A Spectacle of Corruption (35 page)

M
r. Johnson’s speeches turned out to be nothing but pretty sentiment, for the next day Mr. Dogmill’s friends in the city could no longer stomach turning a blind eye to the violence and posted soldiers in Covent Garden. Had they marched upon the rioters, no doubt great violence would have resulted, for those who would destroy and murder and rob never love to see their English liberties curtailed by that most venomous of beasts, the standing army. Fortunately, these dragoons were deployed with uncommon strategy, stationed in the piazza long before dawn, so when the porters arrived they saw they would be met with a disappointing welcome and slinked off, satisfied that they had performed their duty for more than half a week.

During that time Melbury’s lead had suffered serious attrition, but there could be no doubt it would now recover, for the sentiment in Westminster was one of dissatisfaction with Dogmill’s influence. The rioters had been a gamble, and a bold one, and the Whigs had hoped to ruin the Tories’ lead. But it had only strengthened their cause, and for that I was grateful. I now had little doubt that once Melbury sat in the House, he would do all he could to serve my cause and send his old enemy to ruin.

A
s the day was Thursday, I spent my time preparing to take myself that night to the tavern mentioned by the Riding Officer. Here was a risk, for I had no choice but to depend that he had followed my advice and fled the metropolis rather than face my wrath. I would, nevertheless, take precautions, the most significant of which was that I thought it best to attend to my business as Matthew Evans, not as Benjamin Weaver. If the Riding Officer had not held his tongue, the men there would be keeping watch for an escaped felon, not a finely dressed gentleman. Of course, because they looked for me in particular, they might well see through my disguise more easily than men not seeking me out. Nevertheless, I was determined to take the chance.

For all my determination, however, I did not entirely believe I would learn very much by going to this tavern. I already knew that Dogmill bribed the Customs men. The world knew it, and the world did not care. What, then, would I discover? The one thing I hoped to learn was the identity of the agent who paid the Customs men. This person might well be Dogmill’s primary tough, the fellow who executed the violent orders. I held out the faint hope that I might that very night learn the identity of the man who had actually beaten Walter Yate to death.

I took a seat in a dark corner, ordered a pot, and hoped to make myself as unnoticed as I might. Here was no difficult task, for the Customs men busied themselves with their own concerns.

They began to arrive at eight in the evening, as they had been advised to do. I understood well how they were being used, for this was an all too common bit of treachery perpetrated upon the laboring man. On rare occasion their wages would arrive at eight as they had been promised, but most times they would not arrive until eleven, so there was nothing for them to do in the time of waiting but eat and drink. For this consideration, the tardy paymaster would receive from the tavern keeper a little something for his troubles.

After nearly two hours I grew impatient and even considered abandoning my position, but I found that my patience was well rewarded. Some few minutes after ten, a man arrived and was greeted by the cheers of the customs men. They drank a bumper to him, and after he distributed wages all around, they drank another. They even bought this fellow a drink and treated him as though he were a king in his own right rather than an underling merely performing his master’s service.

It was Greenbill Billy. The leader of the labor combination worked in the service of the very man he claimed to resist.

M
y meeting with Greenbill now began to make far more sense to me. He had asked me what I knew of Dogmill’s involvement, not to discover for himself but to measure my own understanding. He had urged me to take my revenge against Dogmill, not in the hopes that I would act but rather so he could report back to his master on my willingness to do so.

I now observed him among the Customs men. He was good enough to let the men buy him a few drinks, but he appeared eager to move on afterward. Though they begged him to stay longer, he tipped his cap and bid them good night. I wasted no time and was out the door after him in an instant. To my relief, he took no hackney but appeared content to walk to wherever it was he was intending to go. I might have followed him to learn where he went. I could then pursue him on my own terms at my own leisure. But I had already enjoyed my fill of waiting and deferral. I would wait no longer.

When Greenbill walked past an alley, I broke into a run and knocked him hard in the back of the neck with both my hands clasped together. I had hoped for a bit of good luck here, that he would fall face forward and not catch sight of me, and this time the dice rolled my way. He fell into the alley’s filth—the kennel of emptied chamber pots, bits of dead dogs gnawed on by hungry rats, apple cores, and oyster shells—and I pushed him down hard, knocking his head into the soft earth. Desperate for some way to maintain my anonymity, I then ripped the cravat from around his neck and hastily wrapped it around his eyes. Using one knee to keep his arms pinned, I tied the blindfold tight and only then rolled him over so that his face was out of the muck.

