Some Danger Involved (6 page)

“What are we looking for?” I shouted over the noise.

“The telegraph pole they hung him on!” Barker growled back, pointing to the wires overhead.

“How do we know which one it is?”

“Poole will have stationed a peeler underneath, to keep people from climbing it! Evidence, you know!”

We pushed on, and I do mean pushed. It was like being a drone in a beehive, everyone speaking at once, everyone slowly working toward his or her own destination. Barker seemed to have little problem moving through the crowd, but someone plucked at my sleeve every moment or two.

“Aha!” he said, after a few minutes. “I spy a blue helmet in the crowd about a hundred yards ahead.”

A merchant more determined than the rest had attached himself to my sleeve and was telling me in rapturous terms all about the goods and services he had to offer a fine gentleman like myself. It was flattering to be addressed in such terms, considering I was less than a week away from being a homeless idler, but Barker was pulling away again. So, with one hand I separated him from my arm, then planted the other full in his bearded face and pushed. He gave up and sent me on my way with several curses in Hebrew, before latching on to another fellow almost immediately.

Finally, we reached the center of the Lane, where a burly constable guarded an ordinary-looking telegraph pole. The coroner, Vandeleur, must have been right in his assumption that Pokrzywa had been killed somewhere else. There was almost no blood to be found, just a few rusty stains on the pavement by the pole. It was no secret among the Jews what had happened here, and they vented their displeasure at the terrible event and the presence of the law by spitting on the pavement, though none would dare spit near the constable. He looked like he could tear your head off and use it for rugby drills, were he so inclined. He also looked so inclined.

“I’m Barker,” my employer told the constable. “Inspector Poole sent me to view the scene of the crime.”

“Yes, sir,” the constable responded, tugging at the brim of his helmet.

“Has anything been disturbed?”

“Nothing really to disturb, sir. There’s no soil here to leave impressions of feet and such. Just cobbles and paving stones.”

“Was any blood found in the Lane beyond these few spots?”

“Only at the entrance to the High Street, sir, and that was probably from the Leadenhall meat market.”

“Was there any indication of a wheeled cart having been used? A dogcart or barrow?”

“Well, sir, the fog had deposited a heavy mist on the road, and there were already a coupla’ dozen barrows here when we arrived, so it’s hard to say.”

“So, nothing. These fellows covered their tracks well.” He stepped back and surveyed the telegraph pole, making a slow circle around it.

“Were the street empty, I’d climb this thing, or have you do it, Thomas. But we’d attract too much of an audience, I suppose.” He contented himself with circling the pole, like a lion that had trapped a pygmy in a tree. He pointed upward.

“You see that roughening up there near the top? That’s where they threw the rope over to hoist him up. I’ll hazard there’s a groove worn there. And look, here’s the gas lamp to which they tied the other end of the rope.”

“Ghastly way to die,” I muttered.

Barker held up a finger. “Remember, lad, he died from a stab wound and was already dead when he was brought here. Not that it was any less painful.”

He walked around the pole a final time, looking at the surrounding pavement. It was free of any soil which might leave tracks.

“Nothing. Clever rascals. Come, lad, let’s continue our tour of Aldgate.”

We left the crowds. Barker turned down a street called Harrow and moved swiftly through a number of short streets and odd turnings. It was obvious he knew the area very well. We turned up in Duke’s Place, a respectable-looking street of the middle class. We hadn’t gone a block when my employer suddenly nudged me into a side lane or court. The alley had a stone archway with large finials shaped like pinecones.

“What is it?” I asked. Barker pointed to a doorway behind me. There was a white stone entranceway engraved with Hebrew lettering, set into a brick wall, with delicate iron tendrils reaching out to bracket a lamp in front of the door.

“It is Bevis Marks, the Spanish and Portuguese synagogue.”

“What’s it doing in this alley?”

“One of the demands of the Church of England in 1700 was that the synagogue not attempt to attract converts with an ostentatious entrance.”

“So, what are we doing here?”

