CHAPTER 8

ELIAS FOUND ME none the most cheerful that night. We sat in yet another tavern neither of us had ever before entered. It was a louder place than I would have preferred, full of boisterous drunkards- mostly grocers, it would seem- who loved to laugh loudly at nothing, sing without tune, and pull the plump and aging innkeeper’s wife into manic jigs. Elias and I hunched over our tables, as though trying to keep below the cloud of tobacco that hovered in the room.

“The white rose,” he said. “That cannot be good.”

“Why should the Jacobites wish to taunt me?”

“I doubt they would. It seems to me far more likely that someone else wishes you to believe that they taunt you. The Jacobites are not interested in playing games. They move silently and strike from quiet cover. I detect a deception.”

“Unless it is the Jacobites, and they have left the rose precisely so I will think it is a deception and not suspect them.”

He nodded. “There is always that possibility.”

“Then I have learned nothing except that there is nothing to learn.”

He shook his head. “And what if there were something to learn?” he asked. “Would that do you any good?”

“Perhaps I should go back to Rowley. If I remove his other ear, he may tell me the truth this time.”

“That is a most dangerous proposition,” he said, “and one that is fortunately barred to you. I have heard that, for purposes of convalescence, he has retired to his country estate. Rowley has placed himself out of your hands.”

“And I’m sure he is well protected now.”

“Without a doubt. What chaos this all is. I wish, by gad, we’d known this Ufford of yours was a Jacobite from the start. I’d have told you never to involve yourself with him.”

I shrugged. “White rose or no, I hardly see what it signifies. Half the people in the country, I am led to believe, are Jacobites. One more or less can make no difference.”

“I’m not talking about some housebreaker who raises his cup to the king-” and here he waved his hand over his glass, the Scottish code Jacobites used to toast the Pretender when they feared Hanoverian spies might lurk near. It signified the king over the water. “Ufford is a priest of the Church of England, Weaver. If he is a Jacobite, there is a good chance that he is a well-connected operative, one working with the inner circle.”

“How can there be Jacobites within the Church? Is not the great fear of the English resistance to the Pretender that he will turn the nation Catholic?”

“Yes, but there are those within the Church who are Romish in their leanings, those who do not think they have a right to pick and choose a monarch. There were many who refused to swear allegiance to the new king after the Pretender’s father fled the throne. They have a powerful legacy within the Church, and they believe that the Pretender alone can restore their power.”

“North seems to think that Ufford, despite his sympathies, has nothing to offer but hot air. It seems unlikely that the Jacobites would trust such a man.”

“It is hard to say. He may have something they need. Or Mr. North may have such dislike for Ufford that he sees only weakness where there may lie hidden strength. Jacobites have not survived by advertising themselves, you know. That’s why I mistrust your rose. These men are like Jesuits. They disguise themselves. They move silently. They infiltrate.”

I laughed. “I have enough with which to concern myself. There is no need to start looking over my shoulder in search of shadowy Jesuits.”

“That may well be your chief concern, for all we know.”

“No, my chief concern is clearing my name, not worrying about who plots against whom or who will be king next year. And I am finding the project increasingly frustrating.”

He shook his head. “Well, look, if you want to discuss that we can, but you won’t like what I have to say. I’ve been giving this a great deal of thought, and I don’t believe you can win out, the way you are proceeding.”

“No?” I asked dryly. He had found me bloodied and chosen to administer salt to my wounds.

A raised eyebrow told me he saw my displeasure, but he was in no mood to indulge me. “Listen to me, Weaver. You are used to perusing matters with the hope of learning the truth. You wish to know who stole this item or who harmed this person, and when you know it- when you can prove what you know- then you are done. But the truth will not serve you here. Let us say you can prove that Dennis Dogmill is behind the death of Yate. Then what? The courts have already shown they will not answer to the truth. Do you tell your story to the papers? Only the Tory papers will print your tale, and no one who is not inclined to believe it will credit your account because a political paper says so. You have walked the streets all day in the hopes of learning something that will serve you no good. You have only endangered your life, nothing more.”

