by Will Thomas
“What about the London Society for the Conversion of Jews?” I asked. “I’m sure they’ve been causing a good deal of trouble.”
Mocatta’s features darkened immediately.
“They have been demonstrating for weeks now. There was a rally last week, with speakers proclaiming the need to convert every Jew in London to Christianity. Yet if you listen carefully to their message—that is, to all the speakers’ messages—you would understand that while they want us converted, we from whose loins your Jesus sprung would not be accepted into Christian congregations. Can you imagine an Anglican church opening its doors to a flood of Jews newly baptized?”
“So, what have you done, Rabbi?” Barker asked. “How have you fought against the attacks upon your faith?”
“Gentlemen, a son of Levi fights with his tongue. I confess I have protested at rallies, I have heckled speakers. I began writing speeches, and when I wasn’t at synagogue, I spoke in parks and on street corners. I have been arrested twice, but set free. You could say I’ve grown to be something of a crusader.”
“Very good,” Barker said. “The East End needs one, especially the thousands of Jews in and around Whitechapel. As I recall, the London Society for the Conversion of Jews has been around for years with little or no effect. The fellow in charge was so unassuming, little conversion occurred. Is the man still alive?”
“Brother Simmons. Yes, he still does what he considers ‘the Lord’s will.’ However, he’s got an evangelist who has been preaching and marching the last two days. Something of a firebrand. Of course, he’s painted us so darkly I cannot understand why such a fellow would want me as a brother.”
“Has he been preaching the usual drivel about the old blood libel and Jews being Christ killers?” the Guv asked.
“Yes, but with drive and conviction. He’s gaining converts all over town. Christians, I mean, anxious to cause mischief. No Jew I know has joined his congregation. Fortunately, this young evangelist will be returning to America soon, although not soon enough for me.”
“Would the young man to whom you refer be named Cochran?” Barker asked.
“Yes! That’s the fellow!”
“We have met. I assure you, we hope he leaves soon, as well. He’s causing no end of harm.”
“He’s been fomenting trouble. I don’t mind the proselytizing if they treated us with respect. I enjoy a spirited debate as well as the next man, Mr. Barker. What I object to is a poorly trained layman being condescending, then growing angry when I try to reason with him. This American, what is his name again?”
“Cochran.”
“Yes. He’s creating problems within the community again after we’d made such strides. We’d gone months without having our windows broken.”
“Aye,” my employer said with finality. “Condemnation is a terrible thing.”
Mocatta saw that the wind had changed and shifted in his chair.
“Thomas here has become a partner in the agency.”
“Has he?” Mocatta asked. “Congratulations.”
I nodded. Silence was probably best until I saw where this was going.
“That means he shall be instrumental in the next case, should we be called upon by the Board of Deputies.”
“Is that so?”
“He’s fully trained now. I can teach him little these days. He could start his own agency, and that is why I made him a partner, lest he work in competition with me.”
Barker let the silence unfold, causing a vacuum in which the rabbi had to speak. I’d seen the Guv do this with a hundred suspects and witnesses. Was it churlish of me to watch my father-in-law squirm?
My employer grasped the handle of his stick. “He’s making a good salary and has put some money by.”
“No doubt with my daughter’s dowry,” Mocatta said.
That stung, but then I expected it.
“Actually,” I said, “I haven’t touched the dowry and have no intention of doing so. It belongs to Rebecca and the house remains in her name. She used it until every one of her friends began to shun her for marrying a Gentile. There is no need for a home at all without social calls from her friends. It’s almost humorous that I currently have more Jewish friends than she.”
“Is that so?” the rabbi said weakly.
“Indeed. She has been so embarrassed that her family and her people have publicly shunned her, that for a time she went to Camomile Street to sit in her empty residence in the faint hope that her mother or her sister might come to visit. Of course, she waited in vain. You might not know this about your daughter, Rabbi, but she isn’t the sort to feel sorry for herself, nor to sit in her residence lording over a maid and doing nothing.”
Mocatta’s shoulders slumped.
“Tell me,” I continued. “Did my mother-in-law and sister-in-law stop coming of their own volition or did they fear they would upset you?”
“I did not order them to stop seeing Rebecca.”
I glanced over at my employer. He gave a short nod.
“Rebecca has told me that she is your favorite, that your wife and eldest daughter have been very close. She’s talked about sitting on your lap as a child while you read to her. She told me about how proud you were at her wedding to Asher. I didn’t like hearing that, but I would not take away her time or her memories with him. He was a fine MP and an excellent orator. I heard him speak once.”
The rabbi nodded and looked as if his throat were constricted.
“And certainly,” I continued, “I did not take possession of his house or his belongings, despite the fact that I had full legal right to take them. She lives with me in Mr. Barker’s house. He has opened it for her, going so far as to give us the entire first floor, renovating it for us during our honeymoon out of kindness. It has been difficult for him, having a woman underfoot; he likes his routine, yet he has been kind enough to adjust to her and she to him. After all, to whom would she go since she could not go to her own father?”
Barker cleared his throat and I settled back in my chair. Only then did I discover I had been perspiring.