“We’re interviewing our first witness, the fellow who got into that spot of trouble in Hyde Park. According to Sir Moses’ little note, he is the
shammes
or caretaker of the building. Let’s go in.”

We entered through the discreet doors. Inside was a lobby lit by a huge chandelier. The place seemed deserted. It was afternoon. Barker raised an eyebrow my way, with an almost conspiratorial look, and led me forward to the door of the sanctuary. We dared to peek in. The interior was dim, even with more chandeliers casting a warm glow. Ancient high-backed pews took up the middle aisles, and there was a gallery with latticework, where I assumed the women were to sit. There were marble pillars, and a large ark on the east side for the sacred scrolls. For all that, it didn’t have the alien feeling I expected.

“Architecturally, it’s not much different from the Tabernacle this morning,” I said to Barker.

“That’s because the builder was a Quaker. Jews were prohibited from building for themselves.”

“May I help you gentlemen?”

We both jumped. Barker let go of the door, which swung shut with a biblical finality. Our discoverer was even less foreign than the sanctuary. Instead of a solemn-faced Ezekiel, or a devout Moses, he was a red-haired, jovial Pickwick of a fellow in spectacles and starched white tie. Young, and tending toward portliness, he could have posed for a John Bull advertisement for ale or cigars.

“I’m looking for Michael Da Silva,” Barker said.

“Look no further, then, for I am he. How may I be of service?”

Barker rummaged around in his coat, and for a moment, I saw him through Da Silva’s eyes. Were I caretaker of this edifice, I’d look twice at this tall, dark-spectacled stranger. He finally produced the carte de visite Sir Moses had given him and explained in a few words his purpose in coming.

“Are you here because of the murder in Petticoat Lane?” the
shammes
asked. “Was he actually crucified? We heard the wildest reports at service this morning. Yes, before you ask, we do have service on Sunday morning, just not Shabbat service.”

“We are investigating the murder for the Board of Deputies. They are also concerned about a possible increase in anti-Semitism in town. May we speak privately?”

“Certainly. Let us step into my office.”

I would more likely have called it a broom closet. Space must be at a premium in the old synagogue, or perhaps people were smaller in 1700. As we squeezed in and sat among the chairs and desk and filing cabinets, I had a closer look at our witness. There was little to suggest his Semite blood at all, save the small gold Star of David suspended from his neck. His sleek stoutness, his ruddy hair, and his entire costume bespoke the well-fed country parson.

“Mr. Da Silva,” Barker rumbled in that foggy voice of his, “could you tell us about the incident in Hyde Park last week?”

“Oh, that!” the caretaker said, as if he’d suddenly found which cubbyhole to put us in. “ ’Straordinary thing. We weren’t but a few hundred yards from Sir Moses’ old residence in Park Lane. I was coming back from a Jewish women’s organization luncheon, the Daughters of Judah, where they had asked me to speak about my work. Bevis Marks is the oldest surviving synagogue in England, gentlemen, and we pride ourselves on the fact that almost everything in the building is close to two hundred years old, including the chairs you are sitting in right now.”

“You were coming back…,” Barker prompted him.

“Yes, I was. They feed you well at these luncheons. To be truthful, I would have liked to retire to my office and close my eyes for about twenty minutes. I wasn’t even really listening to the fellow ranting in the Speaker’s Corner, until I heard that unfortunate word.”

We looked at the caretaker for a moment, before Barker finally asked, “What word would that be, Mr. Da Silva?”

“Well, I will not say it. Bad enough that it should be forever in my ears. I do not wish it to pass through my lips.” The man’s yellow sleekness began to mottle red, as if one had adjusted a valve at his collar and admitted some steam.

“What exactly was he saying, beyond the unfortunate word?” Barker continued.

“He claimed we were responsible for a lot of good men being out of work. He called us bloodsuckers, charging usury on loans, and living off people who could ill afford it. He said London would be knee-deep in Eastern Europe refuse if something wasn’t done. He hinted at unnatural rituals…I assume he was talking about the old blood libel. He just went on and on. It was the worst amalgam of old superstition, prejudice, and blistering invective I’ve heard in years. Pure vitriol.”