I shook my head. “If you are to suggest, once again, that I flee, I must tell you that I shall not.”

“I would suggest that, but I know it would do no good. Instead, I think you must consider a unique approach. Since discovering and proving truth, in this case, will not be enough for you, you must determine a way to use what you discover. You cannot win by simply proving you did not kill Yate, for you have already done that in court and it served you little. You cannot win by showing who did kill Yate, for those in power have demonstrated that they don’t give a fig for the truth. Instead, you must make Dennis Dogmill want to see you exonerated, and you may then depend on him to order things to your liking.”

I was loath to abandon my foul mood, but I confess that Elias’s words intrigued me. “How would I do that?”

“By finding out what he does not want found out and then coming to an understanding with him.”

Here was something positive; I liked the sound of it. “You mean extort him.”

“I should not have put it that way myself, but yes, that is what I mean. You must give him the choice of undoing what he has done to you or facing ruin.”

“You propose I threaten his person?”

“You’ve met him. I don’t know that cutting off his ear will make so violent a man comply with your wishes. I think you must discover what he is afraid of. You must worry less about proving who killed Yate and more about why Dogmill should wish to have you punished for the crime. You know something, or he thinks you know something, that can do him harm. He has obviously risked a great deal to see you destroyed for it. You must now learn what it is and use it against him.”

“I don’t think what you are suggesting is so different from what I am already doing.”

“Perhaps not. But your methods put you in great danger. How long can you continue to wear that footman’s livery? Surely Mr. North will report what he has seen.”

“I will have to obtain new clothes.”

“Agreed,” he said pointedly. “But what sort of clothes shall they be?”

I sighed impatiently. “I suspect you already have an answer to that question.”

“I suppose my tones suggest as much,” he said happily. “You see, I fear that as you go about your business now, it is only a matter of time before you are recognized and apprehended. I believe I may have discovered a way to avoid so unhappy an outcome.” He paused for a dramatic sip. “Do you recall how last year at Bartholomew Fair we saw the show of that man Isaac Watt?”

I thought back to that boozy day as we stood thick in the malodorous crowd, watching a most dextrous little man perform wondrous trickery before an eager and bibulous crowd. “The fellow who made coins disappear and fowl appear and that sort of thing? What of it? Who cares for a fair showman now?”

“Just listen to me for a moment. After we observed his performance, I became interested in learning the mysteries of legerdemain. I wished not so much to know the secrets behind his various tricks- I had no desire to perform wonders myself. Rather, I was curious as to what principles allowed for the tricks to work. From my reading, I have learned that much of what happens is based on the principle of misdirection. Mr. Watt comports himself such that you cannot help but watch what his right hand does. By doing so, he may use his left hand with impunity. Because no one is looking for or at the left hand, it may engage in all kinds of mischief unseen, even though it operates in the open.”

“All very interesting, and if the might of the king of England were not seeking to end my life, I might share your passion for this subject. But right now I fail to see how it will help me,” I said.

“I believe we should hide you using the principle of misdirection. We will use these four hundred pounds you’ve stolen to obtain for you new clothes, wigs, and a fine place to live. You will choose a new name, and you may then walk among the elite of this city unmolested, for no one will ever think to look there for Benjamin Weaver. You may greet a man who has seen you in the flesh a dozen times, and he will think nothing more of you than that you look somewhat familiar.”

“And if I need to engage in some rough questioning? Would not this foppish version of me hesitate to slap a man until his eyes bleed?”

“I should think he would. That is why you- the true you- will also appear from time to time but in Smithfield and St. Giles and Covent Garden and Wapping, all the most wretched parts of the city. Precisely the sorts of places, you understand, where a desperate man would be expected to hide himself.”

I admit I had begun to lose interest in what I thought was nothing more than another of Elias’s philosophical maggots, but here my eyes went wide. “They will be so busy looking for my right hand, they won’t think to watch what mischief my left hand performs.”

He nodded sagely. “I see you understand.”

“Ha!” I shouted, and slapped the table. “Elias, you have earned your drink,” I told him, as I took his hand and shook it with great enthusiasm. “I think you have come up with the very thing.”

