by Geri Schear
Watson was charmed at this. “I do have to take some poetic license from time to time,” he said. “But I try to be honest in the narrative.”
“You do exceedingly well.”
Glaser said, “I don’t suppose you have room at your table for an impoverished policeman this Sabbath, Daniel?”
“It’s less me than my daughter you want to see, my friend,” Solberg said, laughing. “But we are dining with the rabbi, too.”
“Please join us, David,” the rabbi said. “The more the merrier. We will drink a toast to old friends and new. What tsimchas we shall have!”
“Tsimchas?” I asked.
“Joy.”
After a while, we rose to leave. At the door, Glaser hesitated, turned to the rabbi, and asked the question that had been vexing him: “What is Reb Mordechai’s interest in these coins, rabbi? Come, you saw how he reacted. You know him better than anyone.”
Solberg placed a gentle hand on Glaser’s arm. “Be calm, David, there’s no mystery, it’s just Reb Mordechai’s way. You know how he gets when he hears of rare treasures. They fascinate him much the way Mr Holmes’s most unusual cases fascinate you. He’s a good man.”
Glaser didn’t seem convinced and Solberg turned to me and said, “I know how it looked, Mr Holmes. Schwartz has a way of appearing - what’s the word? - single-minded when he gets caught up in one of his passions. But he is an honest man and a kind one.”
“Mordechai is a very good man,” the rabbi agreed.”I would answer for his integrity, Mr Holmes. But he does love his mysteries and his treasures. If I may make a suggestion?”
“Please.”
“Include him. Ask him to help you. He knows people, experts that go far beyond our small world. He would not want the coins for himself; he would want to see them housed in a museum where the world could appreciate them. His interest doesn’t come from avarice but from a passion of all that is rare. He would dearly love the credit of the discovery, if the coins were to be found.”
“Well, I can certainly understand that motivation,” I said. “I shall take your advice. And we shall see you on Friday, Beatrice, Watson, and I.”
We shook hands and left. Out on the street, Schwartz was showing gems to a couple of prospective buyers. When he saw me, he excused himself from the men and came over.
“I wanted to apologise if I seemed rude, Mr Holmes,” he said. “It’s just...”
“That it is your business,” I said, shaking his outstretched hand. “More, it’s your passion. You need not explain to me. I understand obsessions only too well. I would be extremely grateful, Mr Schwartz, if you would make discreet inquiries about the coins. Be careful not to arouse any suspicion, however. This man, Rickman, is very dangerous as I learned to my cost. I share your opinion that the coins are a myth, but whether that is the case or not, the fellow must be found.”
“I shall be very careful. Thank you again, Mr Holmes, and good evening.”
Glaser walked us to the end of Hatton Garden where we caught a cab. As we prepared to board, I said, “Thank you again, Inspector, for all your assistance. You are really quite invaluable.”
He flushed, caught between embarrassment and pleasure. “It is an honour to help a man like you, Mr Holmes. I’ll look forward to seeing you and the doctor and Lady Beatrice again.”
“Yes... Do please be careful, Glaser. And keep an eye on your friend, Schwartz. No one knows better than I how a man’s passions can lead him astray.”
“You have my word,” he said.
Monday 25 April 1898
Brahms Antiquities is a discreet and elegant building in Knightsbridge. From outside it looks like a private home. One must ring the bell and present one’s card to gain admittance. Only then is the visitor escorted through a plush hallway to the back of the building where Ezekiel Brahms keeps his office.
He is a small, bald-headed man who speaks with the exquisitely precise intonation of one who is not a native speaker.
“You are an Austrian, I perceive, Mr Brahms,” I said as Watson and I sat on the elegant but uncomfortable divan.
“You have an acute ear, Mr Holmes,” he said. “A most acute ear. Yes, you are quite right. I was born in Salzburg, but I have lived in London for almost thirty years. Very few people can tell I am not an Englishman. Yes, yes, you have a very acute ear.”
“Holmes is a musician,” Watson said.
“Ah, then perhaps you would find this interesting...” He gestured excitedly. “Come, come,” he said.
Somewhat bemused, we followed him into a small drawing room. A harpsichord nestled between two long windows. I felt that frisson of excitement that I seldom experience outside the solving of a puzzle, but this piece was special indeed.
“It is very old,” I said. I let my fingertips caress the wood.
“It was Bach’s. Yes, yes. Johann Sebastian Bach, himself. He composed The Goldberg Variations upon it.”
“How extraordinary. If true.”
He looked hurt. “Mr Holmes, I assure you, I have proof of provenance, unassailable proof. But perhaps you would like to play it?”
“I could not do it justice. I am a violinist.”
“Ah. A pity. We do have a number of rather lovely violins, if you are interested?”
“Thank you. I own a Stradivarius.”
“Do you indeed? I say, if you are ever looking to sell it, Mr Holmes, I hope you will let me make you an offer.”
“Thank you, Mr Brahms, but I have come to you today on rather different business. Tell me, was the thief successful in his attempts to gain access to your premises?”
