by Will Thomas
“Pizer’s a toad, but he doesn’t deserve to be in there, nor should he be beaten and hung by a mob. It’s one thing to be a Jew and look like Mac, but it’s another thing to be built like a blancmange. He’s a pathetic figure. Do you really plan to take him to safety while a mob cries for his blood?”
“I’m sure we can get him out of there during the day and away to someplace out of town.”
“Inspector!” Barker called, once we’d reached the first floor. He’s got a voice that rattles windows. Ahead of us I saw Abberline turn on his heels at his approach.
“Inspector, have you made any progress establishing Mr. Pizer’s alibi?”
“His brother vouches for him on the night of Annie Chapman’s murder, but so far we have no nonrelative witnesses on the night in question. We’re still searching for the constable he claims to have spoken to during the fire that evening of Nichol’s murder.”
“Are you overtaxed due to the patrols in Whitechapel?”
“Yes, we are, rather.”
“Would it be amenable if I attempt to establish his alibi myself?”
Abberline shrugged his shoulders and looked at him as if he were mad. “If you like.”
“Capital. Special Constable Llewelyn and I shall get right on it. Thank you, Inspector.”
Abberline’s eyes swept mine as if to ascertain whether Barker was having him on, rather than volunteering to take on a duty. I nodded solemnly, if for no other reason than to assure him that both of us were on the level. It is one of my unwritten duties to assure others that Barker truly means what he says. Luckily, there is never any doubt on that score.
The name of the sergeant at “A” Division was Meadows. I doubt he appreciated the irony of his own name. There, with nothing but brick and cobble in any direction, he stood behind the desk in Lemon Street, a man whose name conjured wildflowers, and maidens making daisy chains. From him we were able to list the constables who had been abroad the night of Mary Nichol’s murder, and might remember speaking to Pizer during the fire. Later that evening, after eating our dinner at the Frying Pan, we set out for our nightly walk, intent on finding our witness. Barker walked up to the first constable we saw. We identified ourselves and questioned him.
“Constable, were you on patrol the night of the London Docks fire, the same night as Mary Nichol’s murder?”
“Aye, sir, I was.”
“Do you recall speaking to a man named Pizer that night, a Jew who was a resident of the tenement? He says he spoke to a constable who can establish his alibi.”
“Pizer? Nay, I cannot recall speaking to such a man, but I was busy with the fire, sir, and I didn’t speak to anyone much beyond yelling for them to stay back.”
“Thank you, Officer. What is your name?”
“Thatchwick, Inspector.”
“Found it,” I said, consulting my list.
“Well, thank you, PC Thatchwick. Stay vigilant and perhaps we shall catch the rascal tonight.”
“I hope so, sir.”
That was one conversation, verbatim, according to my notes, but it might as well have been a boilerplate for every one that came after. The names were changed, of course, and where they had been on the night in question. It had been a busy night for the blues of Lemon Street Constabulary.
I expected the Guv to go by a certain routine each night, but he purposely avoided it, so that we went a different route and thus came upon new vistas and never repeated ourselves as we explored Whitechapel. He also quizzed me, asking me which street we were approaching or what this one led to. If he recognized a person there, he’d tip his hat, then ask who that was, and when we had spoken to them last. He never allowed me to fall into slack habits or take a street or neighborhood for granted.
Sometimes he would plunge into a tenement, take the stairs to the roof, cross over to the next one and go down that stairwell to the street. The squalor in some places was appalling, but in others, someone took as much pride in their rooms as if they were in Fitzrovia. There was fresh paint on some walls, and the floors, though bare, were washed regularly. Certain streets such as Flower and Dean were infamous, but others, especially those close to the synagogue, might have been mistaken for the City.
Naturally, I was tired, and grew morose over this steady tramping night after night. In my more philosophical moments, however, I reasoned that I was getting an education of sorts. I now knew the East End backward and forward, all the major buildings, the churches and synagogues, the graveyards and monuments. I knew when businesses closed and when workers got off their shifts, which restaurants served proper food and which to avoid. The names of some of the unfortunates became known to me and the bawdy houses where they plied their illicit trade.
So far, we had three quarters of the names marked off the list of constables on duty that night. If I’ve given the impression we find our man every time we step out of our door, such was not the case. Enquiries often led us nowhere. People forget. They lie. They bear false witness out of some sort of duty to a friend. They make up things. But every now and then they tell the truth and we catch a break.
“Your name, Constable?”
“Newbrough, sir.”
PC Newbrough was as shiny as a freshly minted farthing. He was young, adenoidal, and if he were fortunate, his chin would grow in or he’d be able eventually to grow a beard.
“Constable, do you recall a fire on the night of Mary Nichols’s murder? According to our records, you were on duty that night.”
“Yes, sir,” he replied. “A fire on the docks, it was. Lamp knocked over. Couldn’t say for certain it was arson. Everything that might have been called evidence burned. Still, it was contained by the Whitechapel Fire Brigade well enough, without too much damage. If it was set for a claim, it didn’t do enough damage to make anyone any money.”
“Do you recall speaking to a man that evening named John Pizer?”
“No, sorry. Can’t say as I do. What did he look like?”
“Five foot four, stocky, bull-necked—”
“Has a beard that looks like a dead badger,” I said.
Newbrough pointed a finger at me. “Leather Apron!” he cried. “Why didn’t you say so? Everyone knows Leather Apron. He’s a perpetual nuisance there. Always bothering the whores, wanting something for free. He’ll call it flirting but I call it making an affray. We arrested him for public lewdness recently.”
“Mr. Pizer claimed that was a misunderstanding. He also said he was being hounded by locals for being a Jew.”
Newbrough snorted, then turned it into a cough. It was not good to act informally around an inspector you did not know.
“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.