“Ah, well, I thought so too, but I’m glad to hear you say it. How will you proceed?”

“For now, I will take a room here.”

I then called for a pen and piece of paper, and together we made a list of a dozen or so inns with which we were familiar but where we were unknown. We agreed we would meet every third day at this time at these taverns, moving down the list one at a time. Elias, of course, would be certain to see to it that no one tracked him through the streets.

“As for tomorrow,” I said, “meet me at the sign of the Sleeping Lamb on Little Carter Lane.”

“What is there?” he asked.

“Why, the right hand is there. And we shall see what sort of glove to put upon it.”

I had asked Elias to meet me at a shop where a tailor named Swan plied his trade. I had long found him sufficiently competent and good-natured (which is to say, no more than necessarily pressing about my credit) for some years when he approached me- perhaps a year and a half prior to these events- to tell me that he now required my services. It would seem that his son had been making merry with some friends in none the best part of the metropolis- namely, Wapping, near the wharves- and he had taken himself too much to drink. For that reason he had not been so nimble as his companions when the press-gang came upon them, and Swan’s son had been taken into service in His Majesty’s Navy.

As my reader knows, a boy of the middling ranks, apprenticed to a tradesman, is not the sort usually preyed upon by the press-gangs, so Mr. Swan made every effort to have his son found and released, but at each step he received only denials and dismissals; nothing could be done, they said. Such assertions are never true. These men only mean to say that nothing could be done that was worth the trouble of saving a tailor’s son from serving his kingdom at sea. Had Swan been a gentleman of five or six hundred a year, quite a bit could have been done. As it was, they turned him away impatiently and assured him that the lad could not be found but that surely he would only be better off for his time aboard ship.

When tapped by the grieving father, however, I found there was much to be done, including contacting a gentleman I knew in the Naval Office who had once hired me to retrieve some silver stolen from his house. He was good enough to make inquiries, and the boy was discovered and released only hours before his ship was to have left port.

Some six months later I visited Mr. Swan to have a new suit made and found him more fawning than usual. He applied considerable care and attention to measuring me, insisted upon only the finest of materials, and made certain I had my fill to eat and drink while he waited upon me. When I returned to retrieve the suit, he announced that there would be no charge.

“This generosity is hardly necessary,” I told him. “You paid me for the services I rendered, and there is no further obligation between us.”

“But there is,” Swan said, “for the ship my boy would have served on, I have recently learned, was lost in a storm with all hands. So, you see, our debt to you is greater than you knew.”

This gratitude he felt toward me made me inclined to put my faith in him. I could not but assume that Mr. Swan, like all men, would prefer to have an additional hundred and fifty pounds- such as my head might now bring- to his name, but he had shown me already that he valued loyalty more than money and believed himself in my debt. As much as I could trust any man, I could trust him.

I had sent Swan a note to advise him of my arrival, so he met me at the door and ushered me inside. My tailor was a short man approaching hard on the elderly, thin, with long eyelashes and large lips that looked to have been flattened by a lifetime of pressing pins between them. Though his skills were above reproach, he had no interest in finery for himself and wore instead old coats and torn breeches, caring only for the appearance of his customers.

“Your friend is already here,” he said. “You’ll ask him to stop talking to my daughter.”

I nodded and suppressed a smile. “I must thank you again, sir, for agreeing to offer me assistance in this matter. I cannot say what I would have done if you had refused me.”

“I would never do anything so treacherous. I will do anything in my power to help you restore your good name, Mr. Weaver. You need only ask it. Times are hard, I won’t deny it. Since the South Sea sunk, men aren’t buying clothes like they used to, but times are never too hard to help out a true friend.”

“You are too good.”

“But for now, sir, there is the matter of my own girl.”

We arrived in his shop, where Elias was seated at a table, drinking a glass of wine and chatting about the opera with Swan’s pretty fifteen-year-old daughter, a girl of dark hair and dark eyes and a face as round and red as an apple.

“Such a marvelous spectacle,” he was saying. “The Italian singers warbling, the momentous stage, the marvelous costumes. Oh, you must see it some day.”

