who killed your father. Could it not wait until the business with the whore was done?”
I was about to speak when I stopped myself and thought on what Sir Owen had said. “How do you know of that matter?” I asked in a calm voice, hoping to reveal nothing.
I watched Sir Owen carefully for any sign of confusion, but he exhibited nothing but exasperation. “Who in London does not know that you are poking about into Balfour’s self-murder? It is no secret that you are stirring up trouble for the South Sea Company, and I heartily fear that you are stirring up trouble for me at the same time. What kind of a man are you, anyway, to keep your father’s name a secret? We sat among men of parts talking about Lienzo and you never said a word. Did you wish to embarrass me in my own club, Weaver? Is that what you are about?”
“If you are embarrassed,” I said calmly, “it is your own doing.”
Sir Owen clenched his teeth. “You are an irresponsible rascal to involve me in your sordid matters. I wish you had kept me out of it, for they will surely drag me into the gutter beside you.”
As Sir Owen grew increasingly belligerent, I thought it best to let him rant, ignoring his unkind observations about Jews in general and me in particular until he quite wore himself out. Finally he assumed a more reasonable posture. “I shall speak to men I know who are not without some small influence. Perhaps I can do something to keep you from being summoned at this trial. In the meantime, you must give me your word that should you be summoned, you will not speak my name or in any way connect me to your shooting that man.”
“Sir Owen,” I said in a calm, quiet voice, “we must do what we can to see that it does not come to that, but I cannot make that promise. I shall hold my tongue as long as I can safely do so. I do not know that your name will never be asked of me. The court may not consider it of importance on whose behalf I sought out Kate. But if forced to speak in whose name I acted that night, I shall not be able to refuse. Is there no way to inform your wife-to-be, Miss Decker, of some small notion of your past—just enough to steel her against any unpleasant rumors she may encounter?”
I chose the wrong thing to say. Sir Owen’s fist clenched and his jaw tightened. He stared at me in disbelief for what seemed like ages. “What would you know of a refined lady’s sensibilities?” he sputtered. “You know nothing more than whores and gutter rubbish.”
Perhaps I should have been more sensitive to a man in his position, but I could not find it in my heart to feel sympathy with Sir Owen’s accusatory tone. I had done all I could do and more in his service. His expectation that I swing at Tyburn to show my loyalty was hardly just, and his accusations about the women in my life inappropriate, to say the least. “Is there not,” I asked calmly, “something in your gospels about only the sinless casting stones, Sir Owen?”
He stared full at me. “We have nothing more to discuss,” he said, and hastily departed.
· · ·
SIR OWEN’S PANIC left me confused, but not entirely dejected. He was, after all, on the verge of a public embarrassment—one that could jeopardize his upcoming marriage—and I felt that he was right in suggesting that I was in no small part to blame. I was more concerned with how this unfortunate chain of activity had been set into motion and what I could do to set it right. I thought it logical that Jonathan Wild had been the man to bring me into Kate Cole’s business, but again the question remained why. Sir Owen had suggested that it might be the Company itself that had tossed me, and the baronet along with me, into harm’s way, and that was a possibility I could not ignore.
I believed there was but one person who could explain these matters to my satisfaction, and so once again I made my way to Newgate prison to speak to Kate Cole.
After I passed through the terrible Newgate portal, and in exchange for a few coins, the warder led me to the Press Yard, where Kate’s room lay. The turnkey there explained to me that Kate had asked to take no visitors, but that was a request a few shillings soon dispensed with.
The room itself was surprisingly pleasant—it had a reasonably comfortable-looking bed, a few sitting chairs, a table, a writing desk, and a wardrobe. A small window allowed for a modicum of light to trickle in, but not enough to render the room sufficiently bright—even in full daylight—and a superfluity of cheap tallow candles cast streaks of black soot against the wall. Scattered about the room were empty flagons and tankards, pieces of half-eaten joints of meat, and stale crusts of white bread. Kate had been living well off her remittance.
If, however, she had been making the purchases of a gentlewoman, she knew not how to live as one. She wore new clothes—no doubt procured from the money I left her—but they were horribly soiled with food and drink, wrinkled as though she had slept in them, and smelled distractingly filthy. The lice she had acquired during her nightmarish hours on the Common Side of the prison had stayed with her, and they fairly crawled about her skin like anxious pedestrians on a busy street.
Kate showed no small amount of displeasure at seeing me in her doorway. She greeted me with a scowl of broken teeth and promptly turned away, unwilling to look me in the face.
The turnkey appeared at the threshold. “Will ye be wantin’ anything, then?” he asked.
“A bottle of wine,” Kate hissed. “ ’E’s paying for it.” She pointed to me.
He politely shut the door.
“Now, Kate,” I began, taking one of her wooden chairs and turning it to face her, “is this any way to treat your benefactor?” I sat down and awaited her reply, gently pushing away with my foot an uncovered chamber pot.
“I’ve nothing to say to ya.” She pouted like a child.
“I cannot imagine why you are angry with me. Have I not set you up in ease and taken you out of harm’s way?”
Kate looked up slowly. “Ya ’aven’t taken me out of the gallows’ way, nor Wild’s neither. So if that’s what ya ’ere about, ya kin be damned, for I ’adn’t a choice, ya see.”
“What precisely are you saying to me, Kate?”
“That it was Wild, it was. It was ’im that ’ad me ’peach ya. I weren’t to say nothing, but Wild, first ’e said as ya was to see me ’ang, but when I told ’im it weren’t true, ’e then told me that
I was silent for a moment, attempting to put it all in perspective. Kate was breathing hard, as though that speech had taken all her energy. I suppose part of it had been rehearsed—she had to know I would pay her this visit.
It was at least some small progress to learn that it was Wild who had involved me in Kate’s case. It did not mean that Wild was behind the murders of Balfour and my father, but it did mean that he had been far less than honest when he asserted that he was willing to suffer me as a rival so long as I went after the South Sea Company.
There were simply too many unrelated pieces of information for me to sort it all out, perhaps because my sorting method was flawed; Elias
I was here to speak to Kate about Wild, but perhaps I should speak to her about something else, for there was still one enigma at the center of my inquiry—Martin Rochester. He had supposedly hired the man who ran down my father, and it seemed as though every man in ’Change Alley knew something of him. But it was Wild’s assertions about Rochester that most interested me, for the great thief-taker had been determined to convince me of Rochester’s villainy while at the same time providing me with no useful information. Now, here I was with Kate— Kate who knew at least something of Wild’s business and who had no love for her master. Perhaps I could learn from her what share of these crimes belonged to Rochester.
The turnkey returned and provided us with a bottle of wine. He demanded the outrageous price of six shillings, which I paid because it was more convenient to do so than to debate the matter.
Kate grabbed the bottle from my hand, uncorked it, and took a long swig. After wiping her mouth with the back of her hand she looked at me, certainly debating whether or not to offer me any. I suppose she considered that she had done me too much harm to make amends with small gestures, so she kept the wine for herself.
I let her take another drink before I spoke. “Do you know a man named Martin Rochester?”
“Ooh,” she screeched like a rat pressed beneath a boot, “now it’s Martin Roch’ster that’s in it, eh? Well I’ll not be put upon by the like of ’im. ’E’s caused me enough trouble, ’e ’as.”
“Then you know him?” I asked anxiously. I felt my heart should burst with excitement. Could it be that I had