“I find it ironic,” the Guv said, “that Cochran’s zeal, which has caused such concern and discomfort in your community, has been met with a similar zeal of your own. Now, I’m certain the Gentiles in the City and East End have little interest in what you had to say. There could be no conversion on their part. According to Thomas’s treatment, they are not welcome, except in name only. You may extend an offer to them, but neither will your congregation welcome them nor will they treat the spouse who had brought the Gentile into the fold as anything other than a ravening wolf.”
“Here now,” the rabbi said. “That is not so. The synagogue is not that way.”
“I agree,” I replied. “It is not. I have experienced only kindness. Certainly, they have been shy; they don’t know what sort of fellow Rebecca had married, and they never would because we don’t feel welcome. It’s odd, because I found their greeting to be genuinely warm and generous at the time of our marriage. I assume therefore that it was you who made us unwelcome.”
I tried that trick of Barker’s, not going on as I generally would, but accepting the silence. It was not easy. It took perhaps half a minute for him to respond.
“You are correct. I have been punishing the Gentiles and only succeeded in hurting my daughter.”
“She cried, sir,” I remonstrated. “You of all people should have known what pain you caused your youngest child, the apple of your eye.”
He frowned over his spectacles.
“That is all I have to say,” I said, rising.
Barker stood as well.
“Inform the Board of Deputies that the Barker and Llewelyn Agency shall no longer offer our services to them. Come, Thomas.”
CHAPTER NINETEEN
The final suspect from our original list came to us unbidden. I much prefer it that way; there is less shoe leather and fewer cab ride expenses. We heard a stomping in our outer office, presumably to remove the snow f
rom a pair of boots. Then we heard a rough, flat voice ask to speak to us.
“Mr. Cyrus Barker?” he enquired of the Guv.
“I am he.”
“I’m Peter Naughton, Lord Grayle.”
“Your reputation precedes you, sir.”
“As does yours.”
“Won’t you sit?”
He took a seat in one of the visitor’s chairs. Naughton had thick, bushy brows with a pair of pince-nez spectacles nesting in them. His hair was gray and he was small and stocky. For a man with a pedigree and fine clothes he reminded me of someone one might see giving odds at a horse race.
He, in turn, watched us. He studied Barker, then me, then looked about the room, sizing up the coat of arms on the wall behind the desk, among other things. He took in the books. Finally, his eyes came to rest on one of the most commonplace things in the room, at least in comparison to the others: a photograph of Rebecca and me on my desk, standing by a ruin in Nineveh during our honeymoon.
“May I help you, sir?” my employer prompted.
“Yes, Mr. Barker. I broke my fast this morning with an old friend, Count Arnstein, a wonderful fellow with a nose like a pointer when it comes to finding religious relics. I’ve visited a shop he owns in Jerusalem several times. He’s got the most wonderful treasures there, from Palestine, from Cyprus, Turkey, even Egypt! I bought a piece—”
“How does this involve us?”
“Oh, I do beg pardon. You are busy men. Professional men. Too busy to hear me prattle on.”
“Not at all, sir,” Barker replied. “What did Count Arnstein have to say?”
“He said he’d had the most wonderful manuscript in his possession, possibly the best find of his career. He offered it to the Kaiser or maybe to one of his cabinet members, I’m not certain which. Anyway, they bought it from him, paying some ungodly amount. He came here to London intent upon using the money to build a dam near his estate in Styria. He comes from a very old family in Austria, you know. Anyway, somehow the German government lost his manuscript, or it was stolen, I think. Now he claims he’s being hounded by German agents. They sacked his room at the Albemarle. Bad sports, I say. They lost the bloody thing, he didn’t.”
“You’ve known the count for a long time, then?” I asked.
“Oh, a donkey’s years, at least.”
“How did a landowner in Austria become an antiquities dealer in Jerusalem?”
“His father was something of a treasure hunter, back when the family had money and prestige.”
“Habsburg?” I asked.
“You noticed that, did you? Spitting image of Charles the Fifth, isn’t he? The last of a noble family and all that.”
Barker sighed. One could almost say he looked bored.
“Tell me, Your Lordship, have you purchased antiquities from the count yourself?”
“Dozens of them, young fellow. Bought enough oil lamps to light this entire office. Potshards, coins, manuscripts, statues. I bought an entire sarcophagus once. I’ve got the collector’s mania, I’m afraid. There are more treasures in my mansion than in the whole of Jerusalem, or so I’d like to think.”
I understood Barker’s frustration. It was difficult to keep this fellow on course.
“Have you known Count Arnstein to have difficulties with forgeries?” the Guv asked. “Has he ever been accused of anything?”
“Of course. That’s part of everything. Arnstein is a busy man and must rely on local workers. Antiquities are found by herdsmen or farmers. I must know everything, where it came from, who found it, and under what circumstances, who authenticated the work, putting their reputation on the line. What of the people involved? Were they trustworthy and reliable? It all depends upon a man’s reputation, you see, and it fluctuates. If something from his shop is found to be a fraud, it does not necessarily make him one.”
