A Conspiracy of Paper

a defeated slouch. “All right then, you miserable sod.”

I again smiled, hoping to impress upon her the cold implacability of my intent. I hoped to impress it upon myself as well, for I was in no way confident Kate would behave as I instructed. With nothing more to say then, I calmly left the room and descended down the stairs into the chaos of the Barrel and Bale’s yeasty stench. Dazed, shaking, and fingering the rough leather of Sir Owen’s book in my pocket, I forced my way through the crowd and left the tavern. Once outside, I hoped to feel some satisfaction at having completed my task, but no satisfaction came. I could not shed the memory of this villain Jemmy as he lay in the alley, dead of my hand. I huddled my arms against myself as I fought the growing conviction that his death could not but have a dreadful impact upon my life.

FOUR

I EXPERIENCED A wide mixture of feelings the next day as I awaited Sir Owen’s arrival. I was gratified that I had been able to retrieve his pocketbook so rapidly, but I was also apprehensive about Jemmy’s death. I replayed that instant a hundred times in my mind, wondering if I had missed an opportunity to extricate myself from my danger without taking a life. I could not see that I had acted too quickly or too rashly, but I remained shaken and in no small way concerned.

I continued to doubt my decision to let Kate walk free, for were my name to be drawn into the matter too long after the incident, my hesitation to come forward should certainly appear as guilt. It was not yet too late for me to tell my tale to the magistrate if I wished. I had spent time as an outlaw and I had lived among outlaws—I did not choose to turn a woman over to hanging simply because I believed it the most expedient path.

You can see then, reader, why Mr. Balfour’s pronouncement that my father had been murdered left me so vulnerable, for the events of the previous night had certainly heightened my sensibilities. It took near an hour after Balfour’s departure for me to calm myself, and just as my feelings had begun to settle, Mrs. Garrison showed in Sir Owen. I had contacted him early that morning to let him know the pocketbook was in my possession, and when he arrived he strolled in with unbridled jollity. Approaching my desk, from whence I stood to greet the baronet, he clapped me heartily on the arm as if I were one of his gaming partners.

“This is good news, Weaver,” he said, bouncing himself happily upon the balls of his feet. “Good news, indeed. These shall be the best fifty pounds I have ever spent.”

I unlocked the desk drawer, removed the pocketbook, and held it out to him. He grabbed it as I have seen tigers on display in Smithfield snatch their daily meat. Indeed, I thought there was something like hunger as he unclasped the leather strip that bound the book and began to thumb anxiously through the loose pieces of paper contained therein. I sat down, trying to appear as though I did something other than peer at the book’s contents. Sir Owen had been injudicious to carry the book about him—I spotted the banknotes he had spoken of; had Jemmy or Kate known what they were, they surely would have used them as cash, but Sir Owen took no pleasure at their safe return. As the baronet neared a complete review of the contents of the book, he grew increasingly apprehensive, turning pages with greater urgency. The look of exuberance left his wide face, and only the outline of his jolly countenance remained upon his now-ashen features.

“It’s not here,” he muttered, starting again from the front of the book. He turned the pages so rapidly I should have been surprised had he found anything at all. I do not even think he still looked; panic now drove him to continue turning the leaves. “Not here,” he said again. “Not here at all.”

I had no idea what it was he could not find, but I felt a pressing concern. I had presumed that once the baronet left my rooms he would have his book upon him, and the matter would be closed. That no longer appeared to be the case. “What is missing, Sir Owen?”

He froze for a moment and then confronted me with a cold glare. I had been so used to seeing the baronet cheerful and merry that I had not considered that, like all men, he could know his share of rage. The severity of his gaze told me that he suspected me of taking whatever it was that he missed. In truth, I had not even looked through his book but to determine that it was indeed his. I admit that if the evening had not ended in violence, I would surely have been tempted to examine the contents more closely, and I might even have given in to the temptation, but the taint of blood upon my hands inspired me to remain sinless in all other respects.

Yet, as Sir Owen studied me, I felt myself awash in guilt—the guilt that only the innocent feel when under close scrutiny. It is an inexplicable thing. I have been guilty of many things in my life, and when confronted I always faced my accusers with calm assurance. Now, under Sir Owen’s condemnatory gaze, I colored and grew anxious. The book, after all, had been my responsibility. Had I dropped something? Had I not been sufficiently diligent in searching Kate’s room? My mind examined every possible avenue of failure.

It was this senseless guilt he responded to. Sir Owen’s eyes narrowed. He stood up so as to raise himself to an intimidating height. “Do you seek to trifle with me, sir?” he asked in a low growl. I could smell his sour breath from where I sat.

I felt the muscles in my face shift from aimless guilt to burning indignation. Now that the accusation had been uttered, I arose to a more defiant stance. I realized, however, that my reputation would not be served by any visible display of anger, so, calming myself, I met Sir Owen’s accusation directly. “Sir, you said you came on the recommendations of many gentlemen. I defy you to find one who would impute that I had deceived him in any way, under any conditions. Do you wish to give me the lie?”

I must say with all humility that, though no longer in my prime and certainly no longer the man I had been when I fought in the ring, I cut an imposing figure. Sir Owen shrank from me. He took a step back, and lowered his eyes. He did not, apparently, wish to give me the lie at all. “I am sorry, Mr. Weaver. It is only that there is something yet missing. Something to me more valuable than all the information and banknotes in this book.” He sat back down. “Perhaps it is my own doing. I should have made certain you knew to look for it.” He lowered his face into his cupped hands.

“What is this thing that you have lost?” I asked in a gentler tone. Sir Owen had softened—almost broken— and I considered it prudent I soften as well.

He looked up, despondence inscribed upon his once-jovial features. “It is a bundle of papers, sir.” He cleared his throat and attempted to regain his calm. “Papers of a personal nature.”

I began to understand the situation more clearly. “Is there anything else missing, Sir Owen?”

“Nothing of importance.” He shook his head slowly. “Nothing I can see.”

“And would someone inspecting your book know these papers were valuable to you?”

“Someone would who knew enough of me. And such a man would know how much I would value their return.” He thought for a moment. “But there are several pages, and this person would have to read everything. And, as I say, this person would have to know much of my private life.”

“Yet,” I mused aloud, “surely anyone literate enough to know the value of a packet of private letters would know the value of the banknotes yet in your book. Are any of your banknotes missing?”

“I think not. No.”

“It seems to me unlikely that the papers have been intentionally taken,” I reasoned. “For who would steal the papers and then neglect these notes? Is it possible that these papers might have fallen out? That they might not have been clasped securely within the book?”

Sir Owen reflected upon this observation for a moment. His face was suddenly creased with lines, and his eyes were bloodshot. “It is possible,” he said. “I cannot say for certain how rough things became with the whore, you know. And once my goods were in her possession, she may not have known to be careful. They might have fallen out, certainly.”

“But you think it unlikely?”

“Mr. Weaver, I must have these papers returned.” Sir Owen crossed his legs and then crossed them back the other way. “I shall give you an additional fifty pounds to retrieve them. One hundred pounds if you can do so within twenty-four hours.”

I had ample use for the money, but I saw now a greater opportunity for service. If I could remedy Sir Owen’s matter, I knew, he would not be illiberal in his praise of me thereafter. “You offered me before fifty pounds for the return of your pocketbook and its contents. I have not yet fulfilled the contract. I shall find these papers, sir, and ask nothing more of you.”

Sir Owen brightened a little. “Did you, by any chance, inspect the area around which the book had been stashed, or among my other belongings?”