The color at once drained from her face, and her limbs began to tremble violently. Her eyes grew red, but no tears emerged. Then, at once, she propelled herself to her feet so violently that I feared she might hurl herself at me. Instead, she left the room, shutting the door hard behind her.
I hardly knew how to conduct myself. Had I been excused? I rang for the servant, but no one answered. Then, after what felt like an interminable period, but might have been no more than five minutes, Mrs. Pepper reappeared. As she did not sit, I rose to meet her gaze from across the room.
“They brought him here, you know,” she said. “They dragged his body out of the river and brought him to this house. I held his cold hands in my own and wept over him until my physician insisted I withdraw. I have never known such sadness and such loss, Mr. Weaver. If Mr. Pepper was killed by a malicious agent, I want you to find him. Whatever these laborers pay you, I shall treble as your reward. And if you find that it was the East India Company, I shall stand by your side and make certain that they pay for their crimes.”
“You have my word—”
“Your word is nothing to me,” she said. “Return when you have something to tell me. Trouble me no further with idle speculations. I cannot endure the pain.”
“Of course, Mrs. Pepper. I shall endeavor—”
“Endeavor to show yourself out,” she said. “For now that must suffice.”
CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR
HAD NO NOTION OF WHAT TIME IT WAS WHEN I EXITED THE WIDOW’S house, only that the world had gone dark and the streets were full of the drunken shouts and shrill laughter of nighttime. When I removed my watch—guardedly, of course, for at such a time it only took but one tick of a timepiece for those items to be lost to artful hands—I saw that it was not yet seven o’clock, though I felt as though it were past midnight. At the nearest opportunity, I found a coach to take me home.
I had much to do. I knew of Pepper’s dealings with the mysterious Mr. Teaser, as I knew him to be married to three different women—and I should hardly have been surprised if I were to find more. But why did Cobb care about Pepper? What was Pepper’s relationship with the East India Company—or with Cobb, for that matter? How was this all connected to Forester’s plot or Ellershaw’s need to overturn the 1721 legislation? Did Celia Glade’s presence mean that the French had a hand in all of this, or had I merely stumbled upon a spy—no doubt one of hundreds scattered across the metropolis—who collected information and sent it home, where wiser heads would determine if it had merit?
I had no answers and threatened to find no answers. I only knew I was tired and that an innocent and helpful man, the good-natured Carmichael, had died because of all this double-dealing. I wanted no more of it. Perhaps it was time to cease resisting Cobb. My efforts to undermine him and find his truths for my own purposes had granted me nothing but the imprisonment of one friend, and I would not risk the imprisonment of more.
I had been considering these matters and working myself into a very high state of agitation and anger. It was for this reason, then, that I could hardly understand, let alone manage my emotions, when I entered my house and found a visitor awaiting me in the drawing room.
It was Cobb.
I FELT NO GREAT CONCERN for his well-being, but I immediately noted that he looked unwell. He appeared drawn and quite agitated. He rose as soon as I entered the room, and, holding his hands together, he took a few tentative steps toward me.
“I must speak with you, Weaver. It cannot wait.”
I will not say the rage I felt toward him disappeared, but curiosity stayed my temper. Edgar, after all, had been ready to thrash me for sending a boy to Cobb’s house. Now Cobb himself appeared at mine.
I therefore directed him to my rooms, that we might enjoy privacy, and there, once I had lit my candles, I poured myself a glass of port, and chose not to invite him to join me, though his hands twitched and his lips trembled, and I saw he wished for a drink of something bracing above all things.
“Your presence here surprises me,” I told him.
“It surprises me as well, but there is no helping it. I must speak with you man-to-man. I know you have had cause to feel anger toward me, and you must believe I wish things could have been otherwise. Hammond suspects you are holding back, and so do I. But I come here without him to plead with you to tell me what you have not already told us. I do not threaten you or your friends. I just wish for you to tell me.”
“I have told you all.”
“What of him?” he asked, and whispered the name: “Pepper.”
I shook my head. “I have learned nothing of his death.”
“But what of his book?” He leaned forward. “Have you learned anything of that?”
“Book?” I asked, rather convincingly, if I may say so. Cobb had made no mention of the book, and I thought it wisest to feign ignorance.
“I beg of you. If you have any idea where it can be found, you must get it to me before the Court of Proprietors meeting. Ellershaw cannot be allowed to have it.”
It was a convincing performance on his part, and I confess I felt a moiety of compassion for him. But a moiety only, for I did not fail to recollect Mr. Franco in the Fleet, and though Cobb might be a pathetic figure at the moment, he was still my enemy.
“You must tell me about this book. I know nothing of it. Indeed, sir, I resent you sending me upon this quixotic quest, chasing after a man of whom I may not speak, and now, I discover, in search of a book no one has mentioned. Perhaps I might have been done with you already if you had only told me of this book.”
He looked into the black of my window. “The devil take it. If you have been unable to find it, it cannot be found.”
“Or,” I suggested, “perhaps, if Ellershaw knows what this book is and why you value it, he has it already, possessing the advantage of knowing it when he sees it. I cannot even say that I have not held this book in my hands, for I know nothing of it.”
“Do not torment me so. Do you swear you know nothing of it?”
“I tell you I remain ignorant.” It was an evasion, but if Cobb noticed it, he gave no indication.
He shook his head. “Then that will have to do.” He rose from his chair. “It will have to do, and I will have to pray that things stand as they are until the Court meeting.”
“Perhaps if you told me more,” I suggested.
He either did not hear me or could not. He opened my door and took himself from my home.
WHEN I ARRIVED at Craven House the next morning, I was informed at once that Mr. Ellershaw wished to see me in his office. I was fifteen minutes late, and I feared he might use the opportunity to chastise me for my failure to observe form, but it was nothing of the kind. He was in his room with an officious-looking younger man who held a measuring tape in his hands and a dangerous-looking bunch of needles in his mouth.
“Good, good,” Ellershaw said. “Here he is. Weaver, be so kind as to let Viner here measure you, would you? This will be just the thing. Just the thing for the Court.”
“Of course,” I said, stopping in the middle of the room. In an instant, the tailor was whipping the measuring tape about me as though it were a weapon. “What is this for?”
“Arms up,” said Viner.
I raised my arms.
“Worry not, worry not,” Ellershaw said. “Viner here is a miracle worker, are you not, sir?”
“A miracle worker,” he agreed, mumbling the words through his pins. “All done here.”
“Very nice. Now be off with you, Weaver. You’ve something to do, haven’t you?”