obtained—information he wished to publish in a pamphlet. I held, and lost, a manuscript copy of the pamphlet, and I wished to know if Mr. Lienzo had attempted to publish a copy of it before his death. If I was deceptive, or if I suspected you of deception, it is only because this inquiry has imparted upon me the need to be both discreet and suspicious.”
Mrs. Bryce gasped. “Do you mean to say,” she began, “that you think Mr. Deloney is somehow involved in all of this?”
I had no desire to speak of my suspicions, so I only told the bookseller that my suspicion of Mr. Deloney had proved misguided.
“The fire that burned down Mr. Hodge’s shop,” I pressed on. “As you knew him, I cannot but wonder if you were in any way suspicious of this blaze.”
Mrs. Bryce shook her head. “I was not. As much as his death pained me, we cannot look for intent in all disasters. I thought nothing more of it than its sadness. Do you mean to suggest, sir, that you believe his shop was burned and he was murdered in order to prevent the publication of Lienzo’s pamphlet? Why, the very notion is fantastical.”
“I should have thought much the same,” I told her, “until very recently. I do not say I believe these allegations to be true, madam, but I believe them to be at least possible.”
“I suppose the first step must be to determine whether he had the pamphlet in his possession at the time the shop burned. As it happens, I took over his affairs after his death. He had stipulated as much in his will. Most of his materials were destroyed, but some of his record books remain. If you’d like, we can look through these.”
I thanked Mrs. Bryce and together we went to her study, where she presented to me a half-dozen volumes of ledger books that smelled of charring and mildew. Hodge had written in them in a dense but legible hand, and for the second time in a very short period I found myself feeling uneasy at studying the scribblings of a man whose life had been, in all probability, taken from him. Together we pored over the books for two hours, drinking tea as Mrs. Bryce explained to me notations and talked about particular works—if they had done well or poorly, if her husband had liked them or not. Finally, after we had been forced to strike several candles against the growing darkness, Mrs. Bryce found a line in one of the books: “Lienzo—conspiracy/paper.”
I stared at it. “It seems compelling evidence,” I said quietly.
Mrs. Bryce took her time responding. “It doesn’t prove anyone killed Mr. Hodge,” she said at last, “but all the same, I would appreciate it if you no longer frequented my shop.”
TWENTY-SIX
WHEN I RETURNED to my uncle’s house I found that old Isaac, the servant, awaited my return with a large package just delivered for me.
“Who is it from?” I asked Isaac.
He shook his head. “The boy who brought it wouldn’t say, sir. He gave it to me, held out his hand for a coin, and left without answering any questions.”
I hesitated for a moment, for I found something frightening in secret messages, and I did not like the idea of the players in this game seeking me out in my uncle’s home.
While I inspected the box, Miriam entered the room and greeted me casually. The look on my face gave her pause, however. “Does something trouble you?” I felt uncomfortable under the heat of her gaze upon my bruised eye, but at least she seemed to have forgotten her earlier coolness, and that was perhaps enough for me.
I showed her the bundle. She merely shrugged. “Open it,” she said.
I sucked in my breath and began to untie the packaging. Miriam looked on curiously as I opened it and found inside the most remarkable contents. It was a costume and a ticket to a masquerade ball to be held that evening at the Haymarket. A note affixed to the invitation read:
Sir,
You are encouraged to attend this ball of Mr. Heidegger’s tonight, where many of the questions you seek will be answered. In a place where all are disguised, one may feel free to speak openly. I look forward to our meeting in a place where I hope to prove myself,
Miriam attempted to read the note, but I quickly folded it and hid it from her view.
“How intriguing,” Miriam noted. “It’s rather like a romance.”
“Rather too much like one,” I noted as I removed the costume. Perhaps this secret contact hoped to throw suspicion off me by casting me in the most obvious light, for the costume provided was that of a Tudesco peddler. The clothes were tattered robes accompanied by a floppy hat and a collection of inconsequential trinkets affixed to a tray. The mask covered the top of my face only, with eye-holes over two tiny, evil-looking eyes perched above a grotesquely huge false nose. Below and above the mask were ample quantities of false red hair to make an unruly cover over my own hair as well as to disguise the bottom of my face with an impenetrable thicket of false beard.
“Someone,” I noted, “has a grotesque sense of humor.”
“Does that help you determine who sent the costume?”
“Not particularly,” I mused, “unless it was my friend Elias.”
“Will you go?” Miriam asked me. She sounded excited, as though she found the idea of this intrigue thrilling —and like a romance, without any true risk of danger.
“Oh, I should think so,” I said.
But I did not wish to go according to the terms of my anonymous patron. I therefore sent for Elias, who was kind enough to exit himself from a rehearsal of his play to attend me at Broad Court.
Miriam and I sat in the parlor, though she hardly spoke to me. I remained in contemplation while she read a book of verse. Several times I believed she had been upon the cusp of speaking to me, but she held herself back. I wished she would tell me what was upon her mind, but my own thoughts were so occupied with the matter at hand that I could hardly think of how to frame my question. So I said nothing until Isaac brought Elias into the room. I could see from the look upon his face that he was poised to produce some quip at the expense of my people, but he held his tongue upon seeing Miriam, whose beauty stopped him in midbreath.
“Weaver,” he said, “I see you have been wise in not speaking of your cousin’s loveliness, for such treasures must be kept in secret, lest they be stolen.” He bowed deeply to Miriam.
“But he has not kept you a secret, sir,” Miriam replied, “for he has told me of his great and trusted friend Elias, on whom he depends more than any man alive.”
Elias bowed again, beaming with pride.
Miriam grinned with pleasure. “He has also told me that his great friend is a libertine who will tell any lie that he might undo innocence.”
“Good God, Weaver!”
She laughed. “Perhaps he said no such thing, and I merely draw my own conclusions.”
“Madam, you misunderstand me,” Elias began desperately.
“Elias,” I snapped, “we have urgent business, and time is not our ally.”
A waggish smile washed over Elias’s face. “What has developed, my less-than-jovial Jew?”
Under the circumstances I thought it best that Miriam leave the room; she knew nothing of these matters, and I had no wish to introduce her to my intrigues.
Once Miriam left, I showed Elias the note and invitation. “What know you of these balls?”
“You cannot be serious,” he said. “Heidegger’s masquerades are the very pink of the fashion. I should be ashamed of myself if I did not attend them regularly. Only the most fashionable sort can count on procuring an invitation.” With that he produced a pair of tickets from his pocketbook. “I shall attend tonight, accompanied by Miss Lucy Daston, an ambitious young lady with a small but nevertheless crucial role in a comedy soon to take Drury Lane by surprise.”
“You will indeed be there,” I said with a smile, “but instead of a beautiful actress, I think you would have a far superior time escorting a more manful companion.” I grinned at him. “And I have the very costume for you.” I showed him the disguise that came with the invitation.
Elias stared in horror. “Gad, Weaver, surely you mock me. Can you expect me to give up my evening with fair Lucy in order to wander about Heidegger’s dressed as a bearded mendicant? I shall never get this close to such a
