A
s these matters touched him very nearly, I sent a note to Littleton—to whom I had related some small portion of my intentions for the evening, and who had been on notice to come if called. Though he was certainly an important player, Dogmill would not countenance that Littleton join us in our negotiations. He would not sit on equal terms with a porter, he said. It was disquieting enough that he would have to sit on equal terms with a thieftaker and convicted murderer. For my part, I thought it very hard that my status as a convicted murderer should be thrown in my teeth by the man responsible for the killing for which I had been convicted, but I saw that his position was weakening and there was little to be gained by pressing the point. In the end, Dogmill agreed that the porter might remain in the room if he stood. Littleton took no offense, gratified as he was to witness Dogmill’s being pressed to the ropes, and would have agreed to stay on had he been asked to hang upside down.
The rest of us sat, and the innkeeper, whom Dogmill had given two shillings to stay his hand in calling the constables, provided us a bottle of canary. We therefore sat together as old friends.
“As I see it,” Dogmill began, “Mr. Weaver has been hardly used by Mr. Greenbill, and though I am sorry that this came to a period in violence, I am delighted that the truth has been discovered while I looked on. The press has embraced Mr. Weaver as its darling, and it is only right that we all step forward together to announce how Greenbill tricked me into trusting him and the world into blaming Weaver for his crime. He surely would have killed us all had not Mendes behaved so bravely.”
“Here, here,” said Hertcomb. “I think that is a mighty fine solution to our troubles. Mighty fine.”
“And all goes back to how it was,” spat Littleton from across the room. “I don’t very much like that.”
Mendes said nothing, but he met my eye and shook his head, as though I needed further instruction—which I certainly did not.
“Wages can be raised,” Dogmill grumbled to Littleton. “These things can be ordered. And I should like you to recall that if there is no Dennis Dogmill, his ships will no longer need unloading, so don’t get too ambitious in your ideas of comeuppance.”
“You may go to the devil, sir,” Littleton said, “and London will still need its weed. On that you can depend, so don’t think to frighten me into worrying after your well-being.”
“I’ll thank you not to swear at me,” Dogmill said.
“Mr. Littleton,” I said, before the porter could reply with more sweet words, “you may be sure there will be justice for you and your boys before we are done here tonight. One way or the other.”
“I thank you, Mr. Weaver.”
“Allow me to make a proposal,” I said to Dogmill. “I will agree that the blame should be laid upon Mr. Greenbill, who did, after all, kill four men more or less upon his own initiative. I should like to see you hang for your role in it, but I am not so naïve as to believe I could easily bring such a thing about, and I don’t know that I am willing to risk trying the experiment. I will therefore not threaten you with the rope that so lately hung around my own neck. I will, however, threaten you with this election. Once my name is cleared, I may speak freely, and as the Tory press has already shown a willingness to be kind to me, you may be sure they will lap up any information I might choose to provide them.”
“And you will refrain from doing this under certain circumstances?”
I did not like that Mr. Hertcomb should be returned to office, but I also did not like that a villain like Melbury should find a place in the House—not now that I knew of his treatment of Miriam. And if Dogmill could not have Hertcomb in his pocket, he would have another man instead. I could only do so much against this circuit of corruption, but I would do what I could.
“I will remain quiet until the end of the election. I may choose to speak at a later date if I believe it is in the public interest, but not until this race is long past decided.”
“Unacceptable,” he said.
I shrugged. “You haven’t a choice, sir. You may allow me to remain quiet now, or you may encourage me to speak now. Later is to come later.”
He stared at me, but I saw that he could not argue with my logic. He could do nothing to keep me quiet but have me killed, and I think that he might well have had enough of attempting harm to Benjamin Weaver.
“And in return?” Dogmill asked.
“In return, I want some questions answered. If the answers do not lead to the discovery of new wrongs, I will do as I say, and we may all leave here free of any threat of the law over our heads.”
