David Liss - A Spectacle Of Corruption

“Why, hello, sir,” he said to the importer, clearly having forgotten this man. No doubt they had once met in very much the fashion he was now to meet me.

“Wonderful speech, Mr. Melbury. Wonderful. Ah, yes. This, sir, is Mr. Matthew Evans, lately returned to this island from the West Indies, and he has now taken a most fervent interest in the Tory cause.”

Melbury embraced my right hand in both of his and shook it. “I am heartily glad to hear that, Mr. Evans. It seems to me that your name is now bandied about town, and I am happy to meet so celebrated a personage, particularly when he is a supporter of our party. The returned West Indian is nearly always a Whig, but I am glad to find you otherwise inclined.”

There was something of a coolness in his manner that I had noticed at first. His winsome smile and handsome face masked well a hint of reserve that I rejoiced in, for upon it I could place some measure of dislike and resentment. But my role was not to find fault with Melbury nor to delight in exposing a hidden stiffness in his manner- a stiffness not uncommon in members of old families. I was there to make him like me, to make him my ally, and to use his support when he won his election.

“My father was a Tory, and my grandfather fought in the war for the king.” Nothing wrong, I thought, in suggesting some Royalist blood. Just the sort of thing to make him take a liking to me. “As I have been in Jamaica most of my life, I have not, until now, had much opportunity to participate in politics.”

He smiled, though I knew a false smile when I saw one. “When did you arrive in England?”

“Only last month.”

“Then I must welcome you here with all my heart. And what was your business in Jamaica, Mr. Evans?”

“My father established a plantation there, and I had been involved in running it ever since I was a boy, but as it has become prosperous I have turned the matter over to a trustworthy nephew. Now I am determined to reap the rewards of many years’ labor by returning to the land of my ancestors. Though I can hardly recall a time I did not live there, the West Indies offer a most unwholesome climate, and I have discovered that I am, by nature, more inclined to British temperateness.”

“Quite understandable. There is something remarkably British about you, if I may say so. The West Indian, I’m sure you know, has the reputation of being without social graces, as he has not had the advantage of our public schools and society. I am delighted to see you explode that myth.”

I bowed in response. Here I was, trading pleasant chatter with the man who had taken from me the woman I loved: he with his banalities, me with my falseness.

“I am afraid I must make my way to another appointment just now,” he told me, “but I am pleased to meet you, sir, and I hope our paths will cross once more.” With that, he stepped out of the tavern into the light of day.

I followed him closely. “If I might have one more moment of your time, sir. Perhaps a private moment.”

“I beg you to excuse me for now,” he said, as he and his agent quickened their pace. I could only imagine that he must have found himself perpetually hounded by such men as me, and he had clearly grown skillful at dodging their advances.

However, his own advances were suddenly halted by a trio of very rough-looking fellows in undyed clothes and caps pulled down along their faces. One of them carried a blue-and-orange banner.

“Vote for Hertcomb or be damned!” the tallest of them shouted in Melbury’s face.

The Tory rose up to his full height and puffed out his chest. “I fear I cannot do that,” he said, “for I am Griffin Melbury.”

I understood his pride well enough, but this was hardly the most efficacious of all available approaches. Better for his own safety to have agreed to vote for Hertcomb, but Melbury would not swallow medicine so bitter, not for an instant. I admired him for it- a begrudging and resentful sort of admiration, you understand- foolish though it was.

“My arse you’re Melbury,” another of the ruffians said. “Melbury is a Jacobite devil, and I know a Jacobite devil when I see one.”

“I am Melbury, and neither a Jacobite nor a devil, which leads me to question your ability to recognize either on sight. What you ought to recognize, however, is that you have been listening to Whig lies, my friend, and you have been hardly used by men who do not wish you well.”

“You’re the liar,” the large fellow said, “and what you’ll be listening to is my fist against your ear.”

I suppose I cannot blame Melbury or curse him for a coward because he cringed and held up his arms for protection. Here, after all, were three uncouth ruffians who appeared for all the world to have lost their minds to the fervor of an election not yet commenced and in which they were surely too poor to participate. How could he have defended himself? On the other hand, he might have drawn his hanger and put the blade to the tallest man’s throat.

I certainly found that such a course did my business very well. My blade flashed in the sun as I drew it out and pressed it against his flesh, using just enough pressure to keep the skin from breaking. There would be no blood drawn, I was determined.

The lead ruffian remained motionless, his faced pointed upward, the skin of his throat taut. The others took a step back.

“You three don’t look like electors to me,” I said, “though I honor your desire to participate in this election despite your lacking the franchise. But I must tell you that beating up on one of the candidates will make a poor showing for your cause.” I pulled back the blade an inch. “Flee,” I said.

They were most obliging. They fled.

Melbury stood nearly motionless, his eyes unfocused, his limp hands trembling. I suggested he might wish to return to the tavern and take a drink before continuing to his next appointment. Melbury nodded his agreement. He sent his agent ahead to his next appointment, and I opened the door to usher the candidate inside. We took a dark table in the tavern, and I approached the barman and insisted that he send over a bottle of strong port without delay.

Once I rejoined him, I knew that the result of the preceding events would be revealed. Melbury might resent me for having shown my mettle while he had shown none, or he might bear me the friendship I deserved for having saved him from harm. To my great relief, he opted for the latter.

“Mr. Evans, I am grateful your business was urgent enough that you chose to follow.” He rubbed his hand along the rough surface of the table. “I should have been most vulnerable without your help.”

In the thrill of my success I found my resentment of the man, if not quite melting away, then at least receding as excitement of conquest took its place. I had acted boldly, and boldness had been rewarded. That I had been a man of valor while he had cringed was but an added pleasure. “I suspect those fellows were more of the chattering than the pummeling kind, but I am delighted to have been able to serve you in any way, no matter how trivial.”

Our bottle arrived, and I filled his glass to the brim.

“I shall certainly do you the kindness of listening to whatever you wished to say before, Mr. Evans.” Melbury lifted his glass with a shaking hand.

“I shall be direct with you, then, for I know you have many demands on your time,” I began. “We have an enemy in common, and his name is Dennis Dogmill. As Hertcomb’s agent, and the mastermind of Hertcomb’s efforts to maintain his seat, Dogmill would stand between you and a seat in the House. As a near monopolist in London’s tobacco trade, he would stand between me and my business.”

“I can only imagine how difficult it must be to conduct your business in a city where a villain like Dogmill reigns supreme as he does,” Melbury said. “Have you something to propose that might rectify this situation? I cannot abide the man, and I should love to help you take him down a peg.”