Anatomy of Evil (13 page)

“The whole neighborhood is Jewish, sir. They don’t like him because he’s odd, like. Maybe not threatening but sinister. He’s a peeper, looking at women and girls, staring at them boldly, trying to start conversations with them. A woman bends over and he’s looking at her cleavage. One of those types. Lonely, and not likely to ever be unlonely, if you take my meaning.”

“DCI Abberline has been looking for you. Pizer claims he spoke to a constable on the docks the same hour that Nichols was killed. He’ll want your testimony in writing tomorrow.”

PC Newbrough saluted. “Yes, sir. I’ll stop by ‘A’ Division and make a statement first thing.”

“Excellent. I won’t hold up your rounds any longer. Thank you, Constable.”

“’Night, sir.”

“Are you certain Pizer is innocent, sir?” I asked, when we walked around the next corner. “He was very close to the murder scene. Just because he was seen by PC Newbrough within the hour is not proof that he didn’t do it.”

“That is true,” Barker said, walking with his coat open and his hands clasped behind him. “However, the fact that he frequents the unfortunates in the area is to my mind evidence of his innocence, in this matter at least. I suspect that the Whitechapel Killer kills because he cannot gratify his lusts any other way, though I admit I don’t yet know how or why.”

“This fellow’s psyche is warped, no mistake.”

“Aye. Probably more than we can fathom.”

“Pizer lied,” I said.

“Did you expect otherwise? He’s got no reason to trust us, and if he paints himself in a good light it might get him released earlier.”

“I suppose you’re right.”

“You can’t expect every suspect or witness to think and act like a middle-class Englishman.”

“Will you help him get released?”

“I told PC Newbrough to report. I shall let the wheels of justice turn on their own.”

CHAPTER ELEVEN

I was at my post the next morning, waiting for the early messages to pile up at the front desk so I could deliver them. I had last seen Barker at his desk, but I doubted he was there; he had metamorphosed into the Scotland Yard version of a social butterfly, talking to everyone, introducing himself, and asking questions in such a way that even experienced men didn’t realize their pockets were being picked for facts.

I turned, realizing there was someone at my elbow. Jeremy Jenkins was standing beside me. Granted, he was no more than twenty meters from his favorite spot on earth, the Rising Sun, but it had never occurred to me that the man was capable of coming this far south. It was like seeing a tram car coming down a country lane, or Her Majesty out for a constitutional alone in Hampstead Heath.

“Jenkins! What has happened?”

“Message for Mr. B. Very important. Thought he should see it right away, like.”

“Fine. Come along, then. We’ll see if we can track him down.”

We finally found him on the second floor, toward the back, with a good view of the new construction on the Embankment, talking to a sergeant I hadn’t seen before. By that time, Jenkins was about played out. I realized then I should have taken the note and sent him on his way. Thin as he is, Jeremy could not in any way be considered athletic. Under normal conditions he shuffled about like an octogenarian.

“What’s this?” Barker asked when Jenkins handed him the note.

“Message for you, Mr. B,” our clerk wheezed, then leaned against a wall for support.

“‘N. M. Rothschild and Sons, London Branch,’” Barker read.

Rothschild,
I told myself. Only the largest private fortune in the world. They gave loans not to individuals, but to entire countries, like Russia or the United States. Or England, for that matter. They were all descendants of one family of Jewish moneylenders, who now between them financed much that occurred throughout the world, from municipal projects to wars.

Barker slid a thick finger into the corner of the envelope, and ripped through the top of the vellum like a plough in a field. He retrieved a business card therein, and read the printed side. From where I stood I could see there was writing on the back. He flipped the card and glared at the scrawl. He did not change expression, which is to say he did not show one, but he grunted to himself. Then he handed the card to me.

“‘The Right Honorable the Lord Rothschild,’” I read. “‘St. Swithin’s Lane, the City. No number.’”

“I believe we may assume he owns all of it.”

“Today at two o’clock, it says.”

“We are moving in exalted circles. Thank you, Jeremy. If you would be so kind, please send a note confirming the appointment.”

“Something stylish, sir?” our clerk asked. He was a forger before he became Barker’s clerk.

