I had no desire, however, to deal with his injured and malevolent serving man, so I took myself to an alehouse and sent a boy to Cobb, asking that he should meet me there. I thought it a small imposition for him to come to me when he was so eager to treat me as his puppet. And, in truth, ordering him this way or that felt to me a pitiful sort of lubricant but a lubricant nevertheless, to help me swallow the bitter medicine of my servitude.
As I drank my third pot of ale, the door to the tavern opened, and in came, of all people, Edgar the servant, his bruised face hard with rage. He strolled toward me like an angry bull whose baiting had not yet started and stood over me with an air of menace. He said nothing for a moment and then raised his hand and opened it over my table. I was rained on at once by two dozen tiny pieces of shredded paper. It took no close examination to determine that this was the note I had sent.
“Are you such an idiot as to send notes to us?” he asked.
I took one of the pieces of paper and acted as though examining it. “Apparently.”
“Never do so again. If you have something to say, you come to us. Do not send a boy from an inn. Do I make myself understood?”
“I’m afraid I don’t understand you,” I answered.
“Play games to amuse yourself in private,” he sneered. “Not upon Mr. Cobb’s time nor within his sphere.”
“What does it matter if I send a boy?”
“It matters because you are not permitted. Now get up and follow me.”
“I am finishing my pot,” I told him.
“You are done with your pot.” He struck out at once, knocking my pot from the table so it hit the wall, spraying a few patrons who had been hunched over their own drinks. They stared at me and the good manservant. Indeed, everyone stared at us: the patrons, the barman, the whore.
I fairly leaped from my chair and grabbed Edgar by his shirt and thrust his back down on my table. I raised one fist over him that he might know my intent.
“Ha,” he said. “You’ll strike me no more, for I believe Cobb shan’t permit it. Your days of terrorizing me have passed, and you’ll come meekly or your friends will suffer. Now let me up, you filthy heathen, or you’ll know more of my wrath.”
I thought to tell him that Cobb had assured me I might beat Edgar as I like, a term of employment that the good patron had clearly been remiss in articulating. Nevertheless, I held my tongue, for I did not wish to sound like a child quoting paternal sanction. What shred of power I could reserve for myself, I would have. I therefore justified myself upon my own terms.
“We face a difficulty,” I told him. I spoke quietly and with a calm I did not possess. “These people here know me, and they know I would never allow a bootlick such as you to treat me thus. Therefore, that I might better protect Mr. Cobb’s secret designs, I have no choice but to thrash you. Do you not agree?”
“One moment,” he began.
“Do you not agree that it must appear to the world that I am the same man I have been?”
“Yes,” he said.
“Then what must I do?”
Edgar swallowed hard. “Strike me,” he said.
I held myself still, for it occurred to me that to strike him when he showed himself in a position of surrender might not prove satisfying. Then I struck him-to find out for certain. I hit the good footman two or three times about the head until he was too disordered to stand. Tossing a bit of silver to the barman for his trouble, I took my leave.
If Cobb thought it strange that I had arrived without the footman in tow, he did not say so. Indeed, he said nothing of the note and the boy, and I wondered if that had been Edgar’s fabrication, an effort to try to lord some power over me. More likely, Cobb wished to avoid a confrontation. That appeared to be, at all times, his inclination.
His nephew, however, seemed to me a man who delighted in nothing so much as discord. He too sat in the parlor, and he stared at me with malice, as though I had dragged mud through his house. He remained quiet, however, and made no comment or gesture as I entered the room. Instead, he watched my interaction with Cobb, watched with reptilian dispassion.
I returned Hammond ’s cool gaze, then faced Cobb and spoke of everything that had happened with Ellershaw. He could not have been more pleased. “This goes precisely as I’d hoped. Precisely. Weaver, you are doing a remarkable service, and I promise you that you will be rewarded.”
I did not respond. “Shall I presume, then, that you wish me to take this position at Craven House?”
“Oh, yes. We cannot miss the opportunity. You must do everything he requests of you. Take his position, of course, but you were wise, oh, so wise, to claim to need to think on it. Gives it a bit of verisimilitude, you know. But you must go to him in a day or two and take what he has to offer.”
“To what end?”
“That doesn’t matter just now,” Hammond said. “You will learn when we wish you to learn. For the moment, your only task is to get Ellershaw to like you and trust you.”
“Perhaps we should be more particular now,” Cobb said. “I should hate for Mr. Weaver to lose an opportunity because we have not told him the reason for his presence.”
“And I should hate for our plans to crumble to dust because we have spoken too soon,” Hammond replied.
Cobb shook his head. “It is more dangerous to leave so important an agent directionless.”
Hammond shrugged at this point, more a condescension than a concession “Tell him, then.”
Cobb turned to me. “You will have many tasks to accomplish while at Craven House, but perhaps the most significant is to discover the truth behind the death of a man named Absalom Pepper.”
It would seem that they had hired me to conduct an inquiry. For some reason, this revelation cheered me. At least now I was upon familiar ground.
“Very well,” I said. “What can you tell me about him?”
“Nothing,” Hammond snapped. “That is the difficulty of it. We know virtually nothing of him, only that the East India Company arranged for his death. Your task is to find out what you can of him, why the Company viewed him as a threat, and, if possible, the names of the particular people who committed the crime.”
“If you know not who he is, why should you care-”
“That,” Hammond said, “is not your concern. It is ours. Your concern is to do what you are told and keep your friends from languishing in prison. Now that you know what you must do, listen well to how you must do it. You may not ask questions of this matter, not in Craven House or anywhere. You may not speak the name of Absalom Pepper unless someone raises the name unbidden. If you violate these rules, I will hear of it, and you may depend that I will not let the crime go unpunished. Do you understand me?”
“How am I to discover anything of this man if I may not conduct an inquiry?”
“That is for you to sort out, and if you wish to redeem your friends I suggest you work hard at making that discovery.”
“Can you tell me nothing more of him?”
Hammond let out a sigh, as though I tried his patience. “We are led to believe that the East India Company arranged to have him attacked late at night, and accordingly he was beaten most likely to death. If not so, then it was the drowning that killed him, for he was tossed into the Thames and there abandoned to his fate. As is often the case with such unfortunates, he was undiscovered for many days, and by the time he was retrieved, the water creatures had nearly devoured his extremities, though his face remained sufficiently intact and he was accordingly identified.”
“By whom?”