“How in the world did you know about that, Mr Holmes? You are quite right. We have had three attempts made in the past couple of weeks. Three. And never any bother in as many years previously. How in the world did you know?”
“The bars on the windows outside are less than a week old. There are no fewer than three gouges around the door lock and I see these locks have been changed in the past week.”
“Dear me, yes, you are quite right. We have so many valuables here, you see. It’s not simply a matter of financial worth, but we are custodians of the world’s treasures. We must be good stewards. But to answer your question, no, the premises were not violated. Our security is always excellent and we have, as you observed, added further levels of protection.”
“Do you have a security guard on the premises after hours?”
“We didn’t until recently, but we do now. He’s an upstanding man, above reproach.”
“I hope he is armed.”
“He is, Mr Holmes. You know, I worried that I might be overreacting but you do not think so?”
“By no means. As you say, these treasures belong to the world. It is only right you should protect them by any means possible.
“Now, I need to ask you about your records of Sir Nicholas’s estate...”
We spent the next forty minutes discussing the life and adventures of Sir Nicholas Fleming. The man’s time in Egypt, his knowledge of antiquities, his generosity, all these were covered in excruciating detail.
Sir Nicholas died in January after a long illness (“bravely borne”). In June last year he arranged with Brahms to sell off his various art collections immediately after his death. The proceeds were to be divided among his heirs. I forestalled Brahms’ discussion about the various nieces and nephews who stood to inherit.
“Were any coins listed among the inventory?” I said.
“Coins? Not that I recall. I would need to check my files.”
“May we see your records?” I said.
“Of course.”
He rose. A chiming collection of keys hung from his waistcoat and he selected one of these and opened a door behind us. It was a file room some twenty feet long and almost as wide. The walls were
lined with shelves that went to the ceiling and these were packed full of files. There were five additional rows of cabinets cutting the length of the chamber. Everything was neat and orderly but exceedingly dull. Watson gave me a glance. I shared his dismay.
“Where are the documents from Fleming’s estate?”
Brahms indicated a pair of boxes at the bottom of the back wall. “Here,” he said.
Watson whistled. “Good grief. There must be hundreds of papers here.”
“Six hundred and twenty-nine,” said Brahms. “A separate record for every item and every transaction.”
“You have a master list?”
He pulled out a thick folder at the front of the drawer and handed it to me. “Here you are, Mr Holmes.”
The document was 35 pages long. I read it twice.
“I do not see any mention of the Coptic Patriarchs,” I said.
“The what?” Brahms looked bewildered.
“Egyptian coins. Do you recall if there was a document in Greek? It would have looked like a list of names and numbers. Mrs Prentiss translated it and returned it here.”
“And it concerned some patriarchs?” Brahms’ confusion seemed to have deepened, rather than lessened.
“Apparently. At present we are concerned only with the document.”
“How very odd,” he said. “Usually I try to keep a close eye on all the items that pass through here, but given the size of Sir Nicholas’s estate, I’m afraid we got a little lax.” He took the folder from me and peered at it. “I am very sorry, Mr Holmes. The only possibility is the document was part of a larger number of papers that we had been requested to translate. If that is the case, they would have been sent directly to the interested party.”
“And you retain no record?”
“Under the normal way of things we do, of course we do. However, in this instance... I’m afraid not.”
“Would Sir Nicholas’s partner have any further information?”
“Very possibly, but I’m afraid Sir Jeremy left for Africa immediately after the funeral. I can write to his agents, but the reply may take some time.”
“That is unfortunate. Possibly, Sir Jeremy will have little to add. Still, send the letter. It is always best to be punctilious.”
Chapter Ten
Friday 29 April 1898
Beatrice, Watson and I, slightly cramped in a cab, made our way to Hatton Garden a little before eight o’clock. The lady was demurely dressed with a high-necked gown and a veil of some silvery, shimmery material on her head. She was in high spirits and I knew I could expect some teasing throughout the evening.
I could feel her warmth through my coat and her hand briefly touched mine. Sitting opposite, Watson continued his dissertation on the traditions of the Jewish Sabbath.
“It is very particular, you know,” he said. “I read up on it. There is no work permitted, not so much as a candle may be lit. Still, it is considered a time of great joy and celebration.”
“It is indeed,” my wife said. Her voice sounded mirthful. “I dined with the rabbi once, many years ago. Possibly he does not remember.”
“I cannot imagine anyone ever forgetting you, Beatrice,” I said.
She released one of those gurgling laughs that for some reason makes me feel quite giddy.
We arrived promptly at the chimes of eight. The door of the rabbi’s house opened before the cab left and our host came to greet us.
“You’re very punctual,” he said. “I am so happy to see you again, Lady Beatrice.”
“Thank you, Rabbi,” my wife said. “But I think you should just call me Beatrice. There is no formality between friends.”
In the small house, the rabbi introduced us to his wife Miriam and their daughter Esther.
“I wish we’d been here for candle-lighting,” Beatrice said. “I do love that prayer.”
“You are familiar with the bracha?” Solberg said. “That’s what we call ‘blessing’.”
