A Conspiracy of Paper by David Liss

Besides, Kate knew too much of my purpose for me to believe that any inquiry into this incident would not lead back to Sir Owen. Furthermore, had I been a Christian gentleman in a similar situation, I could have approached a judicial bench with the certainty that a judge would look with approbation upon my necessary killing of a felon. I could by no means be certain that a judge would think more highly of a thief-taker of the tribe of Hebrews than he would of a robber. What I required was that Kate depart on her own, without speaking to anyone—particularly Jonathan Wild. I could not suppose that Jemmy was well loved nor that he would be missed. Should Kate disappear for even a few weeks it would be sufficient to generate a protective coat of apathy should the matter ever thereafter be discussed.
    I therefore attempted to convince Kate that taking a holiday was in her best interest. “I suggest you collect your things and depart quietly. Tell no one what has happened. If you do tell, I shall inform the magistrates what I know and see you hang for certain. I fear that your only chance for safety is to leave London for a while.”
    “But if I leave,” she whispered, “they’ll think I killed Jemmy sure.”
    “So they might,” I said, “but they’ll have to catch you to do anything about it, and you’ll be long gone. And those who think you’ve killed Jemmy will soon forget that there ever was such a man. I fear, Kate, that if you don’t leave London, you will be hanged.” I meant it to sound more like a threat than a prediction.
    Kate had gathered some strength, and she produced a rather dazzling volley of curses that I should be ashamed to expose to my reader. I let her vomit forth her indignation, standing impassively until she collapsed into a defeated slouch. “All right then, you miserable sod.”
    I again smiled, hoping to impress upon her the cold implacability of my intent. I hoped to impress it upon myself as well, for I was in no way confident Kate would behave as I instructed. With nothing more to say then, I calmly left the room and descended down the stairs into the chaos of the Barrel and Bale’s yeasty stench. Dazed, shaking, and fingering the rough leather of Sir Owen’s book in my pocket, I forced my way through the crowd and left the tavern. Once outside, I hoped to feel some satisfaction at having completed my task, but no satisfaction came. I could not shed the memory of this villain Jemmy as he lay in the alley, dead of my hand. I huddled my arms against myself as I fought the growing conviction that his death could not but have a dreadful impact upon my life.

FOUR
    I EXPERIENCED A wide mixture of feelings the next day as I awaited Sir Owen’s arrival. I was gratified that I had been able to retrieve his pocketbook so rapidly, but I was also apprehensive about Jemmy’s death. I replayed that instant a hundred times in my mind, wondering if I had missed an opportunity to extricate myself from my danger without taking a life. I could not see that I had acted too quickly or too rashly, but I remained shaken and in no small way concerned.
    I continued to doubt my decision to let Kate walk free, for were my name to be drawn into the matter too long after the incident, my hesitation to come forward should certainly appear as guilt. It was not yet too late for me to tell my tale to the magistrate if I wished. I had spent time as an outlaw and I had lived among outlaws—I did not choose to turn a woman over to hanging simply because I believed it the most expedient path.
    You can see then, reader, why Mr. Balfour’s pronouncement that my father had been murdered left me so vulnerable, for the events of the previous night had certainly heightened my sensibilities. It took near an hour after Balfour’s departure for me to calm myself, and just as my feelings had begun to settle, Mrs. Garrison showed in Sir Owen. I had contacted him early that morning to let him know the pocketbook was in my