The Devil's Company (40 page)

Cobb coughed gently into his fist. “You must understand my position, Mr. Weaver. Mr. Hammond is inclined to excess. I, however, am not. Nevertheless, even a patient man has his breaking point. Surely you can see that. You have been running inquiries all over London, learning we hardly know what, and you have not reported a single fact to us. You have attempted to interfere with my own communications network, and that is a very bad business.”

“The man who tried to take my letters?” I asked.

“Indeed. You treated him rather roughly, and I resent it.”

“How could I know he was in your employ and not someone with a loyalty to Craven House?” I ventured, but rather feebly, I thought.

“Oh, that is very poor,” Hammond said. “Very poor. He is like a child caught with one hand in the larder, saying he was merely attempting to slay a mouse.”

Cobb bit into some sort of apple pastry and chewed methodically. After he swallowed he looked at me very gravely, as though he were a schoolmaster scolding a favorite student for form’s sake. “I think, Mr. Weaver, that you had better tell us everything that you’ve discovered thus far. And from this moment, I’d like you to send us regular reports. I wish to hear about all elements of your dealings at the East India Company, and I wish to hear all the details of your inquiry, even those aspects which yield no results. If you spend the day inquiring of a tailor you think can tell you something and then discover he knows nothing, I wish to hear his name, his address, what you thought he knew, and what he actually knew. I trust you understand me.”

I clenched my fist and could feel my color rising, but I nodded all the same. There was still Elias, still my aunt. And there was, of course, still Mr. Franco, whom I hoped to see set at liberty. Thus it was that I followed my aunt’s advice: I took my anger and set it aside; I placed it in a closet whose door I would open someday but not now.

“I fear I have been too busy to report with any regularity,” I said, by way of an apology, “but if you wish to work out a system by which I might, to your own satisfaction, send you communications, I shall certainly endeavor to comply. As for what I can now report, I trust once I do so, Mr. Franco will be released.”

“I should think not,” Hammond burst in, having no desire to let his uncle answer this question. “We cannot let such a thing be. Weaver has defied us, so we punish his friend. If we now release the friend once he agrees to make everything right, he has no incentive to remain honest with us. He may do as he likes and think he will tell us if he must but deceive us so long as he can. No, I must insist that Franco remain imprisoned for the duration, as a reminder of what awaits the others should Weaver think himself too clever once more.”

“I fear I must agree with my nephew,” Cobb said. “I am not angry that you have attempted to deceive us. It is only natural for you to do so. You do not like this situation, and that you would press to see what you might hope to get away with is entirely understandable. But now you must learn that, though I wish you no harm, I must be resolved to do harm if that is the only way. No, Mr. Weaver, your friend must remain in the Fleet, though perhaps not forever. If, after some time has passed, I believe you have been dealing fairly with us, I will consider seeing to his release. He must remain there long enough, you understand, for his imprisonment to be undesirable. Otherwise the effect will be as my nephew has stated, and you will have no reluctance to, shall we say, do things in the manner of your choosing rather than ours. And now, sir, I must beg you to tell us precisely how you have been using your time and what it is you did not wish us to know. In other words, I would very much like to hear what you thought so interesting that you would rather withhold it than protect your friends.”

“Stop coddling him, by gad,” Hammond said. “The devilish Court of Proprietors meeting is hard upon us, and we have no notion of what Ellershaw has planned. No notion of Pepper or his—”

“Weaver,” Cobb broke in, “it is time to tell us what you know.”

I had no choice. I had to stand there, again feeling like a schoolboy, this time one brought to the front of the class to conjugate Latin verbs or read a composition. And I had a difficult decision to make while I did so, for I had to determine what, if anything, of Absalom Pepper I would reveal. This dead scoundrel, I knew, was the key to what Cobb wanted, and if I could but find the truth at the end of this dark and meandering path, I might be able destroy my taskmasters. If I was not careful, I could not believe with any confidence that they would decline to destroy me.

