walked, or I should say, limped toward me to shake my hand. Though Jonathan Wild was ten years older than myself, he had a youthful glow about him. His broad face would have struck an uncritical man as unaffectedly jolly, but I had too recently tasted of his tricks to see it as anything but villainous.
Following immediately upon Wild’s footsteps was his man, Abraham Mendes, who stood impassively. He showed no sign that he recalled our brief dialogue outside the Bevis Marks synagogue. His task, I believed, was to cast menacing looks at anything that moved—the fact that he knew me changed his behavior not at all.
“Mr. Weaver, I’m so glad to meet you again.” Wild grabbed my hand and shook it in a powerful and constricting grip, as though he wished to convey meaning even in so small a gesture. “I really must apologize for the unconscionable way you have been treated by these men. I asked them to treat you with courtesy, but I think your reputation must have intimidated them, and they reverted to their rude ways.”
Since he had greeted me in the Bedford Arms tavern, I had anticipated that I would sooner or later meet up with Wild, but I still could not imagine what he hoped to gain from this adventure. Why had I been beaten, if only to take my revenge on my attackers? Why had I been blindfolded, when the entire world knew that Jonathan Wild resides in a spacious house he had only recently bought in the Great Old Bailey?
Wild ordered the men out of the room and sat in a hard-looking chair with enormous arms. Mendes stepped around and stood behind him, glaring at me with a coldness I found chilling. I could not understand how Mendes could so easily make himself into two people—the violent henchman and the affable fellow-Jew.
“Again,” Wild said quietly, “I apologize for this misunderstanding, and I hope we will be able to recover from this debacle. Might I get you a glass to calm your spirits?” He limped toward a decanter set upon a table in the middle of the room, having every intention of pouring my wine himself rather than have a servant perform this task.
“I should welcome a glass of wine.” I slowly shifted my battered body, attempting to find a comfortable position. This conversation, I told myself, was much like a battle within the ring. I would have to force myself to ignore my pain, to keep my wits about me though my body urged me to surrender.
Wild poured the wine, handed it to me with the greatest deference, and then returned to his chair. “We have so many things to discuss. It astonishes one, does it not, to think that we do not have the opportunity to speak to each other more often.”
I took a sip and found that the wine did calm my spirits to a small degree. I straightened myself out, ignored the throbbing in my head, and met Wild’s villainous gaze. “I find there is little left that astonishes me, Mr. Wild, and much that tries my patience. You may not have intended to treat me ill, but I have been ill-treated and my disposition is not entirely amicable, so if you have business, I would have you state it.”
“Very well, Mr. Weaver. I too am a man pressed for time.” He sat down. “I would so like for us to have an understanding, because it would be so easy for us to become adversaries. After all, we are in the same business, and I fear that since I have made such a success of the thief-taking trade, there is little left for you. Yet I think there are ample opportunities in collecting debts, protecting gentlemen, and even uncovering the truths behind terrible crimes—such as the one committed against your father.”
“What do you know of the matter?” I asked, wishing to sound relaxed.
He shook his head, as if at the foolishness of my question. “I assure you, sir, that there is very little that happens in this town of which I do not know.”
“Then you may tell me who killed my father,” I replied.
“Alas”—he shook his head—“that is one bit of information that has eluded me.”
“Perhaps, then, the scope of your information is not so broad as you would like me to believe.”
He narrowed his eyes in disapproval. “You must not be so hasty, sir. But I have heard of your haste, and of your temper too. Tell me, Mr. Weaver, is it true that when you were younger and rode upon the highway, taking from others the wealth you wanted for yourself, that you were a great favorite among the gentle sex? I have heard it said that you were known by the name of Gentleman Ben and that you were loved by the ladies even as they handed you their rings and jewels. Once you had to discourage the daughter of a wealthy merchant who wished to ride away with you.”