“What of manuscripts?” Barker asked.
Grayle waved a hand in the air.
“Worst of all. Let us say a manuscript is found. An expert is called in to authenticate it. He publishes his conclusions, then anyone with some sort of reputation must publish an opinion himself. Even if nothing is obviously wrong about it, either in writing, history, ink, or parchment, some biblical scholars will cry fraud just to step away from the pack and be noticed. Some of these fellows will cross a street to avoid the others.”
“How would one recognize a forgery?”
“A layman couldn’t. Only a serious scholar could, or an expert forger.”
“Are you saying that serious scholars may be biased?”
“That depends upon whom you trust. I would have recommended a fellow to you, but he died two days ago. Some sort of vehicle accident. Terrible thing to happen.”
Barker winced and looked away. Even I felt it in the pit of my stomach. Wessel’s face was in my mind’s eye.
“What do you think of the Vatican as far as manuscripts are concerned?”
“I cannot fault their scholarship, I’ll say that. They are stingy with their manuscripts, by which I mean they will not sell any to me. If I had any criticism, it is that they move very slowly. Important manuscripts can be archived and then forgotten.”
Barker nodded.
“Do you know something?” His Lordship asked.
“About what?” the Guv asked innocently. He can look innocent when he needs to. Innocent enough, anyway.
“About a manuscript! Did you mention the Vatican in relation to the Vatican archives?”
“I have no idea what manuscript you are referring to, sir,” Barker insisted.
Lord Grayle gave a howl. “You do, sir, and I must have it. It shall complete my collection. I swear I would sell everything I own to possess a gospel written before the year 100. They are the rarest things on earth. I would sell the Koh-i-Noor, I would sell the Crown Jewels, I would sell Big Ben if I could lay hands on the actual words written by a first-century follower of Jesus Christ.”
“Why?” I asked.
“Because nothing is so important or rare. So perfect.”
Collectors are all mad, I thought. It doesn’t matter if it is snuffboxes or the Word of God.
“Why not content yourself with the words only?” the Guv asked. “Copy them down and give the original to a museum.”
“No, that is just the knowledge. I need to see the letters on the parchment, the stains, the holes left by worms. I need to know its provenance. Where did it come from? Who found it and under what circumstances? Who authenticated the work, thereby putting their names on the line? What were the reputations of the people involved? Were they trustworthy and knowledgeable? I must know everything.”
“Excuse me, Your Lordship, but I expect you would purchase it, anyway.”
Grayle laughed, then blew his nose with a large handkerchief.
“I would, at that, Mr. Barker. Fakes have their own charm. Often the man committing a fraud has worked harder than the man whose work he faked or the man who authenticated it. Some of them are works of art. Many are still debated over by experts: ‘Did they get it wrong? I must see it myself.’”
“Does it matter to you whether it is real or not?”
“It does, but understand, I can read fiction and I can read history or biography, but I prefer to know which is which.”
The Guv looked puzzled. This was a kind of fellow he had never encountered.
“I believe I can guess what you are thinking, sir,” the fellow continued. “My collection seems to be full of false antiquities and spurious tales of biblical times, a jumble if you wish to use that term. But every inch of my mansion is well lit and the objects well displayed. You would take it for a wing of the British Museum. However, only I know about each item’s personal history and the tale behind it. The tale is part of its charm.”
Barker nodded, as if he understood better now. “It’s yours. You can buy as you wish. You can display as you wish. You possess enough to study for the rest of your life.”
“I do, indeed, sir. I enjoy them.
I purchase them to please myself. I care not a whit about what a museum curator might say about my duty to the world, wanting me to display my collections to people who do not know or care about anything but being seen looking at something artistic and historical.”
“There must be people you approve of who wish to see the works you own,” I said.
“And they never shall. Some men, those with impeccable reputations, I might allow to see or study one or two items, but no more than that. I am the curator of my collection, and I am the only patron as well. The rules are my own.”
Barker pushed his chair back from his desk and stood. He walked to his smoking cabinet and retrieved a pipe, which he stuffed with tobacco and lit. Then he dropped the vesta in a beveled-glass ashtray on his desk.
“You hope we have the manuscript.”
Lord Grayle leaned forward expectantly.
“I do. I very much do. Have you the manuscript?”
“No.”
“Are you sure? It isn’t in your house? It’s not in this room, hidden away? Is it in your bank? Do either of these gentlemen possess it?”
“They do not.”
The Guv sat back in that green leather chair of his and smoked his pipe. It was as if it had slipped his mind that we had a guest.
“I can give you money,” Grayle continued. “A good deal of it. I can write you a check on the Bank of England. Name your price. I’ll pay it. Yes, name your price and I will pay it!”
My employer looked up at a corner of the ceiling and blew smoke at it.
“I do not have it and if I did it would not be for sale to a collector.”
Grayle leaned forward still and I caught a look in his eye that I had not seen when he entered. It was not madness, although it was close. It was not avarice, for he did not give a fig about money. It was the need to possess. The mask had slipped and his true and naked face was before us now.
