David Liss - A Spectacle Of Corruption

“What is it? What did he tell you to give me?”

He fumbled behind his counter, looking for something, muttering to himself that he hadn’t bought a fresh one today or the day before either, but there was surely one here. I kept a close eye on Groston for fear that he would produce a weapon, but none was forthcoming. At last he found what he sought and presented it to me with a shaking hand.

“Here,” he said. “Take it.”

I did not have to take it. Taking it was immaterial. It was the thing itself that mattered, the message of it. What had been left for me was a white rose. This one was wilted and drying, but it lost none of its potency for all that. A white rose.

The symbol of the Jacobites.

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.”