A Conspiracy of Paper

are in truth, and it is I who shall see you pay the price for murder.”

“I pay a price for murder? Surely you are mad! It is you who have committed murder, as I have been at great pains to learn. Did you think that you, who have been so publicly our enemy, should escape our notice? I know that you have been introduced to His Majesty’s case against Kate Cole, and I know of your involvement in the death of that blackguard. This company is committed to seeing you stand trial.”

I was stunned. I could not believe that this man could make so bold a pronouncement. I felt that it was a confession of connections, but I could not guess of what connections precisely. Did this mean that the Company was in league with Wild? That the Company had as good as confessed to being behind my father’s death? I could not sort it out. I was a trapped animal, and I had to restrain myself from jumping upon this man and beating him bloody.

Miriam looked on mutely. Her face was as that of a child whose parents bicker before her. I wished she had not been made to feel so threatened, but there was nothing to be done for it now.

“You have taken a misstep,” I said to the South Sea man, “in making me your enemy.”

He laughed aloud, and my rage increased, for I knew that I had nothing to threaten him with but the violence of the moment. But then a thought came to my mind. “If you want to silence me, I suggest you do it here and now. All your talk is but a bubble, for I assure you the moment I leave this building I shall inform the world of these forged issues.”

“Perhaps we are being hasty.” I had not seen Nathan Adelman enter the room, but he stood in the doorway, looking mildly amused. “Perhaps Mrs. Lienzo is but a victim and not a villain.”

I knew instantly their game; Adelman was to play the part of the compassionate man. Miriam breathed a sigh of relief, but I knew she was too clever to be fooled for more than an instant.

“Keep out of this, Adelman,” the other man said, “you know not of what you speak.”

“I think I do. Miriam, you merely want these stocks turned to cash, do you not?”

She nodded slowly.

“I see clearly that you have been swindled, and I shall tell you what we shall do. The Company is prepared to offer you three hundred pounds for these shares. Shall that satisfy the matter?”

I saw that Miriam, in her ignorance, was prepared to accept this meager offer. I would have none of it. “Adelman,” I spat, “why are you playing us for the fools that we are not? You know well that if this were valid stock it would sell for more than twice that on the open market.”

“You have learned a thing or two about the funds, Weaver. I am pleased to see that you are your father’s son after all. Yes, South Sea stock is now selling at over two hundred, but these are not valid stock—they are merely worth the value of printed paper, which is to say, nearly nothing. Three hundred pounds in exchange for nearly nothing is a good bargain, I think.”

“What both Miriam and I have is worth far more than that,” I said, “for now we have proof that counterfeit South Sea stock is in circulation. What will that do to its worth on the market when the word is spread, Adelman? Your efforts to eclipse the Bank shall come to a sudden halt. Do not think to try any of your Company tricks with us, for we have prepared ourselves by placing samples of this forged stock in a half-dozen different locations,” I lied hurriedly. “Should we fail to retrieve them before a time we have determined, our factors shall make them public. You cannot threaten to harm us or to destroy these issues without seeing your Company utterly undone.”

Miriam and I glanced at each other and nodded, as though this lie had been practiced all along. I delighted in seeing her hold herself in an attitude of authority—arms crossed, bosom thrust forward, chin held high. She knew that the balance of power had shifted.

Adelman’s companion nearly spat at the image of our complaisance. “Do you dare to threaten the South Sea Company?” he barked.

“No more so than this Company has threatened us. Let me make you a counteroffer. This woman will sign a paper swearing never to reveal her knowledge of forged stock, and submit to you all forged issues she possesses. She will do this in exchange for five thousand pounds.”

Miriam had not so much composure that she did not let out a gasp at the mention of that sum—an amount surely beyond what she dreamed of ever having at her disposal; she did not understand that an opulent fortune for her was but a pittance for a company that in months to come would offer a gift of millions of pounds to the government in exchange for the right to do business.

“Five thousand pounds? Are you mad, sir?” the gruff fellow barked.

Adelman, however, played the more diplomatic role, and I saw immediately that he was relieved to have escaped so cheap. “Very well, Weaver. Miriam, will you agree to sign a document? If you forfeit, then you will be considered to be in default of your agreement and you will owe the Company five thousand pounds, for which I can assure you we shall prosecute.”

The lady had regained her composure. “I accept your terms,” she said calmly, though I believed ready to sing with relief and excitement.

“Now,” Adelman said to Miriam, “would you wait outside for a moment while we conclude our business with Mr. Weaver?”

No sooner was she out of the room than the unpleasant man began to shout at me in an animated fashion. “You must believe you are beyond our grasp to have challenged us thus, Weaver, but let me assure you that this Company can destroy you.”

“As you destroyed my father, Michael Balfour, and Christopher Hodge, the bookseller?”

“Nonsense,” Adelman said, waving a hand about the air. “You cannot believe that the Company orchestrated these crimes. The very notion is absurd.”

I believed him right, but I would not avert my gaze. “Then who did?”

“Why, I should think you would know that by now,” he said casually. “Martin Rochester.”

I suspected they were testing me, attempting to learn what I knew. “And who is Rochester?”

“That,” Adelman said, “we are as anxious to learn as you. We only know that it is a pseudonym used by a clumsy purveyor of false stock. He is but an insignificant forger who has fooled a small number of people—women such as Mrs. Lienzo, who know nothing of the Exchange.”

“That is a lie,” I said. “Rochester is more than an insignificant forger, and I shall wager that he has fooled more than a small number of white-gloved ladies.” Miriam had received dividends, which could only mean that someone had helped Rochester to falsify records as well as stock. When my father saw her issues, he understood at once what they signified. This forgery can only have been perpetrated with the cooperation of certain elements within South Sea House itself, he had written. The Company is as a piece of meat, rotted and crawling with maggots. “Tell me,” I said with a grin. “What has become of Mr. Virgil Cowper?”

“We hardly keep track of our clerks,” the South Sea man barked with unexpected venom. “I care nothing for your foolish questions.”

“So what is it you want of me? What further threats do you offer? Need I fear more violence and theft that you can keep your secret?”

Adelman and his companion exchanged glances, but it was Adelman who spoke. “You have correctly surmised that we wish to keep the matter of the stock quiet, but we shall not threaten you. And I know nothing of matters of violence and theft.”

“You would impose on me to believe that you did not attempt, in any way, to suppress a pamphlet written by my father that would have exposed the existence of the forged stock?”

They exchanged looks once again. “Until this moment,” Adelman said, “I did not know your father intended to write such a pamphlet. I cannot believe he would have been so reckless. If you have come across such a thing, I suspect it is yet another forgery.”

I did not know if I should even credit the possibility. The manuscript had looked to me to be written in my father’s hand, and I should think that my uncle would have recognized a forgery, but my enemies were certainly expert forgers. Still, it was no forged fire that had killed Christopher Hodge, my father’s printer; and it was no forged thief who had taken the only copy of the manuscript from my room. Someone was desperate to hide all traces of this document.

“There is ample evidence that tells me the pamphlet was real,” I announced.

“That evidence has been planted,” Adelman said wearily, “to deceive you.”

I shook my head. I would not believe it. “And you have nothing more to tell me that will help me find who