about disturbing me. I am in no mood to discuss the matter.”
“Very well.” He smiled. “But if you like, I might mention your difficulties to Mr. Wild. Perhaps he might offer some assistance.”
“You will do nothing of the kind. Mendes, I am not entirely convinced of the scope of your villainy, but I have no uncertainty about your master. You will please not mention my name to him.”
Mendes bowed and departed.
Once back at my uncle’s house, I again found myself avoiding Miriam. She and I had gone to great lengths to elude one another since our unfortunate conversation. On Saturday, after synagogue, Miriam announced she had a headache and spent the rest of the day in her room. I cannot claim I was anything but relieved.
That night, as I climbed the stairs, I found her hovering in the hall, just outside her door. She was waiting for me.
“Benjamin,” she said softly. My uncle and aunt were asleep one flight upward. Our voices would carry if we were not careful.
I could not think if I should take a step toward her or away. It seemed foolish to remain still, but for the moment it was easier than making a decision.
“There’s something I want to say to you,” she whispered, almost inaudibly.
I moved forward, hand outstretched. She backed up a step. “It’s about your father.”
This pronouncement stopped me in my tracks. My limbs tingled. I had been through too much not to be terrified by that pronouncement. “What is it?”
“There is something I want to say—something I think you should hear. Your father—” She paused, pressed her lips together, and sucked in air through her nose like a sailor filling his lungs before diving into the sea. “Your father was not a nice man.”
I almost laughed—indeed I should have cackled if I had not been so confused. “I believe I knew that.”
She bit her lip. “You don’t understand. You told me once that you feel guilt, you feel remorse, you feel as though you have made mistakes. Maybe you should feel those things; maybe you did err horribly when you ran away and even more so when you didn’t return. But that does not mean you were in the wrong—at least not entirely. You may blame yourself if you wish, but you must blame him, too.”
I shook my head over and over again, only partially aware that I was doing so.
“Your father knew where you were. He had only to read the papers to see where you fought. He could have gone to you, and he didn’t. He didn’t because he knew not how to be kind. I have seen him with your brother, and he was no warmer to Jose than he was with you—only more satisfied. Your memories of him are not a fabrication —they are the truth. Perhaps the qualities that made him a good businessman made him a poor father. But I think . . .” Her voice trailed off for a moment. “You have too many regrets,” she said. “More than you ought.”
Her words left me as though frozen. I felt such a torrent of emotions I could not sort one out from another.
“I wish us to be friends, Benjamin,” she said after a moment, perhaps weary of my silence. “Do you understand that?”
I nodded dumbly.
“Then tomorrow we may speak as we used to.” She smiled so sweetly, so shyly, I thought my heart should burst. And then she climbed up the stairs and left me in the hall, where I remained until I heard a clock chime below, and then I staggered to my room like a drunkard.
IT WAS JUST AFTER one in the afternoon when I reached Sir Owen’s house, and I was pleasantly surprised to find that he was awake, fully dressed, and ready to see me within a quarter hour of my arrival. Far from the harsh man I had encountered the last time I had seen him, he now appeared for all the world his old self.
“Weaver,” he shouted with some pleasure as he walked into his drawing room. “So good to see you. What can I do for you? A glass of something?”
“No, thank you, Sir Owen,” I said as he poured himself a port. I was too agitated, too confused, I thought, even to swallow.
“I have learned that Scottish surgeon of yours, Gordon, is to dazzle the Theatre Royal, Drury Lane, with a new comedy. I never miss a new comedy, you know—and if it is written by a man who has cured me of the clap, so much the better. Please tell him that I shall be there for the first night.”
“I think he should like it better if you were there for the author’s benefit night,” I said with reflexive warmth. If I was to gain anything with Sir Owen, he could not know my state of mind.
He laughed. “Well, if it is a worthwhile endeavor, I shall return for the third night. I always believe in supporting the authors’ benefits, you know. It is the least one can do for a good play.”
“He will be gratified to hear that.” I was quiet for a moment, and Sir Owen joined in the silence and contented himself with twirling his morning port about his glass. “I have come with some news that I thought you should know of,” I continued. “It would appear that Kate Cole has been murdered.”
“Murdered!” He nearly dropped his wineglass. “Gad, sir, I have heard she hanged herself.” He began to set his port down and then changed his mind and took a long drink.
That he had heard anything at all astonished me. “Then you know of it?”
“Oh yes, oh yes,” he said. He finished his glass and poured himself another. “You are sure, now? No? Well, you see, the matter of her trial was something that touched on me very nearly, and, as you know, I am not without some connections. I received a message from a friend I know not unconnected with the governor of Newgate prison; he told me of her death. He clearly indicated that the woman had hanged herself. I am astonished to hear you speak of murder.”
“In truth, I but suspect she was murdered,” I admitted, “because of another matter that concerns me.”
“What is this other matter?” he asked. “This business with your father? How should it involve this woman?”
“It is hard to say,” I said. “I can hardly piece it together, for there are so many players.”
Sir Owen squinted. “Is there any way I can assist you? You know I am not without connections, and if I can provide you with any service at all, you need but ask me.”
I could not help but be disgusted with such a friend as Sir Owen, who had been pleased to sacrifice me when there was some small danger to his reputation, but now that he had nothing to lose, he was eager to show his influence. “You are certainly kind.” I thought on this for a moment. That Sir Owen’s character was flawed was perhaps not sufficient reason not to take advantage of his connections. “I do not wish to involve you, for I have come to learn that it is a dangerous matter, but there is one thing you might be able to help me with, and indeed, it would be an enormous help. Have you ever heard the name of Martin Rochester?”
“Rochester,” he repeated. He took a moment to think on the name. “I have heard of him, I believe, but I know not who he is. Perhaps a name I have heard in the gambling houses?” He screwed up his eyes and then took a drink. “Is he connected with this whore’s death?”
“Yes,” I said. “I believe Rochester had her killed because she could identify him. You see, I have come to learn that Rochester is but a pseudonym, and that he is behind some shocking acts. If I can find out who he is, then I can discover the truth behind the crimes into which I inquire.”
Sir Owen sipped his port. “Should that be so very difficult?”
“Rochester is clever, and he has both friends and enemies who cover his tracks for him. It is one thing to use a false name as a matter of convenience, but with Rochester it seems something else entirely. He has created a false self,” I said, reasoning this matter out as I spoke, “a representation of a jobber, much like paper money is a representation of silver.”
“Sounds a rather tricky business,” he said cheerfully. “I cannot tell you how relieved I am to have this unpleasantness with the whore behind me, Weaver, and I wish I could show you my appreciation. Perhaps if you told me more of what you know about this Rochester, it might help. One meets and hears of so many men, it is hard to keep them all clear in one’s mind.”
I wasn’t sure how much I wanted to tell Sir Owen. “I cannot imagine what kind of contact you could have had with him,” I said at last. “He is a corrupt jobber who has probably had some dealings with the South Sea Company.”
Sir Owen appeared to make a connection. He screwed up his face and rolled his eyes toward the ceiling. “And all of this has some relationship to that matter with Balfour and your father?”
“Yes.”