“What did he look like?”

“Fortyish. Average height and build. He had a red birthmark on his chin. Middle class at best. He had a strong voice, rough, but it carried. I’ll bet they could hear it on Serpentine Lake and Rotten Row.”

“Had he attracted much of an audience?”

“He had, indeed. When I arrived, there must have been close to three dozen men listening, and a few in the periphery, I’d say.”

“How would you describe his audience? Were they upperclass or lower? Young or old?”

Da Silva looked to the right, and I saw he was concentrating.

“Lower-class idlers, mostly, in the area as a lark. A few may have been drunk. No women or children. All sorts of ages.”

“And how were they responding to the message?”

“There were a few ‘hear-hear’s’ and ‘that’s right’s’ while I was listening. That’s why I spoke up. I couldn’t let this fellow sway the crowd.”

“What exactly did you say?”

Mr. Da Silva ran a hand over his face, leaving a whitish print across his mottled features where his hand had passed. “I have little idea now…Something like ‘Dash it, you’re getting it all wrong.’ I tried to argue with him point by point, but he wouldn’t argue. He just called me an idiot and a Jew-lover. The crowd was getting surly, and one of them seized my jacket. That’s when they saw the Magen David hanging around my neck. One took hold of my collar and cuffed me in the head. The next I knew, I was lying in the grass, being kicked in the ribs and shoulders. Can you believe it? In Hyde Park! In broad daylight!”

“How did you get free?” Barker asked.

“I heard a police whistle, and two constables came running from different directions. The listeners all scattered, including the speaker who’d started it all. The constables were not exactly solicitous when they found out I was a rabbi, but they realized an outrage had occurred. They took my statement and told me they would look into the matter. If you ask me, that statement is in a rubbish bin in Hyde Park right now.”

“Perhaps,” Barker conceded. “Most constables are conscientious, but a case like this could involve more than they’re willing to pursue. Did they escort you back to Bevis Marks or take you to a police station?”

“Neither. They simply let me go. I took an afternoon train back to Aldgate, stopped off at a wine house in Cornhill to steady my nerves with a glass of sherry, and came back here. Everyone was upset, of course, and the Chief Rabbi insisted that I go to a physician. My head was all right despite the clout. The doctor says I am thickheaded! But I may have cracked a rib.”

“Did you happen to notice if you were followed?”

The caretaker turned pale all of a sudden and clutched his ruddy curls. “No. I didn’t look. Do you think I may have been followed? My word. I’m glad I didn’t go home. Wait, I did go home later! Do you think some of those fellows may have waited around and followed me?”

“Calm yourself, Mr. Da Silva. I doubt you were followed. But this is not the safest time to be a Jew in London. I would be more circumspect in the future, were I you. Thank you for your time.”

We took our leave of the synagogue. Outside in the lane, Barker took a deep breath, exhaled, and delivered his opinion.

“The Sephardim have been here so long they think like the English middle class. You’ll never catch an Ashkenazi so oblivious to danger.”

As we were standing there, an old man passed between us and walked into the synagogue. Barker suddenly opened a note in his hand, perused it, and thrust it into his waistcoat pocket. He consulted his watch.

“I know we have yet to break our fast, but it is tea time. I don’t believe it shall spoil our dinner if we stop for a small bite.”

I was near wilting. “I thought you’d never ask.”

R
ACKET’S CAB WAS WAITING FOR US AS WE
came into Duke’s Place. It was uncanny the way he and his “magic carpet” turned up at a moment’s notice. His beautiful chestnut mare, Juno, stood comfortably in her shafts, her mane and tail glossy from brushing. John Racket was now taking the brush to his wheels. Many hansoms still had metal wheels, and a passenger could have an unforgettable ride when the cab went over cobblestones, but forward-thinking cabmen like Racket had installed rubber tires. They allowed a passenger to glide along the city streets, as if he were in a gondola in Venice. The cabman turned as we approached, scampered up onto his perch, and set the mechanism that opened the doors in the front for us.