“You seemed mightily keen on yourself at that tavern with the Customs men,” I observed, affecting an Irish accent. I did so both to protect my identity and to create a likely fiction as to the identity of his assailant—that is to say, a Jacobite agent. “You are not so keen on yourself now, are you, my spark?”

“Mayhap not,” he said, “but at the tavern I was not blindfolded and wallowing in shit. It’s hard to be keen on yourself when you’ve got that working against you.”

“You wallow in far worse than shit, friend. I have been watching, and now I know your little secret.”

“Which one is that? I’m burgeoned with so many, you know, I doubt you can have learned them all.”

“That you are in the service of Dennis Dogmill. I believe that revelation might ruin your reputation among the porters.”

“And so it would, boglander,” he admitted, “but at least it would make it inevitable that Dogmill would find a more dignified post for me. You think to frighten me by revealing that little tidbit. Why, you’d be doing me a favor. So go ahead and do your Irish worst, Dear Joy. We’ll see who benefits and who ends up with nothing for his trouble but a dish of boiled oats.”

In a move I had learned during some of my less honorable performances as a fighter, I rolled him over and grabbed his arm, which I bent hard behind his back until he yowled quite unhappily.

“It’s the Scots that are famous for their oats,” I told him, “not the Irish. And as for my worst, well, bending your arm isn’t nearly so bad as what else I have in mind. So now that you see I’m in no mood for nonsense, perhaps you’d like to answer a few of my questions. Or do I have to give another demonstration of my earnestness?” And I pushed hard against the arm.

“What?” he shouted. “Ask me and be damned.”

“Who killed Walter Yate?”

“Who do you think, you blockhead?” he growled. “I did. I knocked the fellow over with a metal bar and killed him as he deserved.”

I remained stunned in silence. I had been seeking the answer to that question for so long now, I could hardly believe what I had just heard. A confession. An admission of guilt. We both knew I could do nothing about it. Without two witnesses, the confession had no value in a court of law, even assuming I could find an honest judge. But it meant something to me to know that I had finally learned the answer to so pressing a question.

“Did you do it under Dogmill’s orders?” I asked.

“Not in the way you mean, Teague. Things ain’t always so clear.”

“I don’t understand.”

He sucked in some air. “Dogmill said to take care of Yate, so I took care of Yate. I don’t know if he meant for me to kill him or not. I don’t know if he noticed Yate was dead or not. He only knew that a man he wanted out of the way was gone, and that was enough for him. Dogmill’s a great merchant, and to him it don’t matter if the likes of us live or die. We’re not real men to him, only vermin to be brushed away or squashed—it don’t matter which. It only matters to him that we trouble his quiet or we don’t.”

“But you killed Yate without remorse.”

“You say it was without remorse, but you don’t mitigate it for certain. I done what I had to in order to keep my place. That’s all. I can’t say it was good or bad, only that it had to be remunerated.”

“And why Benjamin Weaver?” I asked. “Why did Dogmill choose to blame him?”

If my question made him suspect he was in Weaver’s hands, he did not show it. “That I can’t tell you. I thought it an odd choice meself, and not a man I would have trifled with for no cause. But I never thought to ask Dogmill his motives. They’re his own, and I suggest you inquire yourself.”

“And what of Arthur Groston, the evidence broker, and the men who testified at Weaver’s trial? Did you kill them as well?”

“Dogmill said make it look like the Jew is out to protect himself, and that’s just what I done. It ain’t nothing more than that. It ain’t as though I had something against those sods.”

I said nothing. There was no sound but that of both our breathing, thick and heavy in the night air. There was no easy course for me now. I could not bring the man to a justice of the peace or a constable, for the route of honest procedure was foreclosed to me. It could be that an honest judge might inquire honestly into these affairs, but that seemed a fond hope. Therefore, either I could kill Greenbill for what he had done and exact my own petty justice, or I could let him go, perhaps to walk free of the crime of murder, perhaps to lead me better to a chance of clearing my name. The former seemed more satisfying, the latter more practical.

If I let him go, however, he might take himself forever beyond my grasp, and should I be recaptured and hang for his crime, the memory of this moment would be the bitterness of my last days on earth.