I should not have been surprised that he knew such things. I had indeed taken a false name when I rode upon the highway, and as there would be men about town who knew me from those days, it was inevitable that Wild should learn of my past. For my part, I had never even spoken of those days since setting up my business in London. There were some secrets I kept even from Elias. “I am not interested in discussing the improprieties of my youth.”
He showed me another grin. “There is nothing to shame you in your past. I heard that once, when a fellow- adventurer threatened to become too rough with a lady whose wealth you desired, you turned and fired your pistol directly into his face, killing him on the spot.”
I felt at least some relief in his repetition of this rumor that had followed me for some years—not because I was pleased that these stories were assigned to me, but it proved that Wild heard only the same false stories that had circulated for years. His information had limitations. “The pistol misfired,” I said slowly. “No one was hurt, and the man you speak of later hanged at Tyburn for his crimes.”
“I only hope you turned him in yourself—procured a nice reward. I think it a shame to see enemies hang and receive no other compensation than the satisfaction of watching them dangle.”
I studied his face, hoping for some sign of what he was about. But I could read nothing into his unctuous smile. “I fear the crux of your discourse eludes me, sir.”
“Ah, my point. My point, sir, is that I wish to discuss the matter of this inquiry into your father’s death.”
“Shall I guess?” I asked tartly. “You wish to see me discontinue the inquiry.”
Wild laughed, as a benevolent patron laughs at the foolishness of his charges. “No, Mr. Weaver. Just the opposite, in fact. I wish to make certain you proceed apace.”
I sat patiently to await his explanation.
“I wish to keep you out of a business that I claim for myself,” Wild continued. “The public approves of me heartily, and I have no desire to compete with you for the trade. Since thief-taking is so unpleasant a business I am sure you wish to find other avenues of employment. Thus I am to see that your investigation into the matter of these deaths is successful, for I believe that such a conclusion would open new opportunities for you, and we would no longer find ourselves competitors.” He looked at me in the most challenging manner imaginable. “You will note that I have not let this unfortunate business with Kate Cole trouble me.”
I took a drink of wine. “So much the better,” I said, affecting indifference. In truth, his oily speech only exacerbated the pain in my head, and I wished to say nothing that might extend our conversation.
“Yes, it is too bad about Jemmy,” Wild continued cheerfully. “Not too bad that he’s dead, for I could not trust the fellow and would have ’peached him myself soon enough. It is a shame that I shall receive no money for his death, but I shall see money of Kate, and that’s all one to me. You might have wondered if I would feel ill will toward you for stepping into my business as you did, but I can assure you that I hold no grudge. I promise that your name will never be raised at Kate’s trial.”
“I am pleased to hear that,” I muttered. I cannot say that I was surprised by Wild’s intention to let Kate swing, but the coldness of his resolve unsettled me. Did he believe himself to be charming or terrifying?
“Yes, I thought you might be pleased,” he continued. “Now, shall we return to your more pressing problem? I do want to be of service.”
“I shall not stop you.” Wild surely could not believe that I should be fooled by his bombastic claims of fellowship—I saw not what I had to gain by pretending to be more foolish than he might hope. “Frankly, Mr. Wild, I don’t believe you, and I should be utterly astonished if you expected me to believe you. Perhaps you can simply tell me what it is you want, and then I may return to my lodgings to heal myself of this meeting.”
He placed a hand upon his breast. “You wound me, sir.” He froze in this position, and then appeared to change his mind. “No, you do not. Of course you do not wound me; when I have been telling you of my plans to let Kate swing, there is no reason for you to see me as anything but a schemer—which I am, and a devilish good one, too. The truth is that I have reasons of my own for wishing to see you succeed in your inquiry—for uncovering the truth behind these murders. My business thrives upon the plague of thieves in this city, but murder is another matter altogether. A murder is something I never condone. It is quite bad for my business. If a man finds his watch missing, that is one thing, but when wealthy merchants are plotted against, it is something else.”
“Then why did you wait for me to begin an inquiry? If these murders distressed you so, why not manage the affair yourself?”
