A Conspiracy of Paper

finally found someone who was willing to admit to more than a vague familiarity with this enigmatic man?

“Oh, I know ’im all right, I do,” Kate said indolently. “ ’E’s as mis’ble a bastard as Wild, and twice as smart ’e is, too. What’s Roch’ster got on this?”

I could not believe my luck. I was astonished that Kate should speak of her acquaintance with this man so casually. “I don’t know,” I said truthfully. “But I grow convinced that if I can find him, I can make both of our lives easier. What can you tell me about him?”

Kate opened her mouth, indeed she began to make some noises, but she caught herself, and her lips spread into a carnivorous smirk. “Ya still ain’t told me what Roch’ster is to ya.”

“What is he to you?” I demanded. “What do you know of him?”

“I know ’im well, I do. Very well indeed.”

“You’ve met him, then?” I asked. “Do you know where he can be found?”

“Oh, I met ’im, sure. But ’e can’t be found if ’e don’t wan’cha finding ’im, I kin tell ya as much. That’s ’is stock an’ trade, it is. ’E’s an ’ard one.”

“Can you tell me anything that might make it easier for me to find him?”

She shook her head. “Only that ya’d better find ’im before ’e finds ya.”

“Can you describe him to me?”

“Oh, I reckon I could.”

“Then please do.”

Kate looked at me with a gleam in her eye. I could see she had an idea she thought remarkably clever. “Why don’t we say I’ll do that after I’m set free?” She flashed a wine-stained grin at me.

“I am willing to pay for any information that will help me find Rochester.”

“I’ll wager yer willin’ to pay, but while yer willin’ to pay, I’m rottin’ in jail, ain’t I? Ya keep tellin’ me what ya want, but if I give ya everythin’ that ya want then I don’t got nothin’, and I’m sure to be carted off to Tyburn. So from now on, ya just think about all the things ya want of me, and I’ll be ’appy to ’and ’em over once I walk outta Newgate.”

“Kate,” I said, feeling my body clench with anger, “I don’t think you understand how important this is.” I thought about Wild’s interest in my inquiry, and his efforts to drag me into Kate’s trial. There had to be some link between these two matters, but I knew not what it was. Rochester was the elusive figure behind my father’s death, and he had some connection with Wild. I believed that if only I could learn more of it, I would understand many of the mysteries that plagued me.

Kate, however, showed no interest in my concerns. “I care nothin’ for yer troubles, and I know full well that it’s Wild what’s be’ind mine. And I know there’s nothin’ with Wild and Roch’ster, so there’s nothin’ ya can say or do to Roch’ster to ’elp me.”

I attempted to reason with her for near another quarter hour, but she would not budge. I thought of evicting her from the cell I had provided, but that could do me no good. So I left her, determined to try again and determined to think of something that would offer me the leverage to make her speak.

THE NEXT DAY I received a message to meet Virgil Cowper at Jonathan’s. I arrived a quarter of an hour before our planned meeting time, but found him at a table by himself, huddled over a dish of coffee.

“What have you found?” I asked, sitting across from him.

He hardly even looked at me. “There is no evidence that Samuel Lienzo ever subscribed to any South Sea issues.”

I cannot claim this information greatly surprised me. Considering what I knew of my father’s stance about the Company and the Bank of England, I should be surprised to learn he had been a stock-holder.

“However,” he continued, “Mr. Balfour is another case altogether. He had owned stock worth more than twenty thousand pounds.”

I knew not how successful a businessman Balfour had been, but twenty thousand pounds was an astronomical amount to invest in but a single fund. And if that fund should prove ruined, I should think nearly any investor should prove ruined too.

“You said had owned,” I thought aloud. “He did not own, then, at the time of his death?”

“I cannot comment on the time of his death, but the records show that Mr. Balfour bought his stock near two years ago and sold it again fourteen months later—about ten months ago. The stock rose not insignificantly in that time, and he made himself a handsome profit.”

If Balfour had sold his stock ten months ago, then his transaction with the South Sea Company had come and gone ten months before his death. How, then, could his supposed self-murder be linked to the Company?

“To whom did he sell?” I inquired.

“Why, he sold back to the Company, sir,” Cowper cheerfully informed me.

That was hard luck, for had he sold to another individual, I could trace that person. Once again the trail ended with the Company, and once again, I could think of no next step.

“I did come across another name,” Cowper then informed me. He smiled crookedly, like a thief upon the street offering to sell a costly handkerchief cheap.

“Another name?”

“Yes. Related to one of the names you gave me.”

“And what name is that?”

He ran his index finger along the bridge of his nose. “It will cost you another five pounds.”

“And what if this name means nothing to me?”

“Then you have wasted your five pounds, I should think.”

I shook my head, but I counted out the coins all the same.

Cowper quickly pocketed them. “The name I came across is also Lienzo. Miriam Lienzo—address listed as Broad Court, Dukes Place.”

I worked my jaw over nothing. “That is the only Lienzo you found?”

“The only one.”

I could not even take the time to consider what it meant that Miriam owned South Sea stock. With Cowper here, I needed to be sure about my father and Balfour.

“Is there another possibility?” I inquired. “About the other name, Samuel Lienzo?”

“What sort of possibility?” He affected a laugh and then stared without interest at his coffee.

I thought on how I could word my idea. “That he thought he had stock when he did not.”

“I’m sure I do not understand you,” Cowper said. He moved to drink from the dish, but he could not bring himself to place it to his lips.

“Then let me be more precise. Is there a possibility that he owned forged South Sea issues?”

“There is no possibility,” he said hastily. “Now, if you will excuse me.” He began to stand.

I was not prepared to let him depart. I reached out, grabbed his shoulder, and forced him back down. Perhaps I did so a bit too roughly. He grimaced with discomfort as I shoved him onto his bench. “Do not toy with me, Mr. Cowper. What do you know?”

He sighed and pretended to be unimpressed with my bellicose manner. “There have been rumors around South Sea House, but nothing specific. Please, Mr. Weaver, I could lose my position for even speculating that such things might exist. I wish to speak no more about it. Do you not understand the risks I take by telling you as much as I have?”

“Do you know anything of a Mr. Martin Rochester?” I demanded.

His face now turned bright red. “I told you, sir, that I would not discuss the matter.”

I rejoiced inwardly, for Cowper had just inadvertently given me far more information than I could have hoped for: in his mind, it seemed, forged stock and Martin Rochester were related concerns. “What amount could entice you to change your mind?”

“Not any amount.” He stood up and made his way from the coffeehouse.

I sat there for some moments, staring at the pulse of the crowd around me, uncertain of how to proceed. Could the South Sea Company have killed old Balfour to regain its twenty thousand pounds? Clearly not, for I now had learned that he had sold the stock back to the Company itself. More than that, if their dealings were as massive as my uncle suggested, measured in the millions, then twenty thousand pounds were as nothing to so grand an institution. Could it be that there was something else here—something I had overlooked? What if their motivation