I relaxed my grip on him. “Go,” I said in a low voice, just above a whisper. “Go and tell your master what you have done in his name. And tell him I am coming for him.”

“And who are you?” Greenbill rasped. “An agent of Melbury or the Pretender—or both? If I am to tell him, I must know what to say.”

“You may say he will face justice soon enough. He can’t hide from me—from us,” I added, lest my indulgent speech be understood too well.

I released him and stepped back, allowing Greenbill to struggle to his feet. The arm upon which I had worked my mayhem hung limply by his side, but the other pushed into the filth so he could right himself. Once to his feet, he used his good hand to untie his blindfold, and then he scurried off. I watched him go and felt a remarkable sadness. Before I knew all the facts, I had had the hope of a wondrous discovery that would clarify everything and make my course seem certain and inevitable. I had found just the opposite, the murkiness of ambiguous orders and cowardly deeds. And I hardly knew what to do next.

CHAPTER 24

T
HE FOLLOWING NIGHT
, a Friday, I made ready to answer Mr. Melbury’s invitation to dinner. I thought with some irony that if I were not a wanted criminal, I should very likely be attending my uncle and aunt’s house this evening in celebration of the Hebrew Sabbath. Instead, I would be dining with a woman who was once their daughter-in-law and now a member of the Church of England.

I dressed myself in the best of the suits Mr. Swan had labored over, and I took myself to Mr. Melbury’s home, where I arrived at precisely the time called for in the invitation. Nevertheless, I found Melbury occupied, and I was asked to cool my heels, as the saying goes, in his parlor. I was there only a few minutes before Melbury uncloseted himself, emerging with an older gentleman dressed in clerical colors. This man walked with a cane, and then only with a great deal of difficulty, and appeared to be in the most fragile of health.

Mr. Melbury smiled at me and introduced me at once to his guest, none other than so famous a personage as Francis Atterbury, Bishop of Rochester. Even I, who followed events of the English Church no more closely than I did events of the Italian buggery, had heard of this luminary, well known to be one of the most eloquent proponents of restoring ancient Church privilege and power. But having heard of him, I felt myself ill at ease, knowing little of the forms belonging to such a lofty personage. I merely bowed and murmured something of what an honor it was to meet his grace. The bishop forced a smile and returned my kind words with some skepticism before hobbling from the room.

“I’m glad to see you once more,” Melbury said. He handed me a glass of claret without asking if I should like one. “Forgive his Grace’s taciturnity. He is in great pain from the gout, and you know his wife has died of late.”

“I did not know, and I am sorry to hear it. He is a great man,” I added, knowing that Tories, in general, thought so.

“Yes, I hope he will be in a better mood for dinner, for he makes most entertaining conversation when he is feeling lively. Now, you and I have some things to discuss before we greet our other guests. I read with interest some time ago of your adventure. That incident at the polling place has won us no small share of votes, sir. You are now famed as the Tory Tobacco Man, and you serve as a living idol to the differences between our two parties. Your rescue of Dogmill’s sister has become very well known and celebrated, and though you stood up for a Whig canvasser, you have much gratified your own party.” He paused for a breath. “Nevertheless, I have given the matter some thought, and it is unclear what you were doing canvassing for Hertcomb in the first place.”

“I did not engage in any actual canvassing,” I explained, feeling like a schoolboy who had been caught at some silly infraction. “I merely attended the canvass. I am, after all, friends with Miss Dogmill.”

“There can be no friends in politics,” Melbury said to me. “Not outside of one’s party, and certainly not during an election year.”

I ought not to have shown my teeth, but I’d begun to grow weary of Melbury and his belief that I lived to serve him. His forcing my hand with that bill collector, Miller, had soured me not a little. And, I assured myself, no man but a toadeater would fail to let forth his indignation at this usage. “Perhaps there can be no friends in politics,” I said softly. “But I remind you that I am myself not running for the House and might be friends with whom I please.”

“Just so,” Melbury agreed affably, perhaps now fearing he had been too critical. “I just do not like to see you succumbing to the enemies’ wiles, even if the enemy uses a handsome sister to do his bidding.”

“What?” I exclaimed. “Do you say that Miss Dogmill’s interest in my company is only to serve her brother?”

