The Devil's Company Page 19

I approached the nearest clerk, a stooped-over gentleman of later year, his eyes obscured by bulky spectacles. He wrote in a hasty yet vastly neat hand in an opened ledger book, and he did so with such intensity that he failed to notice me as I approached.

  “Ingram,” I said to him.

  He continued to avoid looking up at me. “Mr. Ingram is indisposed at the moment. If you wish to wait or leave your card, sir.”

  “No,” I said quietly.

  Perhaps it was too quiet, for he did not respond. I, in turn, thought it prudent to accentuate my displeasure with a slap to his desk. “Ingram!” I said once more.

  He set down his pen and scratched at his nose with an ink-stained finger, flattened from years of scrivening. “Mr. Ingram is with a gentleman right now,” he said, the concern evident in his voice. Indeed, his fellow clerks must have heard the concern as well, for they all ceased their labors and looked at me.

  “I suggest you retrieve him,” I said.

  “’Tis not our style of conducting business within these walls,” he answered.

  “It ought to be your style when I come calling.”

  “And who are you?”

  “Ah, it’s Mr. Weaver, as I recollect.”

  I recognized the figure descending the stairs. It was none other than Mr. Bernis, the same prim little gentleman who had accosted me at the Portuguese eatery to inform me that my life was now fully insured. He hurried over to me and shook my hand—I say he shook it and not we shook, for I hardly participated in any manner.

  “So very good to see you once more, sir. How may we assist you?”

  “I have come to demand that you tell me the names of the men who have insured my life.”

  “As I explained to you earlier, we cannot reveal that information. There is an element of confidentiality that—”

  “Confidentiality be damned,” I answered, not a little harshly. Indeed, the clerk took a step backward, as though blown by the force of my vehemence. “I will know it.”

  “Sir,” he said. I must give credit to poor Mr. Bernis. He was not a large man or overly inclined to the martial spirit, yet in the defense of his company he stepped forward and put a hand upon my arm.

  I, in turn, picked up the poor fellow and cast him down upon the desk of the bespectacled clerk. The two of them tumbled together in a maelstrom of limbs and papers and spilled ink. I hoped most sincerely that I did not hurt the man, who was only doing his business, and I made a note that I must send him a gift in compensation, but there were more important matters to attend to than the delicacy of his feelings. “I will speak to Ingram!” I shouted, and made my desperation known by approaching another desk and wiping its surface clean with a great sweep of my arm.

  As I had hoped, the room had now become a scene of chaos. Several of the clerks, one of whose face dripped with ink, ran toward the stairs. Papers were strewn here and there, and they all shouted at once, including poor Bernis, who had arisen from his sad tangle to call out In-gram’s name most plaintively. I added my own voice to the chorus, shouting the name with far more malice.

  My efforts had the effect I most desired, for the door to the inner office opened and its occupant emerged—a man of below-average height but trim of figure, with broad shoulders and a barrel of a chest. He was no doubt at least fifty years old, yet despite his age and stature, and indeed, despite the commotion, which must have come as a shock to his eyes, he held himself with a dignified bearing.

  From behind him I saw Elias rise from his chair and move slowly toward the door, which he intended to close. I needed to make certain Ingram did not observe this effort, so I stepped forward, my index finger extended, and jabbed at him, coming just short of laying upon him a humiliating poke to the chest.

  “My name is Weaver,” I said, “and several men have taken out insurance policies upon my life. I demand to know their names and their business, or you will answer for it.”

  “Lewis,” he shouted to one of the clerks, “fetch the constable!” A young man, cowering near the staircase—too afraid to move closer, too interested to retreat—scrambled to his feet, dashed past me as though I might bite him, and left the rooms.

  It was no matter. There would be no constable present for another quarter hour at the earliest, and I had no intention of remaining so long. “All the constables in the world shan’t help you,” I said. “I have made my demand, and I will be answered, one way or the other.”

