“I meant no challenge,” he told me, in a voice of oily mock-conciliation. “I speak only out of concern. You see, I, who have lived many years in this neighborhood, saw the pain your father felt at having lost his son to the plague of pride. Both his and yours, I believe.”
I opened my mouth to respond, but I could think of nothing to say, and he proceeded apace. “Shall I tell you a story of your father, sir? I think you might find it most interesting.”
I stood silent, hardly able to guess what he would say.
“Not more than two or three days before the accident that took his life, he called upon me in my home and offered me a handsome sum of money to perform a task for him.”
He wished to make me ask, and so I did. “What task?”
“One I thought strange, I promise you. He wished me to deliver a message.”
“A message,” I repeated. I could hardly hide my confusion.
“Yes. I thought it most incomprehensible, and with every effort to avoid appearing to put on airs, I told Mr. Lienzo that I thought it somewhat beneath my station to deliver messages. He appeared embarrassed, and he explained to me that he feared someone might intend him harm. He thought a man of my stripe might be able to deliver the message both safely and inconspicuously.”
This story hurt far more than I would have anticipated. Mendes had been hired to perform a task that I might have done had my father and I been upon speaking terms. My father had needed a man upon whose strength and courage he could depend, and he had not called upon me—perhaps he had not even thought to call upon me. If he had, I wondered, how should I have responded?
“I brought the message to its recipient,” Mendes continued, “who was, at that time, at Garraway’s Coffeehouse in ’Change Alley. The man opened the note and muttered only, ‘Damme, the Company and Lienzo in the same day.’ Do you know who this recipient was?”
I fixed my gaze hard upon him.
“Why, the very man you asked Mr. Wild about. Perceval Bloathwait.”
I licked my lips, which were now quite dry. “Did Mr. Bloathwait have a reply?” I asked.
Mendes nodded, strangely pleased with himself. “Mr. Bloathwait asked me to tell your father that he thanked him for the honor he did him by sharing this information, and that he should keep it to himself until he, Bloathwait that is, had a chance to reflect upon it.”
“Wild denied any knowledge of Bloathwait—now you tell me this story. Am I to believe that you defy Wild? More likely, this conversation between Jews is all part of his plan.”
Mendes only smiled. “So many puzzles. If only you had attended more to your studies as a boy, you might now have the intelligence to make some order out of chaos. Good day, sir.” He tipped his hat and walked off.
I stood for a moment, contemplating what he had told me. My father had sought out some contact with Bloathwait—the very man I had spied meeting secretly with Sarmento. Now my uncle meets with Sarmento and Mendes together. What could it mean?
I would wait no longer to learn. I reentered the house and walked boldly into my uncle’s study. He sat at his desk, reviewing some papers, and smiled broadly as I walked in.
“Good day, Benjamin,” he said cheerfully. “What news?”
“I thought you might tell me,” I began in a voice I hardly tried to modulate. “We might begin with your business with Mr. Mendes.”
“Mendes,” he repeated. “I have told you of my business with him. He merely wished to pay me for some cambrics which he had sold for me.” His keen eyes determinedly measured my expression.
“I know not why you would conduct business with such a man,” I said.
“Perhaps not,” he replied, his voice showing just a hint of hardness. “But it is not your place to understand my affairs, is it?”
“I believe it is,” I retorted. “I am engaged in an inquiry which involves the mysterious dealings of your brother. It has led me to form suspicions of Mendes’s master. I believe that I am within my rights when I express my concern.”
My uncle arose from his chair to meet my gaze upon my level. “I do not disagree,” he said carefully. “But I should prefer you do so in a less accusatory tone. What is it you wish to say to me, Benjamin? That I am involved in some sort of scheme with Jonathan Wild into tricking you into doing—I cannot even imagine what? I urge you to recall who I am.”
I sat down, controlling my passions and having no desire to inflame my uncle’s. Perhaps he was right. He had a long-standing business with Mendes. I could hardly ask him to suspend it because I liked neither him nor his master. “I believe I spoke hastily,” I said at last. “I never meant to suggest anything about your conduct, Uncle. It is merely that I know not whom to trust, and I mistrust almost everyone—particularly those associated with Jonathan Wild. It troubles me greatly to see you with Mendes. You may believe you simply engage in some old business, but I should be surprised to believe that he does not have more on his mind.”
My uncle relented as well. He sat down and allowed himself to soften. “I know you wish only to uncover the truth behind these deaths,” he said. “I delight in your dedication, but we must not forget that while we try to do justice for the dead, we must remain among the living. I cannot discontinue my affairs because of this inquiry.”
“I would not suggest you do.” I sighed. “But Wild, Uncle. I do not believe you fully understand how dangerous he is.”
“I am certain in matters of theft and suchlike he is dangerous indeed,” my uncle said complacently. “But this is a matter of textiles. Your mind is set upon a conspiratorial path, Benjamin. Now everything appears suspicious to you.”
I thought on this for a moment. Elias had observed that the danger of inquiring into conspiracy is that all manner of misdeeds seem equally implicit. It was surely conceivable that I made too much of my uncle’s business with Mendes.
“I have never had any dealings with Wild,” he continued. “And I have always known Mr. Mendes to behave honorably. I understand your concern, but I could hardly refuse to allow him to pay me what he owes me because you mislike the man. But if you prefer, I shall engage him for no more business until this matter is resolved.”
“I would be most appreciative.”
“Very well, then,” he said cheerfully. “I am glad we resolved this business. I know you did not intend to be overly harsh, but you have worked far too hard upon this matter. I know you do not wish to abandon your inquiry, but you might set it aside for a few days and allow your thoughts to clear.”
I nodded. Maybe he was right, I thought. A few days’ rest might do me some good, but whether they did or no, I thought, I should have little choice, for I could not think of how to proceed until I found out what my advertisement might yield.
Believing the tension had passed, my uncle arose and poured us both a glass of port, which I sipped with some pleasure. I had finished nearly half of it before I realized that I had said nothing about my business at the
I spoke cheerfully with my uncle, and I enjoyed his conversation, but I declined to inform him of many things: of my suspicions of Sarmento, of Miriam’s wayward and inexplicable behavior, of the attempt upon my life, of the advertisement I had placed, and now of Mendes’s revelation of my father’s communication with Bloathwait. I did not wish to believe that my uncle’s behavior stemmed from anything more than a lifetime of having his own way indulged, but for the nonce my silence felt disturbingly wise.
I LIVED UPON THE rack until the next Thursday, when I should see who appeared to respond to the advertisement I had placed. I could ill think of how to occupy my time in this inquiry, and I had no desire to accept new business. Instead I spent my time brooding incessantly over what I already knew and watching the swelling about my face subside. I took notes and made lists and drew diagrams—all of which helped me to understand better the complexity of my search, and none of which, I feared, brought me any closer to a solution.
I chastised myself viciously for not having fully read, fully understood, my father’s pamphlet while I had the chance. I convinced myself all the answers had been therein contained, but even if that were not so, it did contain the words of my father, speaking, if only indirectly, upon the matter of his own death. Now it was lost to me.
At Elias’s invitation I passed one of my free mornings at the theatre at Drury Lane, where I found myself
