He leaned forward. “May I ask how this Rochester fits in?”
“I know not,” I said cautiously. “I can only say that his name is frequently mentioned in connection with these deaths, and until I meet him and speak to him, I shall know no more.”
“As he appears to be such a villain, I can only wish you luck. Although perhaps it is he who needs the luck, for I have come to have nothing but respect, sir, for your skills in these matters.”
“You are too kind,” I said with a formal bow.
Sir Owen then snapped his fingers and looked at me excitedly. “Gad, I just recalled something. As you know, your inquiry into these deaths is being talked about all over town. Needless to say, I was interested whenever I heard the business discussed, for our fates have been of late so nearly connected. And now that I think on it, it was in one of these conversations that I heard Rochester’s name mentioned. I cannot quite think of the context, for I am not now even certain that I had heard the name before. But some fellow I did not know was speaking of him, and the deuce if I can remember what it is he said, but he mentioned him in connection with another. It was a Jew named—oh, what was it now—Sardino? Salmono, perhaps? Something rather fishy, I believe.”
“Sarmento?” I said quietly.
He snapped his fingers. “The very name! I wish I could say more, but by Gad it is all I can recall. I hope that is of some assistance.”
“So do I,” I said, and politely made my exit.
· · ·
IT WAS NOT A task to which I looked forward, but I knew it had to be done. So I made a trip to Sarmento’s lodgings off Thames Street, almost in the shadow of St. Paul’s. He took rooms in a pleasant enough, if plain, house an inconvenient distance from my uncle’s warehouse.
When his landlady showed me into the sitting room, I saw that there was someone already waiting—I presumed for another lodger, for it was a cleric of the Church of England. He was a youngish fellow, apparently not long out of school, for he had the enthusiastic air of a man who had recently taken orders. I had not been without some contact with churchmen in my day, though I had normally found them to be either bland, empty men or more of the wild sort who considered religion not at all except when their duties absolutely demanded it. In either case, I had often thought that the Church of England produced a system that encouraged its clerics to think of their positions much as clerks in stores thought of theirs—as a way to make money and little else.
“Good morning, sir,” he said with a wide, happy smile.
I bade him good morning and took a seat. He reached into his pocket and produced a watch, quickly noting the time. “I have been awaiting Mr. Sarmento for some time now,” he said. “I know not when he will step down.”
“You await Mr. Sarmento?” I asked with clear astonishment.
I realized that it was a rude way to speak, but it was intentional—not because I have any particular dislike of priests, but because I wished to goad the man into saying more than he might have otherwise. The cleric, however, took my rudeness in his stride. “He is a dear acquaintance of mine and a good student.” He smiled. “I have been encouraging him to write his memoirs. I find conversion stories most inspirational.”
I felt myself reeling with astonishment. “I am quite certain I do not understand you. Do you mean to say Mr. Sarmento is a convert?”
The priest reddened. “Oh, my goodness. I hope I have not spoken out of turn. I did not know that his acquaintances were unaware he had been a Jew. Please do not hold this against him.” He leaned forward and lowered his voice, as though sharing a secret. “I can assure you his conversion is entirely sincere, and it is my experience that converts are always the most devout Christians, for they must think about their religion in ways that the rest of us need not.”
I must admit I was stunned, perhaps even horrified. It was one thing to be a Jew lax in observance, such as myself, but even a man as negligent as Adelman was not bold enough to consider conversion seriously. My Christian readers will perhaps not understand that among your denominations—the Anglican and the Papist and the Presbyterian and the Dissenters—are all Britons alike, but to be a Jew is to be a member of a nation as well as a religion. To convert is to deny one’s self in a way I found utterly shocking. It was to say not
“Not more than six months ago, I am sure,” he explained happily. “But Mr. Sarmento had been coming to me for instruction long before that. Like many of his tribe, he was hesitant to cast aside his old superstitions. These things often take a great deal of time.”
I did not know what this meant, and I had little time to think on it, for Sarmento entered the room. He stood in the door and stared at the two of us, saying nothing, attempting to assess what damage had been done. Finally he turned to me. “Weaver, what do you do here?”
“I have come to speak to you on a matter of business, sir.” I could not help taking pleasure in his confusion. “But if you wish to speak first with your confessor . . .”
Sarmento’s mouth opened, and then closed. He knew the advantage was mine, and he hated me for it. Perhaps he hated the cleric as well. “Mr. Norbert,” he said at last, “I do not wish to be rude, but I must speak to Mr. Weaver in private.”
The priest appeared immune to insult, though he may have felt some discomfort at having spoken of what he now knew should have been kept a secret. He smiled and stood, collecting his hat. “I shall return at a time more convenient, sir.” He offered us both a bow and was gone.
I had not stirred from my chair. Sarmento remained standing. I enjoyed the feeling of power his distress gave me. “I did not know you to be a member of the Church of England,” I said in a relaxed and easy voice. “What thinks my uncle of this?”
Sarmento clenched and unclenched his fists. “You have me at a disadvantage, Weaver. You are correct to assume your uncle does not know. I do not think he would understand, but I have found a home in the Church, and I need not feel judged by you, who adher to no religion at all.”
“I remember quite clearly,” I mused, “that you accused me of speaking too much like an Englishman. ‘We do not speak thus,’ you said to me. A mere deception to confuse me?”
“Just so,” he said blandly.
“I am interested to have settled that you are comfortable deceiving others. Please understand that I did not come here to discuss religion with you, sir. I care not for what you believe nor whom you worship, though I do care of your playing games with my uncle’s confidence.” He attempted to interrupt me, no doubt to say something insulting, but I would not have it. “I came to learn why you were in that crowd the other night, sir, outside the masquerade ball.”
“For what reason,” he snapped, “should I answer any of your impertinent questions?”
“Because,” I said as I stood to face him, “I wish to know whether or not you have played some role in the murder of my father.”
His face turned ashen. He took a step back as though I had slapped him. He looked much like a puppet at a Smithfield droll—his mouth opened and closed without making a sound and his eyes grew absurdly large. Finally he began to sputter, “Surely you don’t think . . . you cannot mean that . . .” Then something in him clicked like the gears of a machine. “What reason could I possibly have to kill Samuel Lienzo?”
“Then what were you doing in the crowd outside the Haymarket?” I demanded.
“If you suspect everyone in that crowd,” he stammered, “then you will have much work to do speaking to all of them. And what has that crowd to do with your father’s death?”
“It’s not the crowd that concerns me,” I said harshly. “I suspect you.”
“I think much of this Kingdom would be shocked to learn that it is a Jewish belief that any man who would become a Christian would commit a murder.”
“Do not play the Jew-hater with me, sir.” I felt myself redden. “I know that rhetoric far too well to be intimidated by it, particularly when it comes from the mouth of one such as you. What were you doing there, Sarmento?”
“What do you think I was doing there? I was looking for Miriam. I knew she was placing herself at risk with that rake, and I was merely there to make sure he tried nothing that would dishonor her. It was happenstance that I became separated from her and came upon the crowd surrounding the man you felt inclined to kill. I saw you had
