Read Online A Conspiracy of Paper by David Liss - Free Book Online
Authors: David Liss
Tags: Fiction, Historical fiction, General, Suspense, Historical, Mystery & Detective, Private Investigators, Detective and Mystery Stories, Jewish, London (England), Jews, Private investigators - England - London, Capitalists and Financiers, London (England) - History - 18th century, Stock exchanges, Jews - England
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the meantime, I believe I have imparted unto Kate the importance of keeping silent and leaving London. There is little to fear on that head.” I overstated the case, but it was important that I resolve the baronet’s anxieties. There would be ample time to manage Kate Cole should she prove unruly. “We must concentrate now on finding your property. If these papers have fallen out of your book, or happened to be among any other possessions, then they are still among Kate’s goods now, wherever that may be.”
Sir Owen let out an exasperated sigh, and seeing him to be in need, I stood up to gather for him some refreshment. “Might I pour you some wine?”
He looked flushed. “I fear wine will not do the business, sir. Have you any gin?”
I had not. I knew too well the insidiousness of gin from the unfortunates with whom my trade brought me into almost daily contact. Cheap, flavorless, and potent, it ravaged both the minds and bodies of countless thousands in London, and I ill-trusted my indulgent nature with so powerful a poison. Instead, I offered Sir Owen a dram of a Scottish liquor that my friend Elias Gordon had brought me back from his native land upon his last visit. Sir Owen sniffed the dram glass with hesitant curiosity, squinting at the liquor’s sharp, malty odor. Absently nodding as I warned him of the drink’s great strength, he proceeded to probe it with his tongue. What he found excited his curiosity, and he then swallowed the contents with a mighty gulp. “Wretched,” he said after screwing his face into a look of both disgust and a kind of surprised enjoyment. “The Scots are certainly animals. But it does the business.” He helped himself to another glass.
I took my seat again and studied Sir Owen carefully, attempting to gauge his mood. His agitation thickened the room like summer humidity, and I wished to comfort him, though I knew not how. I could not imagine the nature of these documents, but I assumed the baronet feared some knowledge contained therein falling into the wrong hands. “Sir,” I began hesitantly, “I wish to retrieve your private papers. I do not think all is lost. I have many contacts in London; I can find Kate Cole, and she can bring me the documents. But,” I said slowly, “I must be able to recognize this packet when I see it. I must be able to tell I have your papers, sir. And that I have all of them.”
He nodded. “I see that I am exposed before you, Mr. Weaver. My own foolishness, many times over, has put me in this situation, and now I must rectify it. So be it.” He straightened himself into a posture of fortitude. “I shall have to trust you.”
“I assure you that I shall never reveal your secrets.”
He smiled as to show his faith in me. “Do you, Mr. Weaver, trouble yourself with the matters of fashionable life—marriages and those sorts of affairs?”
I shook my head. “I fear my business does not leave me the time for pursuits of that nature.”
“Then you will not have heard that in two months I am to be married to the only daughter of Godfrey Decker, the brewer. Decker is a rich man, and his daughter comes with a considerable portion, but I care nothing for the wealth. It is a love match.”
I awkwardly offered a sympathetic nod. I wished to avoid any appearance of cynicism, but while I considered Sir Owen to be a man of many feelings, I was not convinced tender love was among them.
“There has been some talk,” he continued, “for it is scarce a year since my late wife, Anne, passed on. You must not think that I was, or still am, unaffected by her loss. I loved her very dearly, but mine is a susceptible heart, and in the loneliness that comes with a widower’s state, Sarah Decker has brought me much contentment and happiness. Yet the passing of my wife is no simple matter, sir, for she died of a disease that she contracted of me.” He paused for a deep breath and then turned away. “A disease that I, in turn, contracted of an
Sir Owen let out an exasperated sigh, and seeing him to be in need, I stood up to gather for him some refreshment. “Might I pour you some wine?”
He looked flushed. “I fear wine will not do the business, sir. Have you any gin?”
I had not. I knew too well the insidiousness of gin from the unfortunates with whom my trade brought me into almost daily contact. Cheap, flavorless, and potent, it ravaged both the minds and bodies of countless thousands in London, and I ill-trusted my indulgent nature with so powerful a poison. Instead, I offered Sir Owen a dram of a Scottish liquor that my friend Elias Gordon had brought me back from his native land upon his last visit. Sir Owen sniffed the dram glass with hesitant curiosity, squinting at the liquor’s sharp, malty odor. Absently nodding as I warned him of the drink’s great strength, he proceeded to probe it with his tongue. What he found excited his curiosity, and he then swallowed the contents with a mighty gulp. “Wretched,” he said after screwing his face into a look of both disgust and a kind of surprised enjoyment. “The Scots are certainly animals. But it does the business.” He helped himself to another glass.
I took my seat again and studied Sir Owen carefully, attempting to gauge his mood. His agitation thickened the room like summer humidity, and I wished to comfort him, though I knew not how. I could not imagine the nature of these documents, but I assumed the baronet feared some knowledge contained therein falling into the wrong hands. “Sir,” I began hesitantly, “I wish to retrieve your private papers. I do not think all is lost. I have many contacts in London; I can find Kate Cole, and she can bring me the documents. But,” I said slowly, “I must be able to recognize this packet when I see it. I must be able to tell I have your papers, sir. And that I have all of them.”
He nodded. “I see that I am exposed before you, Mr. Weaver. My own foolishness, many times over, has put me in this situation, and now I must rectify it. So be it.” He straightened himself into a posture of fortitude. “I shall have to trust you.”
“I assure you that I shall never reveal your secrets.”
He smiled as to show his faith in me. “Do you, Mr. Weaver, trouble yourself with the matters of fashionable life—marriages and those sorts of affairs?”
I shook my head. “I fear my business does not leave me the time for pursuits of that nature.”
“Then you will not have heard that in two months I am to be married to the only daughter of Godfrey Decker, the brewer. Decker is a rich man, and his daughter comes with a considerable portion, but I care nothing for the wealth. It is a love match.”
I awkwardly offered a sympathetic nod. I wished to avoid any appearance of cynicism, but while I considered Sir Owen to be a man of many feelings, I was not convinced tender love was among them.
“There has been some talk,” he continued, “for it is scarce a year since my late wife, Anne, passed on. You must not think that I was, or still am, unaffected by her loss. I loved her very dearly, but mine is a susceptible heart, and in the loneliness that comes with a widower’s state, Sarah Decker has brought me much contentment and happiness. Yet the passing of my wife is no simple matter, sir, for she died of a disease that she contracted of me.” He paused for a deep breath and then turned away. “A disease that I, in turn, contracted of an
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