  “You have been answered,” he said. “You have my apologies, but we cannot give you the information you request. I desire you take yourself from here, lest your reputation be damaged by your actions.”

  “My reputation is secure,” I answered, “and if I use it to level accusations upon you and your company, you will be the sorrier for it.”

  “I will be the sorrier,” he informed me, “if I betray the confidence of those I serve by revealing what I have no obligation to reveal.”

  Our exchange continued in this manner for another several minutes until I noticed that the door to Ingram’s office was once more opening. Here was the signal that Elias and I had agreed upon; it marked the time I must remove myself from the premises. I did so, with threats that they would not remain unpunished for these outrages.

  Then I departed to the selfsame tavern where Elias and I had met earlier. I ordered another pot and awaited his arrival, which came far sooner than I had anticipated.

  “I used the chaos of your visit as a reason to excuse myself,” he told me, “but I cannot but suspect that Ingram or one of the clerks will realize my visit was in conjunction with yours and will understand our deceit.”

  “Let them understand it,” I said. “So much the better. They cannot act upon it, for they shan’t desire the world to learn their books can be so easily violated. Now, did you obtain the list of names?”

  “I did,” he said. “I know not what it means, but it cannot be good.” He removed from his pocket a scrap of paper, upon which was written three names I had never before beheld.

  Jean-David Morel

  Pierre Simon

  Jacques LaFont

  “Perhaps you notice something about them,” he said.

  “These are all French names.”

  “Just so,” he agreed.

  “The French, I have been made to understand, are beginning to assert themselves within India, and it is not unlikely that, in order to achieve their ends, they must act against the East India Company. That much I comprehend. What I do not comprehend is why they should believe their success depends upon mine—to such a degree that they must insure my life.”

  “That is but one interpretation. There is another, and I believe it may be far more likely, I am grieved to say.”

  “They know I will soon be dead, they see no reason not to profit from it,” I said.

  Elias nodded solemnly. “You had enemies enough before this, but I suspect, Weaver, that your situation has now been revealed to be even more dire than we had supposed.”

  CHAPTER FIFTEEN

  HILE DISSEMBLING WITH ELLERSHAW, CONCEALING FACTS FROM Cobb, plotting with Carmichael, and perfecting my schemes with Elias, it had never occurred to me that French knaves might be so confident in my impending doom that they should make wagers upon it. The thought was disconcerting to the least, but as I had discovered at Kingsley’s Coffeehouse not long ago, even the most secure of wagers is never secure, and I had every confidence these foreign dandies would lose for their efforts.

  I should have liked to have more time with Elias, for even though much of what we could puzzle out happened within the first five minutes of our conversation, there are, nevertheless, revelations that take time to sit and settle, like a good bottle of wine, before we are ready to consume them fully. This luxury of slow fermentation was not afforded to me, however, for I had an appointment to keep, and despite my uneasiness I would not be late.

  It was the thing that had been in my thoughts all day, and it was now time to take myself to St. Giles in the Field. My reade
r certainly knows that this is not the most pleasant part of the metropolis, and while I am no stranger to the less delightful neighborhoods, this one offered particular difficulties, its winding streets and labyrinthine alleys designed to confound the most accomplished navigator. Yet I managed to find my way with reasonable alacrity, and a few coins in the palm of a garrulous whore helped direct me to the Duck and Wagon.

  This was a tavern of reasonable architectural soundness, at least in light of its location. My entrance produced no considerable attention except among the gamers and whores and mendicants, all of whom sought fresh and unsuspecting purses. I have long plied my trade in these sorts of establishments, however, and I knew well how to wear a mask of menace. The unfortunates who prowled these waters in search of weak prey knew the scent of a fellow shark and accordingly kept their distance.