“You again, Mr. Racket?” Barker asked, looking up at him over the reins.

“Aye, sir,” Racket replied. “Wife’s on holiday. Thought I’d make an extra bob or two.”

“Brick Lane, then,” Barker bellowed as we took our seats, and in a moment, Juno was clopping down the street with us in tow. We were back in Aldgate Street in a moment.

As we came up on Petticoat Lane to the left, I leaned forward. It was close to five now, and the once tumultuous street was nearly deserted. A few forlorn merchants stood staring at nothing, the hawkers had left off their cries, and the stalls were being dismantled for another week.

Barker sat silently across from me, his thoughts turned toward the new case, no doubt. It was my first moment to myself all day, and I took the time to reflect as we rode. So this was what a private enquiry agent’s life was like: the sudden start of an investigation; the visits to morgues and conversations with the police; the formal summonses to clients and the hiring process; the questioning of witnesses; the endless walks and cab rides; the skipping of meals. As far as situations went, it was satisfactory. I wasn’t locked up in chambers all day, and there were frequent changes in scenery. I could do without the gruesome bits, but presumably I’d grow accustomed to that. It was even rather thrilling. There was something daring about being an enquiry agent, or at any rate, an enquiry agent’s assistant.

Racket brought us up in front of another foreign restaurant. I would have complained, were it not for the fact that the “good British fare” I’d been experiencing at Barker’s residence over the past few days would have choked a pariah dog.

It was an outdoor café this time, called the Bucharest. We were seated at a table not far from the curb. Having not eaten all day, I was ravenous. Nothing save the coffee looked familiar on the menu, but it was in English at least. As my eyes bounced between the moussaka and the goulash, my employer seemed distracted, though I knew he hadn’t had so much as a cup of his precious green tea all day.

Barker actually spoke English to the waiter this time and ordered coffee. The silken tassels which peeked out from under the waiters’ waistcoats told me they were Romanian Jews. I remembered the note the old man at Bevis Marks had given Barker. This was to be a rendezvous, obviously.

“Should we dine, or is the cook expecting us at home?” I asked.

“We shall eat presently,” Barker responded, still holding his cards close. “Have a bialy to tide you over.”

A bialy turned out to be a flat, yeasty roll, whose center was filled with onions and poppy seeds. The Jewish community often had them for breakfast, and while they weren’t bad, I’d need a strong cup of coffee before facing one over the breakfast table. The coffee arrived in little glass cups with metal handles.

“Bialy!” an unfamiliar voice called in my ear, and a fellow out of a Tolstoy novel sat down beside us, helping himself to the rolls and my coffee. A long beard spilled down his coat front, and his greasy hair splayed out in all directions from beneath a disreputable fur cap. He wore a long and ancient green coat with an almost military stamp to it, and his boots had seen better decades. Barker shook his hand and made the introductions.

“Rebbe, this is Thomas Llewelyn, my assistant. Thomas, Reb Moishe Shlomo, Mr. Pokrzywa’s rabbi.”

The rabbi held out a none-too-clean hand and pumped mine vigorously.

“Who should want to hurt poor Louis?” he asked. “Such a waste, a waste of good life, I have never seen. A more promising Talmud scholar you couldn’t find in all of London. I held great hopes for that boy.”

“Tell us more about him,” Barker prompted. “We need to know what he was like.”

“He was born in Smyela, south of Kiev, and came here six years ago. His parents were killed in the pogrom there, and he fled the country with just what he could carry. He came overland on foot to Amsterdam, and then took the ferry to London because he heard a young fellow can get ahead here. He applied himself diligently. Had you met him, you would not have noticed the slightest trace of an accent. You’d have thought he’d been brought up in Whitechapel.”

“Did he have any close friends or a sweetheart?”