“I’m sure she will,” I told him, “and I would hate for you to ruin the surprise of it, so you’ll tell her no more of operas, Elias.”

He flashed me a pout, but he took my meaning well enough and I knew he would not make himself difficult. “Good, then.” He rubbed his hands together. “We are all here, and we may begin.”

Swan sent away the daughter and closed the door. “You need only direct me, and I will do as you say.” He began picking with distaste at my footman’s livery with his long, unusually narrow fingers.

“Here is what we want,” Elias began. He rose to his feet and started to pace about the room. “Having given the matter a great deal of thought, I have decided that Mr. Weaver must take on the persona of a man of means, one recently returned to this island from the West Indies, where he owns a plantation. His father, let us say, was always active in politics, and now that he is come to his homeland, of which he knows nearly nothing, he has decided he too would like to become a political creature.”

I nodded my approbation. “It seems a fair disguise,” I said, thinking that this persona’s newness to the isle would conceal my own awkwardness in society. “As to the clothes?”

Elias clapped his hands together. “That’s the thing, Weaver. Our worthy Mr. Swan must manage it very carefully. If you do this right, Swan, I can promise you my own business in future.”

“I can think of no greater incentive to give the man,” I observed, “than the business of a gentleman who never pays his bills.”

Elias pursed his lips but otherwise ignored me. “If Weaver is not to be recognized, there must be as little about him as we can manage that draws attention to his identity. His clothes, then, must be fashionable and bespeak his supposed station, but they must not make themselves conspicuous in any way. I want that when a man looks at Weaver, he merely thinks he has seen that kind a hundred times before and looks no further. Do you understand my meaning, Swan?”

“Perfectly, sir. I am your man.”

“I am delighted to hear it,” Elias exclaimed. “We can use the very principles of a performing trickster to hide Mr. Weaver in plain sight. Why, I believe anyone might look upon him who had seen him countless times before, and not know him for who he is. And as for the rest of the world, which seeks him out from a description of his general personage- why, these strangers will never look at him twice.”

Swan nodded. “You are right in that, sir. Very right, for in my trade I have long come to know that when we meet each other, we see the clothes and the wig and the grooming, and we form our opinions with only a glance or two at the face. But as to choosing the clothes to do what we wish, that shall not be easy. Or, rather, it shall not be easy to hit it just on target. We must be most cautious, I think.”

And here they entered into a conversation I could hardly even begin to understand. They spoke of fabrics and cuts and weaves and buttons. Swan pulled out samples of cloth, which Elias waved away with contempt until he found what he liked. He examined threads and lace and buckles; he dug through buckets of buttons. Elias proved himself as much an expert on these matters as Swan, and they spoke in their particular argot for near an hour before the course of my wardrobe was determined. Would a coat of silk or wool be more fitting? A dye of blue or black? Blue, of course, but how deep a shade? Velvet, but not this velvet! Of course, they could not use this velvet (which looked to me indistinguishable from the one they could use quite happily). And as for the embroidery- well, that would have to be just so. I believe Elias took as much pleasure from ordering my new clothes as he did his own.

“Now, regarding your wigs,” Elias announced, when he had ordered clothing to their mutual liking. “That is another matter requiring particular attention.”

“My wife’s brother is a peruke maker, sir,” Swan said. “He can do the business.”

“Can he be trusted?”

“Entire, sir. He can be trusted entire, but there is no need for him to be trusted at all. He need not know who Mr. Weaver is or that there is aught unusual about him.”

“I fear he must, for we need wigs with a singular design- that of concealing Mr. Weaver’s own hair.”

“Would it not be easier for me simply to shave my head?” I asked. Though no Samson, I admit to an attachment to my locks, which I thought rather manly. However, I was more attached to my life, and I saw no reason to burden myself with the hangman’s noose if I could squeak by with the barber’s shears.

“That cannot be,” Elias said, “for you are to make appearances still as Benjamin Weaver, and if you show yourself with a wig or a shaved head, the world will know that you are otherwise disguising yourself, and those who seek you out will look for a man in a wig. Far better for you to be blatant in your exposure so that no one even thinks to peek under the hat of a West Indian planter.”

