block my path. I would have none of it, and shoved him aside, this time with a small measure of violence, knocking him slightly against the wall. I suffered no more interference and made my way to Bloathwait’s study. I knocked once and then opened the door to find the man at his desk with his shaved head exposed. His wig hung on a hook behind him, and his pale and beveined head bobbed up and down as he wrote furiously upon a piece of paper.
“Weaver.” He looked up, and then returned to his writing. “Forced your way in, did you?”
“Yes,” I said. I reached his desk and stood there, not taking a seat.
Bloathwait looked up once more, and this time he set aside his quill. “You’ll not get far if you allow servants and little men to block your path. I hope you didn’t hurt poor Andrew too much, but if you had to, do not trouble yourself about it.”
“Do you mean to say,” I nearly stammered, “that you had your servant deny me in the expectation that I would force my way in to see you?”
“Not the expectation, but certainly the hope. I make it my business to know what sort of men I’m dealing with. Now, please stop standing before me. You look as eager as a hunting dog. Sit down and tell me what you have to say for yourself.”
A little stunned, I sat down. “You have not been entirely honest with me, Mr. Bloathwait,” I began.
He shrugged.
I took that as permission to continue. “It has come to my attention that before he died, my father sent some sort of message to you. I wish to know the content of that message. I also wish to know why you withheld this contact from me.”
Bloathwait’s tiny mouth pouted. I could not say if he smiled or frowned. “How did you learn of the message?”
“From the messenger.”
He nodded. “The note contained some information that he believed could do a great injury to the South Sea Company. He proposed we set aside our differences in order to bring this information to light.”
“The information being the existence of forged South Sea issues?”
“Of course.”
I dug my fingernails into my palms. “You knew of the forged stock from the beginning, but you said nothing to me. You offered to share with me any knowledge you might have, and yet you kept this from me. Why?”
Bloathwait merely smiled. “I thought it in my best interest to do so.”
“Mr. Bloathwait, I have only recently had a very distressing encounter at South Sea House, where their agents sought to convince me that any suspicions I might have of that Company are fabricated by their enemies: the Bank of England, and no doubt you in particular. I find their claims very disturbing, sir, and your reluctance to share information with me makes their claims even more disturbing. So, again, I must ask you about your reluctance to share information with me.”
“I admit I was not entirely forthright with you, Mr. Weaver. I told you that I would give you any information to aid in your inquiry. Such was clearly not the case. You have found me out. I have given you what information I have wanted you to have and no more.”
“But why?” I demanded. “Do you want the South Sea Company exposed or no?”
“Oh, I do. I do indeed. But in my own way, sir. On my own schedule.”
I was silent for a moment as I considered the consequences of using violence against a man of Bloathwait’s stature. “I wish to see the message you received of my father.”
“I am afraid that is not possible. I have destroyed it.”
“Then I wish for you to tell me, as nearly as you can recall, what it said.”
He showed me a tight-lipped smile. “Your question suggests that you have your own suspicions of what it said. Perhaps you should tell me.”
I sucked in a breath of air. “I believe,” I said, attempting to keep my voice from wavering, “that there is only one reason why my father would have contacted you after so many years—after all the unpleasantness that passed between you. He believed himself to be in some danger, and he sought your help because those who threatened him were the enemies of the Bank of England. Thus by helping you he might have secured his own protection.”
“Very clever. You have guessed the nature of the message precisely.”
“And what assistance did you offer?” I breathed.
“Alas,” Bloathwait said, his face a mockery of contrition, “I had scarcely time to contemplate the import of your father’s message before his horrific fate befell him.”
I rose to my feet. I understood that I had as much information as I would receive of Bloathwait, and I believed I understood why he told me what he did and told me no more. I turned then to exit the room, but I briefly stopped myself and looked back. “I am most curious,” I said, “about the nature of your relationship with Mr. Sarmento.”
Bloathwait let out another laugh. “Sarmento.” He said the name as though it were the first word of a poem. He then picked up his pen. “My relationship with Sarmento is much like my relationship with you, sir.” He stared at me for a moment before continuing. “That is to say, he does what I wish of him. Good day to you.”
Bloathwait returned to writing, and I walked from his study knowing that I would need to do so immediately if I was to escape without harming him.
THIRTY
IT WAS FRIDAY AFTERNOON, and my uncle had returned from his warehouse early. I met him in the parlor and joined him in a glass of Madeira. The wine helped calm me after my meeting with Bloathwait, and it also gave me courage to ask my uncle uncomfortable questions. He had been kind to me, given me a home, offered me funds, and aided my inquiry. But I still did not know that I could trust him, nor understand why he kept information from me, or even what his motives were.
“Before he died,” I began, “my father contacted Bloathwait. Did you know that, sir?”
I looked him straight in his eye, for if he wished to lie to me, I would make that lie as difficult as I might. I watched his face, and I saw his discomfort. He shifted his eyes, as though to move them away, but I kept my gaze clenched. I would not free him from my scrutiny.
He said nothing.
“You knew,” I said.
He nodded.
“You knew what Bloathwait had been to him, to my family. You saw this notorious villain at my father’s funeral. And yet you said nothing to me. I must know why.”
My uncle took a long time to respond. “Benjamin,” he began, “you are used to saying what you wish, to being afraid of no one. In the world in which you live, you have no one to fear. That is not true for me. My home, my business, everything I have—it can all be taken away if I anger the wrong men. Were you to come into business with me, you would find yourself a rich man, but you would also understand the dangers of being a rich Jew in this country. We cannot own property, we cannot engage in certain kinds of business. For centuries they have herded us into dealing with their money for them, and they have hated us for doing what they permitted.”
“But what have you to fear?”
“Everything. I am no more dishonest than any other English merchant. I bring in a few contraband cloths from France, I sometimes sell them through sullied channels. It is what a man must do, but any public exposure of my dealings would prove a danger to this family and to our community here.” He let out a sigh. “I said nothing about Bloathwait because I feared his anger.”
He could not quite look at me. I hardly knew how to respond. “But,” I said at last, “you told me you wished me to learn the truth about my father’s death.”
“I did,” he said anxiously. “I do. Benjamin, Mr. Bloathwait did not have your father killed, but I know what kind of a man he is—vengeful, single-minded. I wanted nothing so much as that you should stay away from him, to find out who did this without crossing his path.”
“And what about Adelman? Do you not speak ill of him because you fear him as well?”
“I must be careful of these men. Surely you see that. Yet I must do justice for Samuel, too. I know you must think me a coward, but I must balance myself like a ropedancer. I want only what is right, and I shall do what I can to see that Samuel’s killers are punished. If I must appear to you and all the world a coward to do so, then so be it.