“Very well. Ask your questions.”
“The first, and the most pressing, is why you selected me to take the blame in the death of Yate. Surely there was some other unfortunate who would have proved a more willing victim. I hope I do not flatter myself if I say that the world knows—or ought to know—that I am not a man to step with resignation into the noose. Why choose me for your victim?”
Dogmill laughed and raised his glass in salute. “I have asked myself that question. But you see, it was an accident. That’s all. You were at the quays that afternoon dressed as a lascar, and Greenbill thought you
were
a lascar. He saw you and said to himself, Why, there’s the perfect fellow on whom to put the blame. By the time I realized who you were, it was too late to undo the accusations. We had no choice but to prosecute and hope for the best.”
“But you did more than hope for the best. You exerted your influence to make certain that I would be convicted.”
He shook his head. “You are wrong. To my knowledge, no one ever asked that judge, Rowley, to act so harshly against you. If you must know the truth, I wished he had not, for his prejudice was so blatant it could only have caused us harm. I, myself, preferred that you be acquitted and a new man found on whom to put the blame. Or, more likely, the victim would be forgot and the matter would close itself.”
“So why did Rowley do it?”
“I don’t know. Shortly after you sliced off his ear, he retired to his estate in Oxfordshire, from where he has refused to answer my letters. Were it not an election season, I should travel there myself and get the answers from his lips.”
I could not believe what I heard. “And what of the woman,” I said, “the one who provided me with the lockpick?”
“I know nothing of any lockpicks.”
I ground my teeth. What could all this mean? I had begun my persecution with two cardinal assumptions: that I had been singled out for this murder to suit some purpose and that the person who had singled me out had controlled the actions of Judge Rowley. Now I learned that both assumptions were false, and while I was happily close to ending my legal troubles, I was no closer than I had been to the truth.
“If what you tell me is right, I must press you on some other details. I have operated on the assumption that you turned against Yate because he knew of an important Whig with Jacobitical ties.”
“It ain’t no assumption,” Littleton pronounced. “It is the Lord’s truth.”
Dogmill sighed. “He did claim to have such knowledge, yes, and I asked Greenbill to quiet him because of that claim. But as to the truth of it, I have ever been in doubt. He offered me no evidence, and it could well be he was only looking to make a bit of silver from my anxiety. Where, after all, would a man of that stamp have the opportunity to meet an important Whig that he might discover him to be a Jacobite?”
And there I sat up straight, for I knew the answer. The very obviousness of it struck me in the face. I had taken too much without question and ignored facts that stared at me boldly.
“You may be certain that Yate knew the Whig,” I said, “and I believe I now know who he is too. I see that as soon as we are finished here, I must leave London for several days. Upon my return, I trust that your machinery will have resolved the legal troubles hanging over my head. If not, I promise you, you will have every cause to regret it.”
M
endes agreed to contact the constables for us, for as Jonathan Wild’s man he would be able to wield the most influence and keep us all out of the compter for the night. He strutted around in his glory while we waited for the magistrate’s men to answer his summons. He sipped at wine, and picked at cold fowl he had ordered, and stared most oddly at Dogmill. It was almost as though Dogmill was some newly got printing Mendes hung on his wall.
At last, the tobacco man could no longer endure the rudeness. “Why do you gape at me so?”
“I must say, Mr. Dogmill,” he answered, “I was only thinking that Mr. Wild will be most delighted with this turn of events. You and he have long been enemies, but now you will be friends, and he will relish having so amiable a friend as Mr. Hertcomb in the House.”
“What?” I shouted. “Mendes, I did not call upon your aid so you could deliver Wild a Parliamentarian to order about as he pleases.”
“It may not be why you done it, but you done it all the same. We now know something about Mr. Dogmill that is very damning, and Hertcomb is Mr. Dogmill’s man. That makes Mr. Hertcomb Wild’s man now as well.” He turned to me. “And don’t say nothing about it. I’ve pulled your neck from the noose, Weaver. You’ll not gripe about my taking a thing or two for my troubles.”