  It took me little time to recognize that the Duck and Wagon fell into that category of tavern called a dive. Proximate to the kitchens, a massive pot, nearly large enough for a man to bathe therein, had been set forth, and surrounding it were half a score of men who had paid their three pennies for the opportunity to take two or three dives-dependent upon the rules of the house. In the hands of each was a long knife, which they plunged into this gustatory lottery, the winner to lance a piece of meat, and the drawers of blanks to find themselves impaling nothing of greater consequence than a carrot or turnip.

  I took a table in a dark corner, far away from the excited and despondent shouts of the divers, and pulled my hat down, better to shade my face while sipping at a watery ale. It took two more watery ales before Miss Glade arrived, and I confess I did not know her at once. It was neither the darkness nor my slightly dulled senses that postponed my recognition, but her manner of dress. It would seem that the serving girl and the lady of business were not the only two disguises known to this intriguing creature. She came in looking like an aged and slovenly whore, so unappealing in her ersatz person that she might well have been invisible. There could be no better disguise, I realized, than to dress as a creature upon which no one wishes to gaze. These aging unfortunates, whose withered bodies are unfit for their trade, haunt the streets by the hundreds in hopes of finding a man too drunk or too desperate to care about the taint of his goods. Here was Miss Glade in tattered clothes and disheveled hair. Paint upon her face gave the illusion of age, and she had blackened some teeth and browned others, to create a sufficiently unsavory effect. But more than any of this, it was the way she carried herself. I had never before observed that old whores have a particular way of walking, but I now saw that it was so. Only her dark eyes, bright and alive and full of ravenous curiosity, betrayed her true nature.

  At her request, no doubt to maintain the integrity of her disguise, she asked that I order a gin for her, and while a few of the patrons laughed at my taste in women, none thought any more of this arrangement than was natural. I was no longer fit in my senses, and this woman was lucky enough to find me.

  “Very well, then,” I said, feeling unspeakably awkward. “Your masquerade has quite astonished me, but it is no matter, for we have much to discuss.”

  “And yet it shall be hard to do so, for neither trusts the other.” A smile, her true smile, emerged like the sun from beneath the clouded layers of paint.

  “That, madam, is a sad truth. Perhaps you would care to tell me of your business at Craven House. And perhaps, while you are on that business, you might tell me how the silk workers’ riots disturbed your plans the other night.”

  Something shifted in her gaze, and I knew I had struck home. “My plans?”

  “When you saw me, you said, ‘There you are,’ or some such thing, and expressed a surprise that the uprising at the gates had not hindered me. It is clear you thought I was someone else, which was why you used your true voice with me rather than the one you deploy within Craven House. Had it not been for that understanding, I presume I would never have known you were anything but the creature you pretend to be when serving the East India Company.”

  “You presume a great deal,” she said.

  “I do. I will be less inclined to presumption should you provide me with facts.”

  “Maybe you should provide me with facts about your own doings.”

  I laughed. “We shall never achieve any goal at all if we play this game forever. Now, you invited me here; you must have given the matter some thought.”

  She pressed her lips together thoughtfully. “You are right, of course. There is no advantage in dancing about, and if neither of us dares to speak, nothing will get resolved. In truth, ’tis my greatest wish that we might find ourselves on unopposing sides.”

  “And why is that?” I inquired.

  Her true smile emerged once more. “You must not ask a lady such questions,” she said. “But I believe you know the answer.”

  Indeed, I hoped I did. And yet I could not allow myself to trust this woman. Yes, she had charm and beauty and good humor, a combination I could scarce resist, and in her all of these wondrous properties combined such that appeared nearly magical to me. Everything I had seen of her told me she had raised the art of dissimulation to new heights, so I must presume that any display of affection for me must be as false as one of her costumes.

  “Sir,” she said, “I must ask you a single question. Are you interested, in your business at Craven House, in harming or aiding the Company?”

  “Neither,” I said, without a moment’s hesitation. I had not anticipated this particular question, but I saw there could only be one safe answer. A neutral position is more easily swayed. “I am indifferent to the fate of the Company and shall not allow its well-being, in one way or the other, to direct my actions.”