I accepted his point, and we agreed that there was no choice but to put our faith in Swan’s brother-in-law.

Mr. Swan began to take my measurements while Elias continued to chat about how I would carry out his plan. “You will need to choose a name, of course. You want something Christian sounding, but not too Christian.”

“Michael?” I suggested, thinking of the English version of my uncle’s name.

“Too Hebrew,” Elias said, waving his hand. “There’s a Michael in your Jewish scriptures.”

“How about Jesus,” I suggested. “That should be sufficiently un-Hebrew.”

“I thought perhaps Matthew. Matthew Evans. There is a name neither unusual nor common. Just the very thing we need.”

I had no objections, so at that moment my identity as Matthew Evans pushed its way into the world through the womb of Elias’s mind. Not a particularly pleasant way to be born, but the alternatives were surely worse.

Swan informed me that it would be some days before my first suit was ready, but he was able, while I waited, to provide me with a plain and unpretentious costume of the kind I normally wore (he was working on such a one for another customer and merely altered it to fit my frame). I could now safely dispose of my footman disguise, but in doing so I also ran the risk of being recognized, for in these clothes I looked far more like myself than I would have preferred.

The tailor then took us to his brother-in-law’s shop, where I ordered two fashionable wigs. The peruke maker offered to trim my hair somewhat to make the fit easier, but not so much that a casual observer might notice my hair had been altered. This fellow, too, said that he would work night and day to make certain my wares were ready as quickly as possible. Matthew Evans would have to wait only a little while before making his first appearance in the world.

In the meantime I had to procure for myself a place to stay, for I thought it best not to linger at a single inn or another for more than a day or two. I therefore found new lodgings, and though the innkeeper appeared suspicious of my lack of belongings, I bespoke a fiction of relocation and lost baggage that he found satisfying enough once I promised to pay for my stay each night in advance and for my meals as I ate them.

Thus, with a tolerable roof over my head once more, I commenced my political studies, a program that began with a visit to Fleet Street to buy several of the common newspapers. I learned less of politics than I did of myself, for I discovered that there was no more celebrated topic than Benjamin Weaver. Our British papers love nothing so well as a notable cause, and no hack writer wishes to be so unoriginal as to have the same thought as any other writer in the land, so I could not be utterly astonished at seeing my name so used. I had seen these journalistic eruptions many times in the past. Nevertheless, it was somewhat disorienting to see one’s name used so freely, with so little regard for the truth. It is a very strange thing to be transformed into metaphor.

I stood to each writer as a mere representation of his own political beliefs. The Whiggish papers lamented that so horrific a criminal as myself might have escaped, and they cursed the wicked Jacobites and Papists who aided me. The Whigs painted me a rebel who conspired with the Pretender to murder the king, though the mechanics of this plot were mentioned only in the vaguest of terms. Even I, a political na"If if one had ever been born, could see that the Whigs merely wished to turn a potential embarrassment into a political tool.

The same held for the Tories, whose papers suggested that I was a hero, having attempted to prove my innocence in a crooked Whig court. I must be commended for taking matters into my own hands when the government had betrayed me. And as Whigs were known for their relative tolerance toward Jews (a mere side effect to a greater laxity in matters of religion), and Tories for their intolerance, I thought it interesting that neither camp made reference to my being of the Hebrew nation.

None of this, however, was as interesting as an advertisement I found in the Postboy. It read:

Mr. Jonathan Wild announces that he has found himself in possession of a box of missing linen and should very much like to return it to its wayward owner. If that gentleman will present himself at the Blue Boar tavern this Monday at five o’clock, being sure to stick to the right-hand side, he will find many of his most pressing questions answered.

Here was surely a hidden message, for my true family name, Lienzo, signifies linen in the Spanish tongue, and my first name, in the Hebrew language, means son of the right hand. I understood the code at once. Wild, my old enemy, the greatest criminal in the history of the metropolis and the man who had defied all expectations by defending me at my trial- this man wished to meet with me.

I would find out his intentions sure enough, but I had no intentions of walking blithely into his lair. No, I would take quite another route.