Melbury laughed again. “Why, of course. What did you think? Is there some other reason why she should suddenly attach herself to a Tory enemy of her brother’s at the very moment of the election? Come, sir. You must know that Miss Dogmill is a fine-looking woman with a handsome fortune. There are countless men in the metropolis who should like to have achieved what you have achieved so easily. Do you think there is no reason for your success?”

“I think there is a reason,” I said, somewhat heatedly, though I could not fully account for the rise in my passions. I only knew that, absurd though it might be, I took some umbrage that Matthew Evans had been insulted. “The reason is that the lady likes me.”

I think Melbury felt that he had pushed the matter too far, for he put a hand on my shoulder and laughed warmly. “And why should she not? I only say you must be careful, sir, that Mr. Dogmill does not try to use your fondness for his sister to his advantage.”

This was
not
what he had been saying, but I saw no point in pressing the matter and let him retreat comfortably. “I understand what Dogmill is,” I said. “I shall most certainly be careful of him.”

“Very good.” He refilled his goblet and drank down half of it at once. “I asked you here tonight, Mr. Evans, because, in speaking with some of the more important party men, it has come to my understanding that no one has much familiarity with you. I know that you are new to London, so I wondered if you might not relish the chance to make some valuable acquaintance in the party.”

“You are very kind,” I assured him.

“No one would deny it. However, there is something I would ask in return. When we first met, you made certain allegations to me regarding the men down on the docks and their connection to Mr. Dogmill. I may not have been wise to dismiss what you had to say, for these porters I understand have become instrumental in the riots against our cause. But you will find that I am willing to listen to you now.”

It was generous that he should choose to listen, but I had not any idea what I would say. One of the liabilities of this false persona was that I was often asked to fabricate information at a moment’s notice, and I found it difficult to keep all my lies clear in my head. “I don’t know what more I can tell you,” I began, as I tried to recall what I had told him in the first place—something to do with Dogmill paying out the customs men, I believe. “You told me that what I had to say is known to all.”

“I don’t doubt, I don’t doubt. However, I should point out to you that this election season is nearly a third gone. With the riots dispersed, I should be able to salvage my lead, but I should like to have some more ammunition at my disposal if I can. So if you have something to say, I beg you say it now.”

I was about to make another denial or repeat what I had already told him of Dogmill, but then another idea came into my head. I had, up until now, been nothing but the most ardent of Melbury’s supporters, and I could not but see that he recognized my loyalty. But in the same way that a man begins to despise a woman who offers him no resistance, I wondered if Melbury began to think the less of me for the ease with which he had used me. I therefore decided to apply to the situation some feminine wiles.

I shook my head. “I wish I could tell you more,” I said, “but it would be premature to speak. I can only promise you this, sir. I am at this moment in possession of information that would destroy Mr. Hertcomb, but I fear it might harm your side as well. I must seek out more details in order to reveal that Hertcomb is the villain here and no one else.”

Melbury drained his glass and refilled it without looking to see if I required more (which, I recall with some pain, I did). “What do you mean by this? It could destroy Hertcomb and harm me? I have no idea of what you speak.”

“I have hardly any more idea myself. That is why you must be content for me to wait until I have the information I require.”

He squinted at me. “You speak like a Gypsy fortune-teller, Mr. Evans, with your cryptic promises.”

“I shall speak more when I can.”

He darkened. “Damn it, Evans, speak now or you’ll know what it means to defy me.”

I faced him and would not avert my eye. “Then I suppose I shall know what it means to defy you. For you see, Mr. Melbury, I honor you and the Tory party too much to deliver unto you something that might do you more harm than good. And I would rather you hate me than see me as the source of difficulty.”

He waved a hand in the air. “Oh, bother it! I suppose I ought to let you do as you see best. You have already served my campaign marvelous good, and all that by only being yourself. But I hope you will not hesitate to let me know if I may assist you in your labors.”

“I am most grateful,” I said.

All seemed, once more, easy between us, but I did not entirely believe the performance. Melbury was uncommonly agitated. Though the riots at the polling place appeared to have quieted, and had done so with the Tory lead still intact, there was still adequate reason for concern.

He placed his hand on the doorknob but then halted and turned to me. “One more thing,” he said. “I know it is a delicate matter, so I will have my say and it will be finished. You do not like that I suggest alternative motives for Miss Dogmill, and there is no reason why you should like it if you are fond of the lady. I will only say that even if her heart is pure and her morals are beyond reproach, you must recall that she is subject to her brother’s poison and perhaps even her brother’s subtle directions. She might harm you in a thousand ways without even knowing she does so. I ask you to be cautious.”

