“So you do not feel any kinship or affinity with this fellow.”

“Let us be blunt, Evans. If I can take some advantage from the mob linking me with a renegade Jew, if I can strengthen the Church and push back the corrupt stockjobbers and foreigners, then I shall do so, but I should never break bread with the fellow. If he were to cross my path, I’d call the constable and take my hundred and fifty like any other man.”

“Even if he is innocent, as the mob believes?”

“Innocent or guilty, I’d feel no disquiet to see him hang. You are new enough to London that you do not always know how things work. I can tell you that these thieftakers are all scoundrels, sir. They will happily send an innocent to hang that they might get a small bounty for the conviction. Jonathan Wild is only the most respectable of them, and Weaver would have the world believe that he is honorable, but that business with the murder reveals the truth.”

This conversation should serve as a fine reminder, I told myself, when I forgot who I was and believed myself Matthew Evans. I could not become him, and Melbury was not my friend. He was merely someone from whom I wanted something.

“It is all a game, you know,” he continued. “You make the mob believe that you think as they think. You get their votes and then you forget about them for seven years, that you may do some good. We did not make these rules that promote corruption. The Whigs did that. But we must live with them or die by them, and if I can use Whig trickery to run off the Whigs themselves, I shall not hesitate to do so.”

“That’s rather a sour view, is it not?”

“You saw the election procession, I presume.”

I told him I had.

“That is our system, Mr. Evans. We haven’t the Jamaican luxury of dropping our votes in a coconut brought from hut to hut by some naked African beauty. In London, it is King Mob who rules, and we must give his majesty a good show or he will have all our heads off.”

“You told me once you thought the election but a spectacle of corruption. I believed you only said it because you were disordered.”

He laughed. “No, I said it because it cheers to me to think of it as such. Spectacle can be orchestrated, chaos cannot. Take this Jew, Weaver, as an example. He believes he runs wild and dodges the law and the government, but we all use him- Whigs, Tories, all. He is but our puppet, and which party pulls the strings the hardest shall have its way with him.”

I looked out the fist-sized window of the carriage for a moment. “For the nonce,” I said, in an effort to change the subject, “I wonder about our current business?”

“Our current business is a delicate one. I should have sent my agent to order it, but he is not the most lionhearted man upon the earth, and we are now dealing with a group that requires some resolve. It is a voting club, sir, and they are not to be shown a sign of weakness. I aim to have this club, and I shall. Visiting them myself might keep the wheels effectively greased, and I thought having you by my side might keep my spirits up. I trust this is all amenable to you.”

I assured him it was, and so we traveled in silence once more until we reached a coffeehouse on Gravel Lane. Here we decamped, entered the structure, and found ourselves in a disorderly place of business. The term coffeehouse is often used somewhat loosely, but here was one in which I doubted the eponymous beverage had ever been seen. It was full of rugged fellows of the lower middling orders, whores, and a band of fiddlers. The room smelled strongly of old beer and freshly boiled beef, heaps of which, covered with turnips and parsley, were upon every plate at every table.

We had hardly been inside an instant when a fellow rose to approach us with a most serious look on his face. He was dressed plainly, but for an abundance of lace and bright silver buttons. He had a long nose that pointed downward, a long chin that pointed upward, and eyes that were like two raisins.

“Ah, Mr. Melbury. I recognized you the instant you walked through the door, sir, the very instant, for I have seen you speak more than once. I am Job Highwall, sir, as you may have guessed, and I am most eager to talk business with you.”

Melbury introduced me to Highwall, mentioning me as the man who had saved him from Whiggish ruffians and beaten the Whig butcher at the hustings. There could be no doubt that he had asked me along to lend an air of menace, but if Highwall felt himself endangered, he showed no sign of it.

We took a seat in a quiet corner of the coffeehouse. Highwall called for strong beer- the very thing for business, he said- and urged us to waste no time, for time was a most precious thing.

“Allow me to repeat what you already know, sir, and I shall thank you for your kindness. I represent the Red Fox Voting Club, Mr. Melbury, a most respectable voting club. You may look to elections past and you will always hear one thing again and again: The Red Fox delivers what it promises. I have heard that other clubs will promise the same to all parties in an election and deliver nothing to any. Not the Red Fox, sir. We have offered our services in every election since the days of the second Charles, and never once have we given a Westminster candidate cause to regret trusting us.”

“Your reputation is unimpeachable,” Melbury said.

“I should hope it is, Mr. Melbury, for the Red Fox does what it promises. I make you a pledge, sir, on behalf of the Red Fox, you may depend upon it. We are more regular and more dependable than the mail coach, sir.”

“I have not come to question your reputation,” Melbury said.

“There is no reason you should, sir. No reason at all.”

“You and I are in agreement on that head. It is merely the numbers that we must discuss.”

“Ah,” said Mr. Highwall. “The numbers are the thing, sir. You may talk of this and talk of that, but it shall always be that the numbers are the very thing. Can you deny it?”

“I cannot,” Melbury said. “I should like to hear these numbers.”

“For that I cannot blame you. And so I shall tell you the numbers. Here are things as they stand, sir. We have three hundred and fifty men in this club, and they are three hundred and fifty men you may depend upon to do as I promise. They will deliver, sir, to a man. We are not a club that promises three hundred and fifty and delivers two hundred and fifty. No, we offer three hundred and fifty, and you will have it, sir, providing the numbers are agreeable.”

“And what are the numbers, Mr. Highwall?”

“You must understand that to a man, sir, to a man, these three hundred and fifty I promise are Tories. They are Tories in their hearts and in the privacy of their innermost minds. I cannot tell you how many have said to me that if they could choose, they would choose to provide their service to Mr. Griffin Melbury, but you know as well as any man that business is the thing, and they will take their business to Mr. Hertcomb- who has made us an offer, you know- with a heavy heart if need be.”

“I understand,” said Melbury, not a little frustrated now. “I should like to know the cost of these three hundred and fifty Tories.”

“You may depend upon the loyalty of these men, sir, these three hundred and fifty men, for the compensation of a mere one hundred pounds.”

Melbury set down his strong beer. “That is rather a lot, don’t you think?”

“I don’t think so at all, Mr. Melbury, indeed I don’t. Only consider what you are getting. Should you like to pay twenty or thirty pounds for the same number but, when the dust clears, as they say, receive only fifty votes for your money?”

“You ask more than five shillings a man. It is rather a lot.”

“It is a lot, but you pay for reputation, you know. Reputation. I cannot say what Mr. Hertcomb’s man offered, but I promise you I cannot go back to these men with less than one hundred pounds and look them in the eye. They will say, How could you take this offer when Mr. Hertcomb’s man has offered so much more? What answer might I give them?”