I therefore recited my lessons. I told them of Ellershaw and his phantom illness that bordered on madness. I spoke of Forester and his secret relationship with Ellershaw’s wife, and of my strange evening at Ellershaw’s house. All the sordid details came tumbling out of me as I attempted to use smoke and confusion to hide what I did not want to reveal. So I described how I was made to threaten Mr. Thurmond of the wool interest, of the general awkwardness of Mr. Ellershaw’s domestic situation, and even of the sadness of a lost daughter that Mrs. Ellershaw was forced to conceal. I told them about Aadil, only to say that he was hostile with an air of danger and that he very clearly wished me harm. At that point I appeared to falter, for I meant to appear to falter. I had one more piece to deliver, and I wished to appear reluctant if not entirely unwilling give up my final treasure.

“Explain, if you will be so kind,” Hammond said, “what was in the letter you sent to your surgeon friend, and what it has to do with your frequent visits to the silk-working taverns.”

“Yes,” I said. “I was coming to that. Indeed, I saved it for last, because I believe it is the final piece of the puzzle—at least, as much of the puzzle as I’ve yet divined. You see, I learned that Forester maintained a portion of one of the warehouses for a secret holding, though of what no one knew. With the help of one of my fellow watchmen, I made my way into this secret room to learn what Forester stored for himself. While we were inside, we were discovered. I escaped undetected, but my companion was caught and killed, though his death was made to look like an accident. I very much believe that it was this East Indian, Aadil, who killed him.”

“Cease your pausing for effect,” Hammond boomed. “This isn’t a dramatic reading of
Gondibert
. What was in the secret store? Had it anything to do with Pepper?”

“That I cannot say. But the secret store was the purpose for my meeting with the silk workers. You see, I didn’t entirely know myself, nor did I understand why it should be worth hiding, would be worth protecting with murder.”

“Out with it!” Hammond boomed.

“Raw silk,” I lied, hoping that this would be enough to set them on a wrong path. “Raw silk produced in the southern American colonies. Forester and a secret group within the Company have found a way to produce silk cheaply on British colonial soil.”

Hammond and Cobb looked at one another in amazement, and I knew my lie had struck home. I had replaced Forester’s inexplicable stash of ordinary calico with something that I knew from Devout Hale to be the holy grail of British linen production—silk that required no trade with the Orient. I could only presume that my deception had been sufficiently fabulous to blind them.

ONCE I HAD PRESENTED my story to Cobb and Hammond, I ceased to exist. I faded into nothingness as they argued bitterly in whispers—one of the first signs that my company was no longer desired—about what this intelligence might mean and how they must deal with it. I therefore muttered a few polite words of farewell and departed unnoticed, leaving them to solve their puzzles and go chasing after fictitious quarry. As for the potential consequences of my actions, I told myself it little mattered. Should they discover I had not told them the truth, I would merely blame the false intelligence upon the silk workers. Let Hammond go after the men who rallied to Devout Hale’s flag if he dared. He would not dare, I was certain.

My next unfortunate stop was to be none other than to see Mr. Franco, so I took myself to Clerkenwell and that notorious debtors’ hell known as the Fleet Prison. This great redbrick structure might have looked stately from the exterior, but it was a most wretched place for the poor Even those with some cash about them would find only tolerable comforts inside, and any man who was not indebted going in must become so once inside, for the smallest morsel of bread was sold for a fortune. In that way, debtors, once captured, could hope for no release without the intervention of friends.

As I had, on occasion, business at that institution—though fortunately none of it involving my own insolvency—I was able to find one of the wardens familiar to me and locate Mr. Franco with little difficulty.