“Oh, he was well liked by everyone in the community. His special friends were the boys of his
chevra
and the other teachers at the Free School. As to sweethearts, he could take his pick. He was not an ugly fellow, and his earnestness was very charming. He had so many mothers throwing daughters at him, the air was thick with them. But Louis was a good Jew. He would choose no bride until he finished his studies and became a rabbi. Now some poor girl has lost herself a fine husband, and Zion a future leader.”

“Can you think of any way in which he could have brought danger upon himself?”

The rabbi bawled for more coffee and turned over the matter in his shaggy head.

“He had…what do you call it? A warm heart? A soft heart! He wanted to solve everyone’s problems. He gave away too much of his meager salary to the
schnorrers.
He could never keep a winter coat. He worried about the Jewish women in Whitechapel, that poverty might cause them to lose their virtue. He went about doing good works and listening to everybody’s problems. He overtaxed himself, always trying to squeeze two days into one.”

“It is a hard life as a rabbinical student, I’m sure.”

“Oy, you have no idea! Such a life I wouldn’t wish on a dog. The Board of Deputies has scheduled the funeral for the morning. The Jews’ Free School cannot have so disreputable an old scholar as myself to perform the service, but I shall be there just the same, to see my boy is put into the ground properly. Of course, both of you shall come. I insist upon it.”

“Had Louis seemed in any way secretive in the past few weeks?”

“The
chevra
boys would know better than I, but he did cancel a lunch I was to have with him last week.”

“What is a
chevra,
if I may ask?” I put in.

“It is a burial society,” the rabbi said. “They collect money for your funeral while you are alive.”

“But it is more than that,” Barker added. “The members of your
chevra
are your brothers and closest friends. It is a fraternal organization.”

The waiter brought a new cup of coffee. It was strong and sweet in the Turkish manner. I rather liked the relaxed atmosphere of the outdoor café, as you sipped and let the world parade before you. Barker watched a drab woman in a shawl walk by.

“I know that very few Jewesses are harlots, but how many do you suppose there are?” he said.

The rabbi shrugged his shoulders. “Who knows? A dozen or more at least, perhaps.”

“Could any of them have had a ponce, a man who looked after them and to whom they paid the money? Someone who might be angry if Louis urged a girl to quit?”

“Not in Whitechapel,” the rabbi said, smiling at the idea. “This is not the West End. Rachel’s sisters make little more than a few pints of ale and a roll per night. No one is willing to enter into any partnership with the women here. There is no money in it.”

“And there is no chance that Louis…” He left the sentence dangling.

“Nyet! Louis would not make use of a prostitute. Apart from it being forbidden to him, he feared, as all young Jewish men fear, the diseases. Any weakness or lapse on their part could be ultimately fatal.”

Barker gave up on the coffee after a few sips and began patting his pockets. His pipe helped him think. He was back to smoking the one with his own image, which I had come to think of as his traveling pipe. Reb Shlomo stopped chewing his roll to stare at the miniature version of the original. He tipped me a wink, as if to say, “Your boss is some fellow!” Barker took no notice, being deep in thought. I liked the smell of the tobacco I had brought him on my first day. According to the tobacconist, it was a “mostly aromatic blend, with a hint of sweetness and a mere touch of latakia for balance.” That was the kind of nonsense one hears when pipesmen get together. They are as bad as vintners.

“Would you say,” Barker asked the rabbi, as he twirled the vesta around the bowl, “that Louis Pokrzywa spoke to strangers every day, that he went out of his way to be helpful to people?”

“Yes, of course.”

“Did he speak to Jew and Gentile?”

“He did.”

“Married and single Jewesses?”

“Yes.”

“Ashkenazi and Sephardi?”

“I sense you are hinting at something, Mr. Barker.”

“Louis was a good-looking fellow, Rabbi. Women fall in love, it is their nature. Some women have boyfriends, or even husbands. Some are very needy and attractive. Rabbinical students are often naive and romantic. Do you see what I’m getting at?”

“Of course I do, Mr. Barker, I’m not an idiot. But I think you are mistaken.”

Barker pushed his sealskin pouch toward the rabbi, almost as a peace offering.
“Shmek tabac?”