None of us said a word. I had grown so used to calling upon Mendes for his aid that I confess I had forgot who and what he was. In that instant I almost wished I had remained forever in exile rather than put into Mr. Wild’s hands the member for Westminster. I had allowed the most dangerous man in London to become even more dangerous.
Mendes, sensing the horror of the room, glowed like a maiden in love. “There is one more thing,” he said to Dogmill. “Some years ago I had a dog by the name of Blackie.” And with that, he removed his pistol and struck Dogmill in the head.
The tobacco man collapsed in an instant. Mendes turned to Hertcomb.
“This filthy cunny crossed me. Three years ago it was, but I ain’t forgot it. You see him there, lying on the floor, blood coming out of his head? You see it, all right. Don’t you forget, Mr. Hertcomb. Don’t you forget what happens to someone who crosses me.”
We awaited the arrival of the constables in silence.
CHAPTER 26
I
TOOK THE
mail coach to Oxfordshire—a journey of some length under the best of circumstances, and fortune was not to provide me with the best of circumstances. It rained hard nearly all the way, and the roads were in horrific shape. I remained in disguise as Matthew Evans, for I could not depend that news of my innocence would reach the provinces as quickly as I could, and I did not care to find myself arrested. However, I faced other trials of a nonjudicial sort. Only halfway to my destination, the coach became caught in the mud and turned over. No one was hurt, but we were forced to make our way on foot to the nearest inn and make new arrangements for ourselves.
A trip that ought to have taken less than a day took me nearly three, but at last I arrived at the estate of Judge Piers Rowley and knocked upon the heavy doors of his house. I presented my card—that is to say, Benjamin Weaver’s card—to the footman, for I would have no pretense with this man of the law. I hardly need tell my reader that I was invited inside at once.
I waited no more than five minutes before Mr. Rowley joined me. He wore a large flowing wig that effectively covered his ears, so I could not see the damage I had done him. I did perceive that he appeared tired, however, and much older than when I had last set my eyes on him. Though a heavy man, his cheeks looked sunken.
To my surprise he offered me a bow and invited me to sit.
I was not comfortable, and remained standing longer than suits a gentleman asked to be at his leisure.
“I see,” said the judge, “either that you are here to kill me out of revenge or that you have discovered something.”
“I have discovered something.”
He laughed softly. “I hardly know if that is the answer I most wished for.”
“I do not believe my arrival here is good news for you,” I said at last.
“It could not have been, but I knew it would come. I knew no good would come from prosecuting you, and no good would come of your escape. But a man’s choices are not always his own, and even when they are, they must often be painful.”
“You sent the woman with the lockpick,” I said.
He nodded. “She is my sister’s serving woman. A pleasant sort of girl. I can arrange for you to meet her, if you like, but I think you will find her much less devoted to you than she once pretended.”
“No doubt. Why did you do it? You both ordered me destroyed and set me at my liberty. Why?”
“Because I could not bear that you should be hanged for a crime you did not commit, and I had no choice but to see you convicted and to sentence you to death. I was made to do it, and I would have been ruined if I had not. You must understand that I was ready to face that ruin rather than commit murder, for I perceived what I had been asked to do as murder. But then I alighted upon this idea. If you could break free of prison, I thought, you would flee, and I would have done my part safely. I could hardly have imagined that you would be so determined to vindicate yourself.”
“Knowing what I now know, I am sorry I was so hard with you.”
He put a hand to the side of his head. “It is no less than I deserve.”
“I cannot say what you deserve, but I think you deserved less, for you did try to tell me the truth. You were ordered to see me hanged by Griffin Melbury. You told me the truth that night. I accepted it as a matter of faith that you had lied. I presumed you were attempting to prey upon my ignorance and set me at your enemy, for you are a Whig and he is a Tory. But you told me the truth all along.”