With some relief I discovered that his state of penury was not so dire that he was unable to afford decent lodgings for himself, and so I found my way to one of the better quarters of the prison. Here I found a dank hallway, flooded with dim light from the overcast skies trickling in from high barred windows. The halls smelled of beer and perfume and roast meats, and there was a busy trade taking place as peddlers and whores and hawkers pushed their way through, selling their wares to whoever would have them. “Best wine in the Fleet,” one man called. “Fresh mutton pies,” cried another. Off in one darkened corner, I saw a grotesquely fat man whose lips had long since been cut off sliding his hand into the bodice of an equally unsavory woman.

Soon enough I found Mr. Franco’s room, and my knock was answered at once. Mr. Franco stood with a book of Portuguese poetry tucked under his arm. He appeared to me a worried man, with eyes both reddened and propped up by black rings, but otherwise himself. He had taken great pains to keep himself neat and dignified: a heroic effort, surely, under such difficult circumstances.

To my great surprise and mortification, he embraced me. I should have preferred, I then realized, his anger. After all, did I not deserve as much? His friendship pained me more than any outrage he could deliver.

“My dear Benjamin, how very good of you to come. Please, please, do make your way inside. I am sorry I have such awkward accommodations, but I promise to do my best.”

The room was small, some fifteen by fifteen feet, with a narrow bed and an old writing table with one leg so much shorter than the others that it appeared it would totter should the slightest breeze come through the chamber—though none ever did, for it was cold and stagnant and smelled of sweat, old wine, and the sour tinge of a dead mouse rotting off in some undiscoverable crevice.

Mr. Franco gestured for me to sit in the only chair while he walked over to his writing desk—surely the most important furnishing in such a place, for it provided a venue for the composition of degrading letters to one’s friends, begging for what they might spare. His desk contained no papers but books, and there were three bottles of wine, a few pewter tumblers, a half-eaten loaf of bread, and a large chunk of very pale yellow cheese.

Without asking if I desired refreshment, he splashed some wine into one of the cups and handed it to me. He took one as well, and after he said the blessing upon the wine, we both drank deep.

“You must know,” I began, “that no amount of money I could raise would free you from these walls. My enemies have contrived you must stay here, and I believe they will make certain it remains so. Nevertheless, they have indicated that if I behave as they wish, they may release you in a few weeks.”

“Then I must prepare myself for a long stay, for if I can have any influence upon you at all, I will keep you from behaving as they wish. They punish me to make you pliable, Benjamin. You cannot give in to them, not now. Do as you must. I shall remain here. Perhaps you will send me some books and make certain I have acceptable food, and I shall be well. May I impose upon you by making a list of what I should need?”

“It is no imposition. I would take the greatest pleasure in providing for you.”

“Then do not trouble yourself about my confinement. This room, while not the finest I’ve inhabited, is no torment, and with your help I will have nourishment for body and mind. As it is no difficult thing to take exercise, I shall find it no task to maintain body and spirit. All will be well.”

I admired beyond words how philosophically he accepted his fate, and I was grateful that he had asked me to bring him some little things, for in so doing I would assuage my guilt.

“Is there anything else I might do, that I have in my power, to make your imprisonment less odious?” I asked.

“No, no. Except, that you must tell me all, for there is no risk now in doing so. No more harm can befall me. Perhaps, locked away as I am now, I may be able to do you and myself some good.”

I could not deny the truth of his words, and I feared always that if he were to learn something on his own, he would feel himself compelled to act upon it, heedless of his own good. Instead, I chose to filter the information—for my sake and his.

Thus I told Mr. Franco not precisely everything, but near enough-all that I had told Cobb and Hammond, and much of the rest as well. I told him I suspected Celia Glade to be a French agent. I told him about Absalom Pepper and his two wives. The only thing I held back was the truth about what Forester kept in his secret warehouse. In part, I worried that, even here, the walls might hide the watchful presence of the enemy, and I also feared that we had not seen the worst of what Cobb and Hammond had to offer. How could I be certain they were not above cruel forms of questioning? It would be best, I decided, to keep some things close, even from my friends.