cover the most delicate secrets of her female anatomy. Duncombe asked her questions with a stony face. She replied with sobs. Finally the justice made a pronouncement of some sort, and the woman fell to her knees and thanked God loudly. One of the constables came by and helped her to her feet and led her out as she praised Duncombe wholeheartedly. I hoped her happiness boded well for me.
“Mr. Benjamin Weaver?” he pronounced my name loudly so that his voice would carry. Duncombe scanned the courtroom until his eyes landed on me. He refused to establish any intimacy with me, though he knew me well; I frequented his court as a witness when I brought forth prigs I apprehended and visited him with some regularity to obtain warrants and to procure a constable for arrests, but Duncombe cared not much for thief-takers, and he believed I must be as dishonest as most of that trade.
“Step forward,” he intoned. “But not too much forward, if you please.”
I approached the bench and attempted to ignore the laughter around me.
“How came you to be so befouled?” he asked me. “You have frequented this court, but I believe this is the first time you have done so while covered with kennel water.”
“As I walked down the street, your honor, I found that I was pursued by a strange man. Not knowing him to be an officer of this court, I thought my life in danger. I sought shelter in an alleyway, which was, unfortunately, notable only for its filth.”
He regarded me gravely. “Do you always run from strangers, Mr. Weaver?”
“This is London, your honor. Who that wishes to stay alive does not run from strangers?”
Those who had heard my retort laughed with appreciation. Even the judge smirked a bit.
“I call you here in the matter regarding one Kate Cole, who is to stand trial in two weeks’ time for the crime of murder. Your name has been implicated in this case, and I have been asked to take your deposition.”
I believe my appearance betrayed nothing of my shock, but I felt as though I had been once again struck from behind by Wild’s ruffians. I like to think that I put my life as a criminal behind me in part because I could not condone the immorality of a criminal life. While that is true to some extent, it is no doubt equally true that as a thief-taker I did not expose myself to the haphazard rulings of the legal system. I mean no disrespect to the gentlemen of the bench, but it is no secret that our system of justice, praised throughout Europe for its severity and its swiftness, is a terrible and fearful thing, and no man, guilty or innocent, wishes to stand before it.
Thus my fear was well justified. Had I never in my life heard of Kate Cole nor knew the slightest thing of what the judge spoke, it would in no way guarantee I would not wind up dangling at the end of a rope at Tyburn Tree. I knew I would have to proceed slowly and carefully. “I have nothing to depose,” I said, trying hard to look tired and confused. “I have no knowledge of this matter.” It was a ticklish business, and while I did not like perjuring myself before the law, I felt I had no choice. To tell the truth in this matter would be to compromise Sir Owen’s anonymity, which I had promised to protect. All I could do for the nonce was to attempt to gain more time.
“You have never heard of Kate Cole?” the judge asked skeptically.
“Never,” I said.
“That rather saves me some time, then, doesn’t it?”
And it was then that I knew that this was a financial matter, not a juridical one. Duncombe would not have dropped the deposition so quickly were it justice instead of silver he chased. I took this development ill; if Duncombe was being paid to involve me in this, then any bribe I might offer, and that he would accept, would do me little good. It was the rule of trading justices to take bribes from all parties but to favor the most powerful. I was no match for Wild in this regard.
“I shall indicate that you deny all knowledge of this person and her crimes,” Duncombe said. “However, you must be informed that her trial is to take place at the Old Bailey in exactly two weeks’ time, and that you must be prepared to be called as a witness for the defense. You are not to leave London between now and that time, for this court might have need of you again. Do you understand, Mr. Weaver?”
I nodded. “I believe I understand quite clearly, your honor.”
“Then it is my advice that you bathe.”
With that Duncombe dismissed me, and after offering a sympathetic clap on the shoulder of my miserable constable, I left the justice’s offices with a feeling of dejection. In my mind I could see myself standing before the bar at Kate Cole’s murder trial. And while I was willing to lie before someone such as Duncombe, I did not feel willing to perjure myself at a murder trial in the Old Bailey. Should it come to that, I would be forced to tell the truth, and I was therefore obliged to let Sir Owen know what turn events had taken.
Duncombe had said that I was to be a witness for the defense. That meant that it was not Wild, but Kate, who had offered my name, for there was no reason why Wild would want to see a woman defended whose conviction would yield him forty pounds. Yet I could not fathom how Kate could have learned of my name, or if she had, what she had to gain by involving me without first seeking me out. She surely understood that I was anxious to keep my name out of her trial and would have gone to great lengths to do just that. It was possible that Wild had indeed thrown my name into the matter in order to play me against Kate. Was it his hope that he could hang Kate and ruin my reputation with a single stroke? I could not even begin to guess. Elias had advised that I inquire into these matters using probability, not facts, but for probability there needed at least to be logic, and here I could find none.
TWENTY-FIVE
ONCE I HAD cleaned myself and dressed, doing what I could to avoid too much attention from the servants at my uncle’s house, I sent a message to Sir Owen asking him to meet me at a local alehouse. He sent back a reply, and within a few hours I sat facing him over a comforting mug.
Sir Owen, however, did not look comforted. Gone was the avuncular warmth I had recognized from our earlier meetings. His tight-lipped scowl bespoke agitated nerves, and he looked at the door several times each minute.
“This is an unpleasant business,” Sir Owen said. “You promised me to keep my name out of this affair, Weaver.” He absently ran a finger over the handle of his mug.
I was still quite stiff, but I attempted to affect the air of a man relaxed and in command. I had often learned that, like a player upon the stage, the way I held my body could affect the emotions of those to whom I spoke. “I promised to do all I could, and I intend to keep that promise, but I cannot lie before the court, or I could very well face murder charges myself. Sir Owen, this matter has grown larger than either of us had anticipated, and I believe that the prudent course is now to prepare for the possibility that I may have to mention your name in court. I am certain that with the proper preparation you can ensure that no serious damage—”
“Your job is to protect those who hire you,” he grumbled, without looking up. “You must do what it takes. Is it more money you want?”
“Really, Sir Owen, you shock me with these accusations. I have served you as best I could at every turn.”
“I wonder,” he said absently, “how do you explain this woman’s sudden ability to name you in this matter? You told me that she had no knowledge of who you were or where to find you.” He sat upright and drank hard from his mug.
“That is true,” I said, “but it seems that Wild has found out, and I cannot but assume that Wild is behind this mischief.”
“Wild,” he spat. “He will see us all undone. I was a fool to trust you in this, Weaver. You are, if you will forgive me for saying so, a short-tempered Jew who thinks with his fists. Had you not shot anyone, none of this would have happened.”
I had no patience for Sir Owen’s sudden unpleasant and accusatory mood. He had been jolly enough when I had shot Jemmy down in the street—so long as the shooting never need trouble his quiet. “It is true that had no one been killed there would be no need for a murder trial, but one might add that had you not been careless with your papers none of this might have happened.”
I had thought to anger him, unbalance him perhaps, but my accusation only served to make Sir Owen believe in his own authority. He straightened out in his chair, and he regarded me with cold eyes. “You forget yourself,” he said quietly. “You have brought far too much trouble upon your head, and mine as well, by sneaking about where you have no business. How do we know that it is not the South Sea that is behind this sudden turn with the whore? The Company would certainly like to see you silenced in any way possible. All this sneaking about, looking to see