He nodded.
“And he could so command you because he is a Jacobite, and so are you.”
He nodded again. “After your arrest, he convinced some high-ranking men in our circles that you were a danger to our cause. I cannot tell you their names, but I can only tell you they believed him, for Melbury is a convincing man. The order came to me, and I dared not disobey, so I tried to defy it as best I could.”
“Why did Melbury wish me hanged?” I asked.
He smiled. “Is it not obvious? Because he was jealous of you—and afraid of you too. He knew you had courted his wife, and he believed that you suspected him of acting against the Hanoverians. He thought you would, out of love for his wife, inquire into his doings, discover his political connections, and expose him. When Ufford hired you, Melbury was beside himself with anger and fear. He was certain that you would discover his link to the priest and then expose him before the world. But then you were arrested, and he could not resist the chance to remove you forever.”
“If the Jacobites wished me harm, why have I been spared and even held up as their darling?”
“After your trial, when the mob began to rally around your cause, and when Melbury could not show justification for his anger toward you, his wishes were disregarded. He longed to see you destroyed, but he had no support within the party. He was quite angry, you know. He was convinced you would do all you could to destroy him for his loyalties to the true king.”
“But that is madness. I would never have been aware of his true loyalties had he not pursued me.”
Rowley shrugged. “It is ironic, I suppose, but hardly madness. We all do what we must to protect ourselves.”
“As you did with Yate. I suppose now I understand how it was that he was not convicted when he sat before your court.”
“He knew my secret. I cannot say precisely through what channels, but sometimes we men of breeding are not nearly so cautious as we ought to be around those beneath us, and I fear there are those in our circle who are truly foolish. Some pair of loose lips has cost me dearly.”
“And they will soon cost Melbury,” I said.
“It will be hard to prove him one of the exiled king’s party. He has hidden his connections well.”
“That’s true enough. I’ve never heard that anyone truly suspects Melbury of supporting the old king.”
Rowley laughed. “They ought not to. I don’t believe he does. But Melbury has had some financial difficulties over the years, and a year ago he struck a bargain: He would link himself to the cause of King James in exchange for funds to run his campaign. I must tell you that there are those in our organization who have grown weary of paying his gambling debts, and Mr. Melbury has become something of a liability.”
“But he has power,” I noted.
“Of course. If he is elected to the House, as it seems he very well might be, he would be in a position of some influence. I could not have directly defied him when he ordered me to find you guilty, so I did what I could.”
“And now what will you do?”
He looked at me. “I think that is up to you, sir.”
“I suppose it is,” I agreed. I had not had the time to consider the consequences of my visit. I had not anticipated that Rowley would prove the cooperative informant that I now saw before me, and his cooperation made me inclined to find some solution that would not end in his execution for treason.
“I propose,” I said at last, “that you flee the country. My name, sir, will by now have been cleared owing to other activities, and I do not require a confession on your part. I cannot allow you, in good conscience, to maintain your post and exert the will of your corrupt masters, but neither would I see you die for what you have done either, for you did choose to spare my life. I believe you found yourself in a difficult position and you managed it as you thought best.”
Rowley nodded. He must have known, long before I had arrived that day, that he was defeated, for he made little complaint of what I had proposed. “And what of Mr. Melbury?”
Indeed. What of Mr. Melbury? I could not allow a man who had used me so hard to go unpunished, but neither could I countenance that Miriam should share in the ignominy of a general discovery of his treachery against the Crown. Were he arrested and tried as a traitor, the shame should destroy her.
“I shall manage Melbury,” I said.
Rowley blinked but once to show his understanding. He then asked me if I would be his guest for the night, and I thought it rude to decline. He thus indulged me in a splendid dinner and the choicest samples of his wine cellars. I departed in the morning not a little regretful that I had, in effect, exiled this man from his country. I had long thought him an unprincipled villain, but I now understood that villainy in most men is but a matter of degree.