“Nothing too flamboyant,” our employer replied. “Businesslike, but elegant.”

“Right you are, Mr. B. Consider it done.”

Having gained his wind, our clerk turned and shuffled away, gripping the stair rail unsteadily as he went through the door.

“I wonder what the baron wants,” I said.

“I wonder,” Barker countered, “what the chances are that we will give it to him. In any case, we can only speculate until this afternoon.”

At one forty-five, we found ourselves in St. Swithin’s Lane, a narrow alleyway in the City that, while prosperous, looked like it hadn’t changed a jot since Elizabeth was on the throne. Finding the correct entrance, we passed inside and made our identities known to his private secretary. In a few moments, we were shown into Rothschild’s chamber.

Young and impressionable persons such as myself should not be allowed to see such opulence. It only arouses covetousness and envy. Unlike the current fashion toward bric-a-brac on every wall and rooms full of heavy furniture, his was understated and uncrowded. What there was in the way of furnishings was exquisite and antique. His desk was French Louis XV on a fine Turkish rug. The wood was old, but rich and warm-looking, possibly due to tending with beeswax. The walls had glass cases which held both books and curios, many having to do with the ancient Rothschild family and Judaica. A menorah of silver, according to a small plaque, was from the synagogue in Warsaw, fashioned in the days of Rabbi Ben Judah.

In the center of the room, standing behind the desk, was the baron himself in his shirtsleeves, looking decidedly not ancient. His hair and beard were black, his skin sallow but healthy, and his eyes gleamed with vitality and interest.

“Gentlemen,” he said, shaking his hands. “Thank you for answering my summons. At this time of the day I generally take some light exercise. Would you have any objection? Mine is a sedate profession, and I must exercise when I can.”

“By all means,” the Guv said. “My colleague, Mr. Llewelyn, can testify that I am a great believer in exercise. I have a small courtyard attached to my chambers to which I can retire after sitting all morning.”

“Fortunate man!” he said, lifting a pair of Indian pins. He began swinging them about, first high, then low, left and right, over his head and down at his ankles. I had used such clubs myself enough times to recognize by the sound as he swung them that they were heavy ones, though they looked no different than the regular kind. It took a man in excellent shape not to be pulled off his feet as he swung them about.

“I recall your dealings with my uncle Sir Moses Montefiore,” he said as he flexed the pins over our heads. “You worked for him, did you not, when there was a near pogrom here a few years ago?”

“I did.”

“He trusted you. He needed you. I need you, as well. May I trust you?”

“That would depend on what precisely you need me to do. I currently have a client and am working with Scotland Yard. What would you ask of me?”

“I understand one theory concerning this killer is that he is a Jew. A man named Pizer was arrested.”

“He is one of several suspects. Several of them are of the Hebrew race.”

“Ah!” Rothschild said. “Then you believe he is a Jew.”

“I’m dealing in probabilities. Most of the population in Whitechapel now are foreign-born Jews. There is a prejudice against them at Scotland Yard. I’ll admit that, or at least I assume it. However, the suspects whose files we have read warranted looking into. Pizer, for example, was not arrested randomly. He called attention to himself. Once we had established his alibi yesterday, he was released. In fact, it was in the afternoon, since Pizer claimed some citizens have come to ‘A’ Division at night hoping to cause him mischief or worse.

“Encourage your people to keep a low profile until this fellow is caught. We hope to catch him by the high holy days, if not sooner. Suspend public demonstrations and socialist gatherings, which would foment unrest among the uneducated Gentile population.”

“I do not know if I can do that,” Rothschild admitted.

“Then meet in secret. Don’t draw attention to yourselves.”

The banker nodded. “That I can do. I’ll suggest it in the synagogue. Some will recall you and shall do what you suggest. Not all, of course. Is there anything else?”

“Some charity would not come amiss. Free soup and bread. Convince the mothers and children you are benign and you go a long way toward convincing their husbands.”

“Vegetables and flour are cheap, and our women are always looking for something to do. Consider it done.”

“Are you hearing of any incidents of anti-Semitism?” I asked.