The rabbi shrugged, pulled an old and disreputable briar from his pocket, and charged it from the pouch. He borrowed a match as well. Our coffees were replenished and we were ready for another round of questions.

“Did Louis do any proselytizing?”

“Not consciously. He was a zealot, and his enthusiasm was infectious, but I don’t think he was specifically out to convert Christians.”

“What about the so-called Messianic Jews?”

“Oh, they are fair game. There are Jews, and then there are Jews, you know. Some will welcome Messianics into their homes as brothers, and others will cut them dead in the street, figuratively speaking, of course. I think Louis believed that a Jew who turned Christian was still following most of the tenets of his faith, but he also enjoyed a good argument, and the splitting of hairs.”

“Have you noticed evidence of anti-Semitism in London lately?” Barker spoke plainly.

“I was knocked down this morning, if that is what you mean. They were a band of youths, perhaps in their early twenties, in cloth caps. By the time of day, I’d say they were out of work.”

“English?”

“English, Irish, Scottish. You all look the same.”

Barker and I both smiled at the remark. I bet the rabbi could have listed twenty differences between a Latvian and an Estonian Jew.

“Do you have an address at which you can be reached, should we need to speak to you again?”

“I have what your police call ‘no fixed abode,’ but ask around. I can always be found. Now, gentlemen, I would like to pray over you and your search.”

Reb Shlomo stood, raised his hands palms up, and began speaking a Hebrew prayer in a loud voice. People stared at us as they walked by not three feet from our table, and I was a little embarrassed. He finally finished his blessing and turned to Barker.

“Good hunting,” he said, then clapped a hand on my back. “Stay alive, Little Brother. And keep away from trapdoors.”

He stuffed the last roll between his fierce teeth and launched himself into the passing crowd. Barker picked up a menu and began to look it over, while I sat there puzzling. Trapdoors? What did he mean by trapdoors? I thought the fellow a little touched in the head.

“The rabbi seemed a bit primitive for a scholar like Pokrzywa, from what I’ve seen,” I remarked. “I would think a fellow like Da Silva would be more to his liking.”

“The Ashkenazim have always prized their little country rabbis. The more dirty and superstitious they are, the better they like them, even the sophisticated Jews from the cities. You will often find an educated Moskovite bending a knee to the latest near-illiterate holy man. Sometimes the more outrageously they act, the better they are liked. Not that I include Shlomo in that category. He seems rather wise. Shall we tuck in then, lad?”

After a satisfactory dinner of moussaka, Barker announced that we’d done enough for the day. Racket, who had been lurking about, picked us up for the long ride south. Once we were settled in our seats, Barker made a rare comment.

“The hansom cab,” he said, “presents you with drama, of a sort. The cab is like a proscenium arch, and the town of London the stage. It’s fascinating, if you know where to look. I can’t tell you how many pedestrians I’ve seen on the street who are wanted men, or how often I’ve witnessed a crime committed in broad daylight. I’ve seen dozens of watches and wallets stolen, and confidence men plying their trade. Several times I could have stepped from the cab and collared someone Scotland Yard would very much like to see.”

“Why didn’t you?” I asked.

He shrugged. “Often I was on an investigation of my own, and Scotland Yard isn’t exactly gracious when a private agent nabs a suspect for them. It makes it look like they’re not earning their shilling.”

Once home, Barker sent the cabman to his well-deserved rest with a handful of silver. We retired to our rooms, but I was restless. Barker had sent up a new stack of books. They were all Jewish titles:
Zionism and the Jewish Question; The Chosen People; Anti-Semitism in Medieval Europe;
and
Yiddish Folklore.
The latter, of course, interested me the most, but I was not in a reading mood. I was just about to chuck it across the bed and stare at the ceiling, when there was a knock at the door.

“Come in!”

My employer stuck his large head into the room. “Reading already, are you? Good lad. I won’t interrupt you, then.”

“No, no! Please do!”

“I was just wondering if you’d like to try a little shooting practice.”