  The answer appeared to satisfy her. “I am pleased to hear it, for it means we shall have no cause to be at odds. Now, as to my business. Are you aware, sir, that unlike the other trading companies, the East India lacks a monopoly on its domain? Any company at all can trade with the East Indies if it has the capital and the means.”

  I laughed. “Yes, I have heard that. It seems to be a topic of perpetual interest at Craven House.”

  “As well it should be. The East India Company must always be on guard against those who would take what it believes to be its wealth. Consequently, it often takes actions to defeat potential competitors. But sometimes it does more than that. Sometimes it engages in unfair practices, outright thievery, in order to destroy some small venture that wants no more than a thimbleful of the great wealth of the East.”

  “And you represent such a venture?”

  “I do,” she said. “I am in the service of a trading gentleman whose ideas and contacts were stolen by East India agents. I am at Craven House to find evidence of this wrongdoing and to correct the injustice. Like you, I seek neither to harm nor help the Company, merely to see a wrong righted.”

  “I doubt the men of the Company would see things as you do, but that is no matter to me. The fate of the Company does not concern me, and if your patron has been wronged as you say, I certainly applaud your efforts.”

  “Thank you, sir. Now, perhaps you could tell me something of your affairs.”

  “Of course.” I had given this a great deal of thought once Miss Glade had proposed our assignation, and I constructed a fiction I believed would serve my purposes admirably. “I am in the employ of a gentleman of more merit than means. He is, in truth, the natural son of Mr. Ellershaw. That worthy sired him some twenty years ago, but offered neither his child nor the boy’s neglected mother the assistance that such ill-born children depend upon. Indeed, he turned away the just mother’s calls for help most cruelly. I am there at his request, to help uncover some evidence of his patrimony so he may pursue a case against an unfeeling parent.”

  “I believe I have read of this incident,” Miss Glade said.

  “Indeed?” My face could not have hid my surprise.

  “Yes. It was in one of those charming novels by Miss Eliza Haywood.”

  I let out a nerv
ous laugh. A man at the next table looked over to see if I was choking to my death. “You are very witty, madam, but you know those novelists pride themselves on writing stories true to life. It therefore cannot surprise when a story from life in some way resembles the thing meant to resemble it.”

  “You are perhaps more clever than convincing.” She spread wide her hands, not without a dose of good humor.

  “But,” I added, “if we are to be suspicious, let me inquire something of you. How does a young lady learn the considerable skills at disguise you possess? You are able not only to choose excellent costumes but also to alter the nature of your voice, even your bearing.”

  “Yes.” She looked down. “I have not told you all, Mr. Weaver, but as we are in one another’s confidence, and as I believe you mean me no harm, I shall endeavor to be more honest with you. My father, sir, was a tradesman of the Hebrew nation who—”

  “You are a Jewess?” It took all of my will to prevent myself from shouting. It came out as a growling whisper.

  Her eyes widened with amusement. “Does that so astonish you?”

  “Yes,” I answered bluntly.

  “Of course. Our women must stay at home and prepare meals and light candles and sacrifice their lives to making certain that fathers and brothers and husbands and sons are well tended. Only British women should be permitted to roam the streets.”

  “I meant no such thing.”

  “Are you certain?”

  Indeed, I was not, so I avoided answering the question. “We are not so populous upon this island that I should expect a charming stranger, such as yourself, to be among our number.”

  “And yet,” she said, “here I am. Allow me, please, to continue with my story.”

  “Of course.”

  “As I said, my father was a tradesman—skilled in the art of stoneworking—who left the city of Vilnius when he was a young man and went out in search of a more prosperous life. Such men often find themselves in this kingdom, for it is surely the most agreeable place in Europe for Jews to live. It was here he met my mother, also an immigrant, who had been born into poverty in a place called Kazimierz.”