killed my father?”
“We are not here to help you, Weaver,” the unpleasant man spat.
Adelman held up his hand to silence his companion. “I fear not, Mr. Weaver. Except to assure you that our enemies have been using you. I suspect the hand of the Bank of England.”
“That is rot,” I hissed. I had been engaged in this business far too long in order to believe that I had been led astray from the first. Nevertheless, I could not quite banish Adelman’s words, and they filled me with anger at myself and him and almost anyone whose name came to mind.
“I warned you of this, you may recall,” Adelman continued. “We sat in Jonathan’s and I told you that you could not see yourself in the maze, but the game-masters would see you and lead you astray. And so it has happened. Everything you have worked so hard to discover is a lie.”
“Nonsense!” I proclaimed, hoping to silence their lies with the force of my conviction. “I have discovered that the South Sea Company has been violated by forgeries, and that is not a lie. I have discovered that this Rochester, who certainly killed my father, is behind these forgeries.”
“It is more than likely that this Rochester shadow, while a blackguard, has nothing to do with your father,” Adelman said softly. “Our enemies only wished you to think otherwise that you might expose this forgery to the public.”
“I shall not have it,” I said adamantly, as though by summoning a force of will I could dispel these ideas. I wanted to grab Adelman by the throat and squeeze until he admitted the truth. I suppose I wanted to believe that the truth was precisely that accessible.
“You may choose to believe what you wish, but if you seek the answer to your father’s death, you cannot but know that you have been led astray. Do not grow angry with yourself; our enemies are clever and wealthy—and they surely are
I had no answer. I could not make myself credit his words, but I could think of nothing to refute them.
Adelman saw the expression upon my face, and believed me defeated. “And so, Mr. Weaver, this is where we find ourselves. You are not to be the Company’s ally, but that does not mean you are to be its enemy. Should you have further questions, you may call upon me. I do not wish you to make any more scenes or perpetuate these dangerous lies. You have been an effective agent for Mr. Bloathwait and the Bank of England. If by being more open with you we can make you less dangerous to our reputation, then we shall do so.”
He opened the door. “I bid you a good day, sir.”
TWENTY-NINE
MIRIAM COULD NOT have been more delighted with her prize, but I had difficulty sharing in her joy. I allowed her to thank me for my help, and I placed her in a hackney and then retired to a tavern to think on my situation. If I had learned anything since beginning my inquiry, it was that these men of finance were skilled in the arts of deception, but I now found myself so deep within their illusions that I could no longer be sure what was real and what was mere fiction. Did the men of the South Sea Company lie boldly to my face to obscure their crimes, or was I a victim of Bloathwait’s machinations to destroy a rival company? And if Bloathwait had been willing to deceive me in order to help ruin the South Sea, was it possible that he had been willing to kill my father, Balfour, and Christopher Hodge? With millions of pounds in the balance for the company that serviced the government’s loans, was it unthinkable that the Bank of England would commit these crimes in pursuit of such profits? I had believed as much of the South Sea Company. And if my enemy were the Bank and not the Company, then was my pursuit of Rochester misguided all along?
I attempted to drive the doubts from my mind by entering once more into the thick of the inquiry. I returned to Kent’s to discover if anyone else had come by in response to the advertisement and there received two names and addresses. Neither proved of any use—merely parasites who attempted to extort money from me by pretending to information they did not possess. After leaving the second house, I thought hard on my next move. I could not simply go back to my uncle’s; I could not remain still. I found the nearest alehouse, and drank quickly as I thought hard.
I had to find Rochester, or find that which called himself Rochester. I knew of but two people I believed could point me toward this person or persons, and Jonathan Wild I dare not trust, so I would make the other tell me what I wanted to know. Without bothering to finish my ale, I rose to my feet and departed for Newgate once again to interview Kate Cole.
I could offer her nothing to make her help me, and I blush to own that I did not entirely dismiss the use of violence to convince Kate to cooperate. Perhaps the idea was not fully formed, but I believed that I would not leave her cell until she told me all she knew of Martin Rochester.
When I reached Newgate, I marched toward Kate’s cell and banged with violent intent upon her door. Nothing, no evasion on her part, would prevent me from learning what I wished to know.
When the door opened, I found myself facing a plump fellow with narrow, slitlike eyes and a mouth stained with rich red wine. For a moment I felt some embarrassment at barging so rudely into Kate’s closet when she had a guest, but this was no time for good breeding. I ignored the fellow and pushed hard upon the door, which opened to reveal not Kate, wallowing like a sow in her filth, but a woman as plump as the man and a pair of plump children, all gathered around a little table, eating their afternoon meal.
My embarrassment returned. There was no mistaking that this closet was Kate’s. “Where is the woman who resided here?” I asked, some conciliation creeping into my voice.
“No idea,” the man replied, and observing that my business was concluded, he slammed shut the door.
It was not yet time for a session at the Old Bailey, so she could not have been brought to trial. Had she sold her room for more ready cash?
“Where’s Kate Cole?” I demanded of the first turnkey I could find. “I must see her.”
“ ’Fraid yer can’t see ’er,” the turnkey told me, “or even if yer could, she couldn’t see yer. What with ’er being dead and all.”
“Dead,” I sputtered. I felt, I don’t know what—faint, perhaps. I felt that death was all around me. That my enemies knew everything I knew—they anticipated my plans before I even thought of them. “Of what is she dead?”
“Of ’anging by ’er neck.”
“But there was no trial yet,” I argued.
“Yer just don’t get it, do yer? She ’anged ’erself in ’er fancy cell, she did.”
“Self-murder?” I judged it inconceivable that someone like Kate would be capable of the despair required to contemplate self-murder. And even if she were, would she not wait to see the results of her trial before abandoning hope? “You are certain it is self-murder?”
“That’s what the coroner said it is.”
My mind raced to ask the questions that would allow me to know who had done this. “And did she have any visitors immediately prior to her death?”
“Not as I know of.”
“Is there someone else who would know?” I snapped. “Another turnkey perhaps?”
“Not as I know of.”
I placed a shilling in his hand. “Do you know now?”
“No,” he said, “but thank ye for yer generosity.”
THERE WERE NOW four murders. Kate Cole had not hanged herself; if I were to think on what was probable, I could only believe that Kate Cole would rather have lived to spit in the eye of the hangman than to take her own life. No, Kate had been caught in the same web that had caught my father, Michael Balfour, and Christopher Hodge, the bookseller. I now understood more clearly than I ever had that Elias was right. The new finance had produced an unstoppable power on a scale that I could not even comprehend. I had been searching for a man, or perhaps a cabal of men, who sat somewhere plotting out evil deeds, executing them, perhaps with a chilling callousness. Now I no longer believed that one man or even one group of men were responsible. There were too many connections,
