“It is a private family matter, then,” I proposed. “Nothing to do with the baking of bread.”

“Precisely.”

I thought it most expedient to act as though I believed him and thus rose and offered him an immediate bow. As I reached for the door, he called me once more.

“How much is it that Mr. Ellershaw pays you?”

“We agreed upon forty pounds a year.”

He nodded. “For a man with your varied mode of income, the regularity of payment must be very pleasant.”

I paused for a moment. Was he toying with me? Did he have some inkling that Mr. Ellershaw paid me only a fraction of what I might hope to earn if I practiced my usual trade? I had to presume not, so I merely assented and left the room.

I SUPPOSE THE DEVIL was in me, for I did not hesitate upon leaving Forester’s office to pay a visit to Mr. Ellershaw. Perhaps I wished to punish the man I believed responsible for Carmichael ’s death, and perhaps I merely wished to stir up the hornet’s nest to see what emerged. No matter, I decided; I had let things stand long enough, and if I were to make progress I would need to make a move, even if it be the wrong one.

I found Ellershaw alone, and he invited me in though he was busy reviewing some lengthy documents and appeared to resent the intrusion. “Yes, yes, what is it?”

I closed his door. “Sir, I have just come from the summons of Mr. Forester.”

He looked up from his document. “Yes?”

“I believe, Mr. Ellershaw, he may mean you more harm than you know.”

I now had his full attention. “Explain yourself.”

“He wished me to confess your schemes and meanings.” I took a deep breath. “He warned me from putting my faith in you and-well, sir, he told me you were mad.”

“The devil take it!” he shouted, and slammed his hand so hard upon his desk that a bowl of tea rattled and spilled. “Damn you, Weaver, have I asked you to play tattler with my fellow members of the Court? What impudence is this? This damn Court of Proprietors meeting is breathing down my neck, I tell you. I am fighting for my very stature, and you bring me this nonsense!”

I confess his rage at me took me by the greatest surprise. For a moment, I felt the full force of his upbraiding. “I believe,” I managed to say, “that you informed me of secret committees plotting against you and the need to discover this prior to the meeting of the Court. Surely Mr. Forester’s efforts to undermine your work and reputation-”

“Quiet!” he shouted. “Enough of your palaver. I shan’t endure such disloyal talk from a mere underling. If I were in India, I should have you thrown to tigers for what you say. Have you no knowledge of what a company is, what it means to be part of a company?”

“I understand you put much stock in the communal baking of bread,” I ventured.

“Go see to your tasks,” he said to me, his voice now more quiet, his temper more restrained, though he still appeared as though he might once more roar with the least provocation. “See to your duties and I shall see to mine, and trouble me no more with your theories of secret committees and plots. If you make trouble for me, Weaver, when there is so much to be lost, you will regret it, I promise you. And replace that damned dead man, I tell you. I shan’t have any positions unfilled because there’s a fool crushed by crates.”

And so I was dismissed, that I might contemplate all the errors I had made during the day.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

THAT NIGHT I MET WITH MR. BLACKBURN AT THE TAVERN OF HIS choosing. It was a neat place with many candles and lamps, in Shadwell near the timber yard, sufficiently far from Craven House for him to believe he was quite safe from discovery there. Inside, an unremarkable selection of middling men-tradesmen, small merchants, even a bespectacled clergyman-took their quiet drinks and meals. Blackburn and I found seats near the fire, for the warmth and because Blackburn explained that any accidental spills would dry more quickly there. Once we had sat, a handsome girl came over and asked us for our orders.

“Who are you?” Blackburn demanded. “Where is Jenny?”

“Jenny ain’t well, so I’m here for her.”

“That shan’t do,” Blackburn said. “I want Jenny.”

“It must do,” the girl answered, “for Jenny’s got the flux and so shooting blood out her arse she’s not like to live, so you’ll have to make do with me, won’t you, my sweet?”

“I suppose you will have to suffice,” he said, with evident glumness, “but you must let her know I take this most unkindly. Very well, I shall have-damn it, be prepared to listen, I say. I will have a pot of ale, but I must make myself very clear. You are to wash the pot very carefully before I am brought it. Wash it, I say, and dry it with a clean cloth. There must be no dirt upon it, nor any foreign matter in the ale. You are to make very careful inspection before I am brought what I order. Mind me now, girl. If you don’t, you’ll answer to Mr. Derby.”

She turned to me without pausing, as though such odd requests were best dismissed with no comment. “And you, sir?”

“Also a pot,” I said. “But I shan’t complain, if the amount of dirt is not above the usual.”

The girl departed and came back in a few minutes, setting our pots down before us.

Blackburn took no more than a glance at his. “No!” he cried out. “No, no, this will not do! This will not do at all! Look at this, you stupid slut. There is a fingerprint made of grease upon the side of the vessel. Are you blind not to have seen it? Take this filth away and bring me something clean.”

“It ain’t going to be clean when you’re wearing it ’pon your head, now, is it?” she asked.

My cooler temperament recognized her question as belonging to the rhetorical variety, but Mr. Blackburn seemed to take it rather more seriously. “I cannot abide such talk, for the thought of such an assault upon my person is an abomination.”

“You’re the balmy nation, not me,” the girl answered, hands firmly on hips in a well-practiced attitude of sauciness.

This exchange had gathered the attention of the bulk of the room, and now, from the kitchen, came a rather portly man with an apron across his chest, no wig, and a shaved head. He pushed through the crowd and arrived at our table. “What is this? What’s the trouble here?”

“ Derby, thank Jesus,” Blackburn breathed. “This impudent baggage is serving your drink in necessary pots and mixing the contents with night soil.”

This struck me as a rather severe exaggeration, but I kept my council.

“He’s right mad,” the girl said. “It ain’t nothing but a finger smear is all.”

Derby struck the girl in the head, but not hard. In fact, he hardly hit more than hair and cap, and I knew at once it was for show. “Draw him another,” he said, “and be sure it’s spotless this time.” He turned to Blackburn. “I am sorry about that. Jenny’s got the flux, and this girl ain’t familiar with your likings.”

“I did instruct her,” Blackburn said.

Derby held out his hands in a gesture of good-natured frustration. “You know how these girls are. They grow up in filth. You tell them clean, they think so long as it lacks a cat head floating upon the top, it will do. I’ll go be sure she understands.”

“You must make certain,” Blackburn said. “Cleanliness of drinking vessels comes in three stages: the application of soap, the complete and entire removal of soap with clean water, and the drying with a clean cloth. Inside and out, Derby. Inside and out. Make certain she knows this much.”

“I shall indeed.” The fellow walked away, and Blackburn informed me that Derby was his sister’s husband’s brother, insinuating so that I could not but understand that the fastidious clerk had helped the publican out on an occasion or two when money had been hard to find. As a result, Derby indulged Blackburn’s desires, making his establishment the only one in the metropolis in which Blackburn felt he might safely drink.