David Liss - A Spectacle Of Corruption

The door shut behind me.

“Weaver,” one of them said. “I wondered what was taking you so long.”

I glanced at him. He was my age or older, with an unshaved face and thick lips that made him look the result of an unholy union between a laborer and a duck. “Greenbill Billy,” I said.

“At your service, or I should say that you are at mine.” One of his men rose and took from me my sword and both my pistols. None the most thorough, these fellows did not think to examine my legs for any extra blades I might have on my person.

“I presume,” I said, “that Lucy was advised to tell me to come here.”

“Exactly. We’ve been waiting for you for some days now, and I can tell you that we’re glad you’ve come, for we’ve been getting as mad as shitters from sitting in this room.”

“And now you plan to capture me and collect your reward?”

“That would be preferable, but if we have to kill you we’ll do that too.”

“Why?” I asked. “What am I to you that you would have to go to such lengths to harm me?”

Greenbill grinned, and even in the dark I could see his teeth were a horror. “Why, what you are to me is a hundred and fifty pounds, that’s what. Now, what are the condolences that you’ll come with us all quiet-like while we bring you to the magistrate and collect our booty?”

“And what shall pass if I don’t?”

“If you don’t, we can take you there with blood coming out of your head as much as not. Now, do you think you’ll come along nice and easy?”

I shrugged. “I made my way from Newgate before. I don’t doubt I will do so again.”

He laughed. “You’re mighty sure of yourself, ain’t you? But that’s their problem, not mine, so let’s be on our way, shall we?”

It is a poor thieftaker, I have found, who requires weapons to defend himself. Weapons are always preferable, but if a man must use his fists to save his life, he ought not to hesitate to do so. Two of his men approached me, no doubt with the intention of each taking an arm. I allowed them to think I would submit, but when they were positioned just as I liked, I caught the arm of each under my own armpits and pressed down and then jabbed upward sharply with my elbows. I caught both in the face, and they reeled backward.

Billy wasted no time. He raised his pistol at me, so I reached out for one of his compatriots who, having realized that the situation was not to his liking, had just begun a dash for the door. I grabbed him by his shoulders and spun him toward Billy that I might turn this coward to a human shield. Billy either had not the time to check his fire or did not care to do so, for he sent a ball into his friend’s shoulder.

Certainly it boded well that in the space of a few seconds I had dispensed with three of the six men. I could only hope the next few seconds would unfold so favorably. With his pistol fired, Billy, for the moment, was without protection, so I rushed at him, but one of his attendants jumped on my back to pull me down. It was not the most effective technique to use in a deadly fight, but it served the purpose of allowing Billy to dash for the door. My assailant was now riding atop my back, one arm crooked across my throat to suffocate me. I backed up hard into the wall, but he was still not dislodged. If anything, he strangled me with added fury, so I repeated the same move, trying hard to hit his head. I did so with ample force this time, for the fellow slid off me and to the floor, where he joined the ranks of his wounded comrades.

Billy and his remaining unharmed companion were nowhere to be seen. They had either fled for their lives or gone to fetch reinforcements. I could hardly afford to wait around if they were to raise the hue and cry, but I did not dare let so ripe an opportunity pass without learning what I could. One of the men whose faces I had smashed lay on his side, curled and whimpering. I gave him a nudge with my foot to let him know that I was now interested in having a discussion.

“What is Billy’s interest in me?” I asked.

He said nothing, and having little time to misuse, I attempted to find some more persuasive method of questioning. I placed my foot on his throat and repeated the question.

“I don’t know,” this fellow said in a raspy voice, full of bubble and froth. I could only guess that I had done some damage to his teeth, perhaps his tongue too. “The money.”

“The money? The reward money?”

“Yes.”

“Did Billy kill Yate?”

“No, you done that.”

“Who is Johnson?” I had asked this question so many times, I despaired of ever receiving any sort of answer, but here I found myself quite surprised.

“I don’t know his real name,” he told me.

“But you know who he is?”

“Of course I know who he is. Everyone knows who he is.”

“Not everyone. Tell me.”

“Why, he’s an agent for the Pretender, of course. No one knows his real name, but that’s what they call him.”

“Who calls him that? Who?”

“In the gin houses. When they drink to the true king’s health, they drink to his health too.”

“And what’s he to do with me?”

“How should I know your business better than you do?”

I could not but allow that it was a good question.

Below I heard the scuffle of feet, and a watchman’s whistle blow. I could ill afford to waste more time with this fellow, so I hurried down the stairs as best I could while making certain that Billy did not lie in wait for me. But he had gone to look for safety. I would have to find some other way of tracking him down. And I had other things to concern myself with as well. For example, I wished to know why, at my trial, whoever had hired Arthur Groston to produce witnesses against me had wanted to establish that I was an agent of the Pretender. It seemed clear to me now that my conviction for killing Yate was but one part of a much larger scheme in which my name and my life were to be destroyed forever.

Having narrowly escaped with my life and liberty, I was in no mood that night for more ill news, but I discovered upon returning to my rooms that my day was not yet done. A note awaited me, and it indicated the most urgent revelation.

I had not thought anything of Greenbill’s wife’s words, but it would seem I was remiss in my dismissal. The note I received was from Elias, who had received word from a fellow surgeon. Apparently Elias’s friend had been asked by the coroner to examine the body of Arthur Groston, who had been found murdered- presumably by Benjamin Weaver.

ELIAS’S NOTE proposed a meeting for breakfast. I knew he believed the situation dire if he thought it worth his while to rise early in the morning, so I was prompt in meeting him at the agreed-upon time. He, alas, was not quite so punctual, and I was drinking my third or fourth dish of coffee by the time he arrived.

“I’m sorry to have kept you waiting,” he said, “but I was up frightfully late last night.”

“So was I,” I said. “I had a rather inconveniently timed ambush.”

“Oh. Well. That does sound unpleasant. But look here- er, Evans- there’s something of a situation with this Groston business. He was murdered, you know, and the whole world is aware that you- which is to say that Weaver fellow- had something against him.”

“I had less against him than whoever hired him- and I will surely find it difficult to learn who that was now. How was he murdered? He was not drowned in a privy pot, was he?”

Elias looked at me doubtfully. “I must say, in all my years as a surgeon, I have never before had that particular question put to me. As it happens, no, he was not drowned in shit. Is there some reason for thinking he might have been?”