“Oh yes,” Beatrice replied. “My father had many Jewish friends and we often joined them for the Sabbath.”
“Your father was a good friend to our people, Beatrice,” the rabbi said. “He was a benefactor, a man of great generosity and kindness.”
“Thank you, Rabbi. I had no idea how altruistic he was until after his death. I received so many letters of thanks and condolence.”
“I regret I had not heard of his passing,” the rabbi said. “Not until young David told me. Speaking of David, where is that friend of yours, Daniel? I missed him at services.”
“He and my daughter had things to discuss, so he said.” He grinned. “I am hoping for news of a wedding.”
“That would be lovely,” the rabbi’s wife said. “It’s about time that boy settled down.”
“Time who settled down?” Glaser said, joining us. The girl at his side gazed up at him with such longing I think we all held our breath.
“You,” Solberg said. “That is, you and my daughter.”
Glaser gave his friend an affectionate, long-suffering look. “I’m sorry we’re late,” he said. “It was entirely my fault. We were talking and I forgot the time. We even missed candle-lighting and the services.”
“If you were any other man I’d have to chastise you,” Solberg said. “But I know I can trust you. Even with my only child.” He glinted at his friend and tried to look dangerous. He added, “Right?”
“Right.”
“David is a perfect gentleman, Papa,” Rivkah said. “How can you doubt it?”
We sat at the table and the rabbi said a blessing over the food. Watson was in his element. He asked an endless litany of questions about the prayers, the food, and the traditions. The rabbi answered with admirable patience.
Beatrice was in a giddy mood and rather than discouraging my friend, she seemed determined to egg him on.
Glaser sat opposite me and did not speak very much. His attention seemed focused entirely on Solberg’s daughter. The girl hovered near him ready to fill his cup or his plate at even the slightest gesture. Sitting beside his friend, Solberg could barely control his amusement. Indeed, from time to time, little chuckles of laughter erupted from him. Then he raised a hand as in apology while he forced his glee back into submission. At least for a few minutes until it bubbled up again. Between his mood and my wife’s we were in for a giddy evening.
“Sit, Rivkah,” Solberg said at last. “You are a guest in the rabbi’s house. It is not right that you should attend his guests.”
He spoke kindly but the girl’s cheeks turned a deep pink.
“Let her be, Daniel,” the rabbi said. “What a thing it is to be a young woman and in love. I suppose you know something of that, Beatrice?”
My wife smiled. “I don’t think I’ve ever been one to behave quite the same as other women, Rabbi,” she said. “I fear I’d shock you with my modern ideas.”
“My husband is not easily shocked,” the rabbi’s wife said. “Though you may not think it to look at him.”
The two exchanged a look of fondness and I wondered what it must be like to have someone be so part of your life for so many years. It is a measure of the old couple’s warmth that it suddenly seemed an enviable state.
Again, I became acutely conscious of the woman at my side. My wife. I think I shall never get used to calling her that.
We ate our excellent meal with great enthusiasm. The conversation was lively and entertaining. There were no airs in this house. It seemed a warmer and more delightful environment than many of the great mansions in which I have dined. The rabbi spoke with considerable insight about politics. Inevitably, the subject of the Dreyfus affair arose.
“Beatrice has just recently returned from France,” I said.
“A bad time to visit,” Solberg said. “What were you doing th
ere?”
She hesitated and I said, “She went to aid M Zola.”
“A great man, Émile Zola,” Solberg said. There were murmured assents around the room. “A man with a great sense of justice.”
“Do you know him, Beatrice?” Glaser said.
“Zola was another friend of my late father’s,” she said. “If a man was wise or learned, my father knew him or knew of him. When I heard Zola had been arrested I went to see if I could help him or his family in any way. There was little enough I could do for them, I fear.”
“You went on your own?” Rivkah asked. She seemed astonished.
“Certainly.”
“But no male escort?” Esther seemed equally dumbfounded.
“Beatrice never does the expected,” I said. “She is the most independent thinker I have ever encountered.”
“Why, thank you,” my wife said.
Watson said, “Beatrice is remarkable in many ways. She has a profound sense of justice.”
I reflected that my friend has come a long way in accepting my wife’s brand of justice since our dreadful time at Rillington Manor last year.
Glaser said, “There’s a lot to be said for intelligence, no matter whether the thinker is a man or a woman. Take Rivkah, for instance: she speaks six languages, studies history, and is an accomplished seamstress. Why should her accomplishments be considered any less valuable because she is not a man?”
“You’re going to corrupt my daughter, David,” Solberg said, chuckling.
The conversation was interrupted by a knock at the door. The maid came in a moment later and said, “There’s a boy asking to speak to Inspector Glaser, Rabbi.”
“Will you excuse me?” Glaser said, rising.
He left the room but returned almost immediately. “I have to go, I’m afraid.”
“A problem, David?”
“I don’t know yet, Rabbi...” he seemed about to say more but a glance at the ladies’ expectant faces silenced him. “I need to investigate. I’ll be back as quickly as I can.”
