A Conspiracy of Paper

do not understand is why you should ask me to find the man who killed your father. You asked me in particular to look into his missing issues. Unless I am mistaken, you hired me to expose you. Why should you do such a thing?”

“Because,” he spat, angered at my effrontery, “I never believed you could learn as much as you did. I thought myself safe.”

“That doesn’t explain why, Balfour. Why?”

“Damn you, Weaver, for a filthy Jew. I won’t answer your questions. I merely have to call out for my servants to open this door and drag you before the magistrate.”

“You’ve already called out and your servants did not hear you. These handsome town houses are so finely built, you know—all thick stone walls and heavy doors.”

“Then I shall wait you out. I do not believe you will shoot me. I shall remain here for as long as you, and I dare say, your arm will grow tired before I grow weary of sitting.”

I smiled and dropped my pistol into my pocket. “You are quite right, sir. I shall not shoot you. The pistol merely makes a dramatic point. I shall tell you what I am willing to do, however. I am willing to break each of your fingers, sir—to ask you the same question each time I break a finger. You will have ten chances before I finish with your hands. I shan’t mess with the toes—the pain is too slight—but there are numerous objects in this room with sufficient strength to smash a foot. A knee too, I suppose. And let us suppose I break all I can think of to break and you still do not tell me what I wish to know, there remains only your skull. You will be found, as limp as a rag doll, and no one will know what happened to you.”

Balfour attempted to keep his eyes open.

“But,” I added brightly, “I really do not believe such a thing would ever be necessary. Do you know what I believe? That the most you would be able to stand would be one broken finger. Shall we put this theory of mine to the test, or will you tell me what I wish to know?”

Balfour remained silent for what seemed an interminable period. I understood what went on in his head. He searched for a way, some other way, than his giving me information, that he might avoid any repercussions from the man he would have to betray. I suppose he mulled it over from every angle, but in the end he could only think of how to avoid a torment now—the torment to come would be dealt with later.

“I was paid to engage your services,” he said at last, “by a man who could not have known that I had sent my father’s stocks to Rochester. He hired me because it would seem very plausible that I should have an interest in the inquiry. And it was he, not I, who wished to put you upon this course. I merely stood to profit from it. I again thought that if I could make some small money from my father in his death, why should I refuse? I never believed you should learn of my involvement.”

“Who is this man that hired you?” I asked.

I know not what name he might have given that would have surprised me. Had he said the King of Prussia, the Archbishop of Canterbury, or the Nabob of Bengal I would have thought these as likely villains as anyone else. But the name he gave me was perhaps less surprising.

Jonathan Wild had paid Balfour to set me upon my inquiry.

I stood up, and looked down at Balfour, who could not decide if he should attempt supplication or righteous indignation. “Did Rochester give you the remainder of what he promised?”

Balfour shook his head. “He never did send it.”

“Good.” I hit him hard in the face. I wanted that he should bear a mark of our encounter, for every time he was asked of its origins, his lie would remind him of his villainy and his cowardice.

THIRTY-TWO

THE NEXT TWO DAYS were very grim ones for me. I had learned so much—I had unearthed the great conspiracy that Elias had predicted, and I had done so largely with the aid of philosophy, something I would never have believed. I knew who had killed my father, why he had done so, and how he had done so. But Rochester had hidden himself too well. He had known from the outset that to cross the South Sea Company was a dangerous business, and he had taken care that an enemy should never find him out.

I had exhausted every possibility, but I could not crack the edifice that Martin Rochester had erected to protect himself. I thought of pursuing his three henchmen once again, but I could not convince myself that it would be worth my while. Rochester had gone to such great lengths to conceal himself that he would hardly divulge his true name to a group of murderers-for-hire who might sell it at the first opportunity. In addition, Rochester’s villains were aware that I knew who they were, and it struck me as probable that they would make themselves hard to find, at least for a few weeks.

I wished heartily to talk to Elias, but he could spare me little time as he made the final preparations for his play. There was a great deal of rewriting to be done, but he assured me that Rochester was going nowhere. Once the play was successfully launched I could count on him for assistance.

With little else to occupy my time, I spent my days in Jonathan’s, drinking far too much coffee and hoping to overhear conversations of note. I saw no more of Mr. Sarmento, and my uncle mentioned in passing that he was most concerned that the clerk had not been to the warehouse for two days. I did not think it my place to tell him of what I knew.

Miriam and I had been almost entirely estranged since our brief kiss, and her efforts to mend our breach, as she had done in the hall, had been courageous, but no single gesture of goodwill—no matter how daring—could hope to set aside so monstrous a discomfort as that which now lay between us.

The afternoon before the premiere of Elias’s play she and I sat in my uncle’s drawing room. It was the first time we had spent together since we shared that particular intimacy in the inn, and I found I could tolerate her presence only by attempting to put that incident out of my mind. She, on the other hand, sat as though entirely comfortable as she devoured a romance entitled Love in Excess. When not casting secret glances upon her, I pored over pamphlets on the Bank and the companies and anything else I could find. I understood almost none of what I read, and I suppose the effort was fruitless. I wished to find some reference to Rochester, but I knew there could be none.

I watched Miriam read, studying her look of enjoyment as her eyes passed over this foolishness. “Miriam,” I said after some time, “is it truly your intention not to marry me?”

She looked up at me, her face taut with horror, I suppose, but there must have been something upon my face—something impish rather than desperate—that made her burst out laughing. Not laughing in a mocking way, you understand, but laughing at the absurdity of all that had passed between the two of us. It was most infectious, and I too fell to laughing. And so we remained, laughing together, each encouraging the other, until both of our stomachs ached.

“You are ridiculously direct,” she said at last, through gasps of air.

“I suppose I am,” I agreed, as the last of the laughter departed. “And so I shall be direct with you,” I said formally. “What are your plans now? What will you do with your money?”

She blushed a little, as though talking about money embarrassed her. Perhaps it was only this money. “I shall need to find someone to help me—someone I can trust. But I shall then invest it, I suppose. If I do so carefully, I may yield 5 percent on it, and with that money, along with my jointure, I should be able to afford a place that I find satisfactory.”

I felt myself awash with disappointment and shame. I was disappointed that Miriam would now move out, establish her own household, and become independent. While she had been subject to my uncle, she had seemed somehow more accessible; now she would be truly beyond me and my selfishness in this matter left me ashamed.

I opened my mouth to begin a speech that I know not how I might have composed, and I still know not, for fate intervened. I heard the door open, and Isaac entered the room with a card resting upon a silver tray.

“For you, Mr. Weaver,” Isaac said. “A lady.”

I examined the card, on which the name Sarah Decker was printed in a handsome type.

“Did she state anything of her business?”

“I believe she’s looking to employ your services,” Isaac answered.

I was in no mood to take on new charges, but my inquiries had cost me a great deal of money, and I could