“I only acted to assist Mr. Gordon,” I explained. “When I saw that his safety, perhaps his very life, was endangered, I behaved as I think any friend, indeed, any man, would have done. While I regret the loss of life, I think you will agree that London is a dangerous city, and it should be very hard if a man were prohibited from protecting himself and his friends from the criminals that roam the streets and even, as in this case, force themselves into fashionable gatherings.”
My testimony had won over the crowd, if not Duncombe. The spectators burst out in applause and a smattering of “huzzahs,” which the judge silenced by slamming his gavel against his desk. “Thank you for that impassioned speech, which I assure you has affected me not at all. It is not my place to judge of your innocence or guilt—merely of whether or not the facts before me deserve further examination. Considering the corroborating evidence of your associate, there can be no ambiguity in the question of whether or not you were under attack. And while I do not encourage the use of deadly force, it should be very strange if I were to begin placing men on trial for protecting their own safety or the safety of other innocents. I shall therefore release you, sir, with the understanding that if further evidence comes to light, you may be brought back for questioning.”
The crowd let out a cheer, and I, flooded with a mixture of confusion and relief, went immediately to Elias to check on his condition.
“I am uncomfortable,” he said, “and should enjoy a few days of rest, but I don’t believe any of the damage was either serious or permanent.”
I clapped him warmly on the shoulder. “I am sorry so much harm should have come to you, for you were following my plan.”
“I presume you will find some way to make it up to me,” he said with an affected petulance.
I grinned, pleased that Elias was uninjured in the main and held no grudge.
“And I presume this reward you have in mind will in some way involve your cousin.”
“The moment you are circumcised,” I told Elias, “she will be yours.”
“You people do conduct a grueling business,” he sighed. “But tell me, how is it that the judge ruled in our favor? It seemed to me that the evidence of our case was but poor, and by your own admission you had shot the fellow. I feared to see you bound over for trial.”
I shook my head at the puzzle. The only explanation was that someone had paid for the judge’s verdict, but I could not imagine who had provided Duncombe with sufficient funds for him to turn free a possible murderer—a dangerous act, for a judge might bring many difficulties upon his head for winking at so serious a crime. However, this was a case well disputed, and if forced to justify himself before any of his patrons, Duncombe could argue easily that he ruled for self-defense. But Duncombe’s strategy did not help me understand who could have provided the funds—or, for that matter, to what end. “I can only presume that some unknown friend, or perhaps even an unknown enemy, intervened on my behalf,” I told Elias, as I considered the matter aloud.
“Enemy? Why should an enemy wish to offer such generous aid?”
“Perhaps it would be worse for us to stand trial and speak what we know than for us to walk the streets where we may again fall victim to their machinations.”
“You are a comforting friend, Weaver.”
It turned out that Elias and I did not have long to wonder about the identity of our benefactor. As we exited the judge’s house into the chill of the night I saw an opulent coach parked immediately in front, and as the door opened I witnessed no other than Mr. Perceval Bloathwait, the Bank of England director, step forward.
“I believe you owe me a favor, Mr. Weaver,” Bloathwait said in his dull voice. “Had my enemies at the South Sea arrived here first, they would certainly have paid heavily to keep you held over for trial. Not that they would have permitted a trial—no doubt too dangerous to allow a man like you to tell what he knows in a public forum. Once in Newgate you would certainly have been more susceptible to a variety of misadventures—gaol fever, fights with other prisoners, and so forth; I should never have seen you alive again.”
“An idea that no doubt filled you with horror,” I said skeptically. Bloathwait had aided me only to further his own plans, and I could not quite bring myself to feel anything like gratitude.
“As you know, I want you to get to the heart of this matter. I believe you must be getting close, for your enemies are growing significantly bolder. Well done.”
I opened my mouth to respond, but my injured friend Elias forced his way past me to greet Bloathwait and bow at him profusely. “It is a great pleasure to see you once again, sir. It has been far too long since I have had the honor to serve you.”
Bloathwait stared at Elias’s costume. “Do you know this vagabond, Weaver?”
I tried to suppress a smile. “This gentleman is Mr. Elias Gordon,” I said, “who was injured tonight performing a service for me. I believe he once had the opportunity to perform a service for you as well. Something of a medical matter, if I am not mistaken.”
Bloathwait waved his hand in the air. “You are that Irish surgeon who fawned over me one night in the theatre.”
“Just so,” Elias agreed with surprising obsequiousness. I had once seen him covertly administer a triple dose of laxative to a gentleman who had made the mistake of calling him an Irishman, but for a man of Bloathwait’s wealth, Elias bore up under what he perceived as an insult.
Bloathwait turned back to me. “I hope you will use this freedom I’ve purchased.”
“I appreciate your assistance,” I said dryly, “yet I feel that you know more than you are letting on, Mr. Bloathwait, and I do not much enjoy being so toyed with.”
“I know only that the South Sea Company is somehow involved and, in ways I do not understand, so is that rascal Jonathan Wild. But I know little more.”
“What of Martin Rochester?” I asked.
“Yes, there is Rochester, is there not? Such goes without saying.”
I could barely contain my fury. Why would no one tell me anything of this phantom? “Have you any idea where I can find him?” I asked.
Bloathwait stared at me. “Where you can find Rochester? I see I have overestimated you, Weaver. I should have thought you would have reasoned that out by now.”
“Reasoned what out?” I own I snapped rather than spoke.
Bloathwait’s small mouth curled into a smile. “There is no such man as Martin Rochester.”
I felt like a man who suddenly awakens in a strange place, knowing not where he is or how he has arrived there. How could there be no Martin Rochester? For what had I been searching? I concentrated to gather in my passions and form these questions. “Every man upon the Exchange has heard of him. How can there be no Martin Rochester?”
“He is a mere apparition of a stock-jobber,” Bloathwait explained in his grand manner. “He is a shield under which another man or men do business. If you want to learn who killed your father, you do not need to find Martin Rochester; you need to learn who he is.”
I needed some time to consider this revelation. It explained why no one knew him, certainly. But how could this apparition do business with so many and still remain unknown? “Gad,” I mumbled to myself, “how very wretched.”
I noticed that Elias had stopped simpering. “This is the villainy of which I have warned you,” he said. “Our very enemy is constructed of paper. The crime is paper and the criminal is paper. Only the victims are real.”
I could not share Elias’s philosophical horror. I still believed there were such things as questions with answers, and I wished very much to believe that any veil of deceit, no matter how cleverly placed, might be torn away.
“A man of paper,” I said aloud. “Do you have any idea of his real identity?”
Bloathwait shook his head. “He could be one man or he could be an entire club. I cringe to see that you have been wasting your time seeking out a flesh-and-blood man when you could have been endeavoring to get to the bottom of this matter. I should see if I might sell you back to the judge for all you are apparently worth.”
“Regardless of who this man is,” Elias said, “should we not know more of
Bloathwait flashed us a scowl. “You have not even learned so much as that?”
I thought on what Cowper had said; I had asked him of Rochester hard on the heels of my asking about the stock forgery.