I had already swallowed enough of his suggestions about Miss Dogmill, and wished to hear no more. I attempted to hide my resentment, but I could feel my face reddening. “I will keep your caution in mind.”

“And if you will not keep that in mind, keep this: I knew her when she was but a child, and I will swear upon any Bible you might choose that she used to be enormous fat.”

I
could only presume that Miriam had been advised of the guest list, for she showed not the slightest hint of surprise when she saw me from across the dinner table. She did, however, flash me a look of anger. It was fleeting, and no one would have thought anything more than that she might have had a burst of toothache or some similar pain. I understood her meaning well enough, however: I should never have accepted her husband’s invitation.

And I should not have. Would I have respected her comfort and her unstated wishes had not my very life been in the balance? Most likely, for increasingly Miss Dogmill had come to fill the void in my heart that Miriam had left. It still pained me to look at Miriam, I still winced with longing at the way she laughed or held a knife or dusted a piece of lint off her sleeve. All of these little things retained their baffling magic, but they were no longer devastating. I could watch Miriam and not want to seek out the nearest bottle and drink myself senseless. I could endure her charms. I could even think fondly of them, and of her, and of the promise of love between us that had seemed so real that some days I could have been no less surprised at the absence of her love than I would have been by the absence of my arms and legs.

But that promise was gone. I had long understood this, but I now came to
believe
it. And though I knew I might proceed with other matters—those of the heart and otherwise—there was a sadness in my acceptance, a sadness that was perhaps even more profound than the sadness of loss I had felt every day when I lived in inconsolable longing. I understood now, finally, as I sat at the table, that all hope for me and Miriam was gone. Her husband would not simply disappear, as I had somehow, in my core, believed he might. Instead I saw things as they were: She was married and a Christian, and I sat in her formal dining room pretending to be a man I was not, putting her marriage at risk. She was right to glower at me. She would have been right to knock me in the head with a pot of boiled chicken. I wished I could tell her so, but I knew this desire too came because I sought my own comfort, not hers.

There were perhaps a dozen guests at the table that night, Tories of no small importance and their wives. Dinner was interesting and lively. Much discussion of the election took place, including the role of the mysterious Mr. Weaver, for here was a lively topic, and the wine had been poured with uncommon generosity, so perhaps the less attentive diners neither noticed nor cared of their hosts’ displeasure. No one showed any sign of recalling that Miriam had once belonged to the nation of Hebrews.

“I find the whole thing utterly amazing,” said Mr. Peacock, Melbury’s effusive election agent. “That this rogue Jew—just the sort of person we might have all argued ought to be hanged, even prior to his being found guilty of murder—should emerge as so amiable a spokesman for our cause.”

“He is hardly a spokesman,” said Mr. Gray, a writer for the Tory papers. “He does not do much speaking. It is the rabble who speak for him, which is mightily good since these Jews are famous for being inarticulate, and their accents are most comical.”

“You may be confusing the true accent of the Jews with that portrayed on the stage by comedians,” said the bishop, who appeared to be in better spirits than when we had met earlier. “I have met with my share of Jews over the years, and many of them speak with the accents of Spaniards.”

“Am I to understand that a Spaniard’s accent is not comical?” asked Mr. Gray. “I must tell you this is news indeed.”

“Many Jews have no accent at all,” said Melbury somewhat dourly, for he was in the awkward position of having to defend his wife while ardently hoping no one recollected her origins and became aware that he was now cast in the role of defender.

“It is hardly their accents that need concern us. But this Weaver fellow, Melbury. You cannot love having your name yoked to his.”

“I love that he gets me votes. In truth,” he said pointedly, “he gets me far more votes gratis than those men I pay to get them.”

Mr. Peacock blushed not a little. “It is a fine thing to get votes, but must we get them any way we can? Mr. Dogmill gets votes for his man by sending rioters to the polls.”

“Surely,” said the bishop, “you do not think it harmful that Mr. Melbury merely raises no objection when the rabble idolize him in the same breath with which they idolize Weaver? What would you have him say,
Continue your praise of me, but no longer praise that other man you like
? We shall see how the mob likes their support being served with
that
sauce.”