stared at each other, of the fear I had felt that night as I believed myself to know what my father had felt just before the hooves of horses trampled upon him, and I yearned to hurt this miscreant. And so, with a sudden resolve, I made my move, and rudely shoving other visitors aside, I dashed forward.
He was far closer to the door than I, and he too had been poised to flee. The thief, most certainly accustomed to evading constables and watchmen upon the patrol, moved quickly and gracefully, evading the men around us. The crowds of South Sea House, who had come to buy and sell, invest and exchange, hardly cared for two men who pursued each other madly across the lobby, and I hardly cared for them, trying to keep my eye upon my prey as a hunting beast attempts to fix his sights upon one creature in the herd.
He reached the door, and I was hard upon him, but I slipped while climbing up the marble stairs, and collided with a portly gentleman just as I threw open the doors to see where this knave had run. When I looked around me, I could see no sign of him. I thought for a moment of asking other travelers upon the street if they had noted a large, ill-formed ruffian, but in London mine was a useless question, for where was there not a man of that description? I therefore abandoned all hope of catching him and returned to South Sea House.
The presence of this man here only served to give credit to Elias’s claims that one of the chartered companies was behind these crimes, for what business would a man who had attacked me on a deserted street have at a place like this—unless the company employed him for some nefarious purpose? By returning to South Sea House, I quite possibly ventured into the very heart of villainy, into the lair of the people who had murdered two men and who had attempted my life as well. Feeling the grip upon my hangar—more for comfort than because I believed I would need to draw it—I returned to the lobby of this great institution that sought to rival the Bank of England.
I thus proceeded up a flight of stairs and asked a gentleman who appeared to do business in the building if there was an office where I might find one Virgil Cowper. He mumbled that he toiled in the office dealing in stock- holder records, and then directed me up yet another flight. There I found a cramped room where some dozen or so clerks were at work with some business I could not divine. Each desk was weighted down with enormous, if orderly, piles of paper, and I watched as the clerks took pieces, made some markings upon them, annotated ledger books, replaced the papers in another pile, and then started anew. I asked the scribe nearest to the door where I might find a Mr. Cowper, and he gestured to a desk toward the back.
I could not imagine what an interview with Cowper might yield, but I invested this man with no small importance. I had discovered his name, and I had followed his trail here. I had followed Elias’s advice and taken probabilities into account, and they, in turn, had led me to a man whose connection with Bloathwait I hoped to learn.
I had all but forgotten my brief pursuit of the ruffian as I approached Cowper. He was a man of about forty years, haggard by his look, for the skin was loose about his face, and his hands were rough, callused, and stained with ink. A suit of clothes—gray and austere—made his grayish-yellow complexion and beveined eyes seem all the more cadaverous; nevertheless, he had an intelligent look about him and possessed something in his face that spoke of a kind of earnest ambition, but he also seemed a man whose youthful promise had yielded nothing but the feelings of failure that come with the advance of age. It is this moment in life, when the bounty of the future becomes the drudgery of the present, that all men fear, myself included, and for that reason I immediately felt a sympathy for this man.
“I beg a few moments of your time, sir,” I said, “it is upon a matter of business.”
I am told that it grows more common for clerks in places such as a trading company to think of themselves as dedicated to that company, but such was not the case in 1719, I assure you. A clerk at the South Sea Company would gladly use whatever access and influence his position afforded in order to turn a few pounds for himself, and I aimed to take advantage of that predilection.
“Business, you say?” Mr. Cowper said softly. “I am always game for business. Please describe the nature of this business.”
I handed him my card, which he glanced at quickly and then put away.
“It is of a private nature,” I said quietly.
“Then let us take a walk,” he said. He stood up and led me down the stairway to the lobby. I began to explain my interests, but he held up a hand to stop my speech. “Not yet, sir.”
When we reached the lobby, he began a walk directly across to the far wall. “We may talk here in some privacy, provided we continue to travel back and forth. That way no man may listen in to our conversation without making himself conspicuous.”
I nodded at his sage precaution, at first thinking it was Mr. Cowper’s own idea, but I soon noticed that a dozen or so pairs or small groups of men did as we did, moving back and forth, each group upon its own trajectory, like billiard balls rolling at an easy pace.
“Now what is it I may do for you, sir?” he inquired with a polished obsequiousness.
What, indeed? I had so rejoiced at the idea of tracking this man to the source, of following my guesses and the trail of probability, that I had not thought on what I might do with Mr. Cowper once I found him. I could presume from the notes I had discovered upon Bloathwait’s desk that this man had some knowledge of the forgeries, but I could not even be sure of that. I did know, however, that he worked in the records office, and therefore would have access to useful information.
“Do you have access to stock-holder records?” I inquired.
“Such as they are,” Cowper said, still keeping his voice quiet. “I fear this Company is none the best at organizing its archives.”
“I should very much like,” I said cautiously, “to learn if some particular people subscribed to Company stock.”
Cowper stroked his chin. “This may prove difficult. The more recent the record, however, the greater the chance it can be found. For older records, I can promise you nothing.”
Cowper’s willingness to undertake this talk told me that he was certainly into something, I need only learn what. “I believe what I search for should be no more than a year old. I wish to know if two men I shall name held South Sea issues. If so, I wish to know in what amounts, when they were bought, and if they were again sold. Is that something you can do?”
He smiled. “I believe I can be of service to you. It shall take some time—a week perhaps. But it can certainly be done.”
“And what shall I pay you for your services?”
Cowper thought about this for a moment, as we nearly collided with a pair of enormously fat men involved in a conference far more jolly than ours. They laughed so hard that they were nearly oblivious to where they walked.
“I believe five guineas per name shall answer it.”
I began to regret the bargain, for his price was so high I could hardly even think that I might lower it to something reasonable. Finally we settled upon eight guineas for both names—still an exorbitant price.
Cowper and I had just concluded our business when I spotted, or I should say, I was spotted by, Nathan Adelman, who came down the stairs with his eyes affixed to me. Cowper hurriedly completed our farewell and disappeared into the throng while I awaited Adelman.
“Good day to you, sir.” I nodded.
“I see there is no dissuading you from wasting your time,” Adelman said blandly. He remained upon the first stair, that he might look me in the eye without straining. “Well, if you are going to be poking about, I suppose I may as well keep you from doing any harm. I shall take my dinner now,” he said, “perhaps you can join me at the chophouse across the way. Their pork is most excellent,” he said with a pointed look, as though challenging me to eat forbidden meat.
We walked down Bishopsgate and then to Leadenhall Street, where the chophouse stood near the Green Market. We silently agreed to a truce of civility, and our conversation as we walked rested upon trivial matters: the pleasantness of the recent weather, the excitement of the new theatrical season, and the increase of business upon the Exchange.
He led me to a crowded, smoky hall that offered overcooked chops of meat and stale mugs of ale for a shilling. We took ourselves a table, and Adelman called out for two plates. Within minutes a boy delivered two servings of a greasy mixture of chops, buttered cabbage, and pale yellowish bread—a dyed and chalky coarse bread, not true white bread made of refined flour.
