already knew—that my father had made the South Sea Company his enemy. The mere existence of this enmity did not prove a murder, but it gave me somewhere to press my inquiry. More to the point, Bloathwait had shown himself willing to aid me in my efforts, so long as the South Sea Company suffered for it. I comforted myself with the thought that should I become convinced of the guilt of the Company or its agents, I should have a powerful, if dangerous, ally.
As I walked toward the door, I stopped and asked a stooped man of middle years if he knew Bessie’s whereabouts, but this worthy shooed me away. “Off with ye,” he snapped and bared his teeth like a goat. “Bessie’s fool enough without having her head turned by the likes of ye.”
I bowed meekly and made my way from the house. But I had an idea in my head that I would be back, and the next time I would not go through such formal channels.
SEVENTEEN
THE NEXT AFTERNOON, Elias came to pay me a visit, puffed up with joy and quite ready to hug himself. He had hardly walked through my door before his news exploded forth. “There’s been a terrible misfortune with a brother playwright,” he said with pleasure. “Some blockhead named Croger, who was to have had a play completed for Cibber, has gone and died without finishing his work. Absolutely dead. My play has been accepted and is to be performed next week.”
I heartily congratulated my friend upon his good fortune. I turned to reach for a decanter that we might share a celebratory drink, but Elias had somehow reached it before I turned around, and he handed me a glass. We drank to his success, and he threw himself down in one of my armchairs.
“Is this not unusual, for a play to be rushed into production so quickly?” I asked.