Rothschild turned in my direction. “A few, but that is normal. A broken window here, a goldsmith shop broken into there. Not everything is about race. We came here to prosper. This sort of thing is a consequence of that prosperity.”

I looked over at my employer and saw he had become immobile and silent. Nathan Rothschild looked at him, waiting for him to move or speak, and then looked at me again. I shrugged my shoulders. The Guv was prompting him to fill the void with a fact or opinion, even if it were a good-bye.

“If this fellow is a Gentile, I wish he would have chosen another district to do his killing. If he is a Jew, he has no business endangering his own people in this manner. All I want is safety for our district. If a Jew is implicated, or arrested the way Mr. Pizer was last week, it could be exceedingly dangerous. Might you consider warning me before arresting a Jew for these crimes, if it should come to that?”

“That would depend. What will you do if you learn that it is true? Will you spirit him away to a place of safety? That you must not do. You cannot interfere in our investigation.”

“That is hard,” Rothschild admitted.

“It is. Your first impulse, to help your brother Jew, does you credit. But not this time. Let us do what we can to safeguard the Jewish population, regardless of whether the killer is Jewish or not.”

“Do you think he is?”

“I have no way of knowing. The inspectors in ‘A’ Division have examined every Jew with a criminal record hoping to incriminate him, but so far they have been unable to build a satisfactory case. That doesn’t mean they won’t, nor does it guarantee that the killer is not of the Chosen People.”

Rothschild rubbed his beard in thought. “I’m afraid I am guilty of thinking that this monster could not be a Jew, but I suppose I could be wrong. Though the numbers are small, we have our criminals, our madmen, like any other race. I see that now, but forgive me for hoping you are wrong.”

He opened the bottom drawer of his desk and slid the weighted clubs into it. Then he donned his coat again and straightened his tie.

“How can I help?” he asked. “Do you need money?”

“No. This is one case where money is not an issue. There are several rewards being offered for whoever finds the Whitechapel murderer. Likewise, I do not think encouraging your people to search their neighborhoods will do much good. There are dozens of officers circling it in pairs and countless others hoping to collect the reward money. I suppose I don’t need anything.”

“You are the first man to come into this office in a twelvemonth and not ask for some sort of remuneration. Isn’t there anything I could do for you?”

“I covet your prayers. We could use as much wisdom as possible.”

“I will go to Bevis Marks on my way home from work tonight.”

The two men came together and shook hands again.

“Come, Thomas,” Barker said. “Let us examine the district by day.”

We left the building and made our way down that narrow but very expensive alley that housed Rothschild’s offices, heading south. In a few minutes we were in Middlesex Street, in what was popularly known as Petticoat Lane. The booths were full of men intent on selling clothing items that should have been broken down and used to make paper long ago. There were ties that went around a fashionable man’s neck when Dickens and Carlyle were young men.

“We’re not buying again, are we?” I asked.

“No,” Barker said. “I’m trying to see the area through new eyes.”

We watched for several minutes while the vendors called out about the quality of their products. Most of them were ignored. The makeshift tents and buildings were full on Sunday afternoon, but now there were few customers. We passed along Wentworth Street and soon found ourselves in Goulston Street.

It was made up of mixed buildings: shops, private flats, warehouses, and vacant structures. It was seedy and down-at-heel, but not especially different from its neighbors. There was a knife sharpener, a kosher butcher, a woman’s mantle factory, a seller of used orchestra instruments, and a bookstall on the street. Most of the buildings were vacant or had been turned into tenements. There were always more coming here, hoping for a better life, but not finding it. I didn’t see how anyone here could prosper.

“Have you your notebook, Thomas?” Barker asked.

“Always,” I told him.

“Find me the address that Aaron Kosminski was released to.”

I flipped through many pages before I finally discovered the answer.

“Twenty-two Goulston Street, sir.”

“That would be … the mantle factory,” he said, pointing to a small building.

“What is a mantle, exactly?” I asked.

“I was going to ask you. I’m not well versed in feminine fashion.”

“Nor am I, sir. I suspect it is some sort of small cape. There was a scandal about them recently, as I recall.”