Some Danger Involved bal-1

by Will Thomas

  "I believe in Hell in this instance, Mr. Barker. I will make your life a Hell on earth if you will not stop hounding me in this fashion."

  Barker smiled. "You must make allowances, sir. Hounding is what we hounds do. Now, the night of the fifteenth?"

  "I have no idea! What day was that?"

  "Saturday night, sir."

  "Last Saturday night? Let me think. Yes, I was at Lord Ribbondale's estate in Kent for the weekend. Brought down twenty-seven pheasants and a like number of woodcock."

  "Stayed there the entire weekend, did you?"

  "Yes, damn you."

  "You can verify this, can you not? For the evening, I mean?"

  "Would you like the name of the peer's wife I spent the evening with? Will that satisfy you?"

  "Good heavens," I interjected.

  "Well, that would be a start, I suppose."

  "Go hang yourself, Barker. I have no need to establish my location that evening. I only humor you because it is entertaining to see you flailing about, trying to find someone upon which to affix the blame. This case must have you flummoxed for you to come in here questioning me. You'd have better luck questioning the prime minister. Presumably, he was in town at the time."

  "Thank you for the information," Barker said blandly. "The Prince and the prime minister. You're certainly traveling in exalted circles these days."

  "I'm a likable fellow. You know, one of these days, I really must look up whoever is in charge of granting licenses to enquiry agents. It's shocking how just anyone can set out a brass plate these days and place vulgar advertisements in The Times."

  Barker gave a slight shake of his head, like a schoolmaster with a troublesome student. "Come, Llewelyn. We wouldn't want to take up any more of his time and keep the Prince waiting."

  We caught a hansom outside, and I couldn't help but express my thoughts as I clambered into the cab.

  "If if weren't for that cat, I would have wrung his neck," I muttered. "Girlfriend, indeed."

  18

  We climbed out of the Hansom in Poplar again. It was our second assault upon the doors of the First Messianic Church. Our luck improved; the knob of the store-front church opened easily in Barker's hand. Inside there were a half dozen people already in attendance, though the service would not begin for an hour. Upon questioning, we were guided down a hall to the office, where we were met by the pastor.

  Having spoken to but one rabbi in my life, Pokrzywa's little Russian peasant rebbe, I had no idea what to expect, but the leader of the First Messianic still surprised me a little. He put down his sermon and came forward, taking our hands in turn in each of his, as if meeting us had been a delight he had long anticipated.

  "Gentlemen, welcome. So good of you to come. I'm Rabbi Mordecai. How may I be of service to you?"

  The rabbi looked like Father Christmas in a swallow coat. His long beard was almost pure white, and his hair, parted in the middle and pulled back behind each ear, reminded me of angel wings. Mordecai's eyes were cornflower blue, and his pink skin was as unlined as a baby's, for all his sixty years. He was a gentle, amiable soul.

  Barker presented his card and told him our purpose.

  "Ah, yes, Louis Pokrzywa," the pastor murmured. "What a tragedy. He had a first-rate mind, you know. I thought he might have made something of himself. I only spoke to him once or twice and was looking forward to getting to know him better."

  "Was he a member of your congregation, Rabbi?" my employer asked.

  "Alas, no. I do not believe he was a Christian when he died. He was curious, he kept an open mind, but he was not yet convinced that Yeshua was the Messiah."

  "Yeshua?" I asked.

  "We tend to call people and places from the Bible by their Hebrew names here, Mr. Llewelyn, rather than the Hellenized or Latinized form with which you are more familiar. I assure you, Yeshua never heard the name 'Jesus' in his entire time on earth. We try to present the gospel from a first-century perspective, before the arrival of Gentile scholars who made changes in pronunciation and doctrine."

  "I must admit," Barker said, "that this is the first Messianic church I've ever visited. How do you stand regarding the gospel?"

  "Very biblically," he said. "We believe it is the duty of all Jews to follow Yeshua, that that is the purpose Hashem has always meant for His people."

  "Hashem?" I asked.

  Rabbi Mordecai patted me on the shoulder. "I'll get you some literature, young fellow. Hashem simply means 'the name.' We never utter the name of our Creator, it being forbidden by our culture, but of course, we must call Him something."

  "I see."

  "We observe most of the festivals in the Jewish calendar, but we do not believe that their observance leads to salvation, which is a free gift, given through the death and resurrection of the true Messiah, Yeshua Hamashiach. Oh, and since the Apostle Paul said that the gift was given to the 'Jew first, and also to the Greek,' we feel it is our duty to evangelize to both groups. Our doors are open to Jew and Gentile alike. In fact, you are welcome to stay for service."

  "We will come back another time, when this case doesn't occupy us so fully," Barker responded, "but I thank you for the invitation. For now, let us please get back to Louis Pokrzywa. When did you first meet him?"

  The pastor tapped his lips in thought. "I met him in the street during Chanukah. He was studying at one of the outdoor cafйs in Whitechapel, so involved in a book that he didn't notice the cold. I stopped and engaged him in conversation. One could tell before he ever spoke how intelligent and spiritual he was. Wouldn't he have made a great Yeshua in an Easter pageant?"

  "Evidently someone thought so," Barker said, soberly.

  "Yes, yes. I still cannot believe he is gone. His spirit burned so brightly. Anyway, I challenged him to prove that Yeshua was not the true Messiah, and he readily accepted the challenge. We argued over coffee for half an hour, amiably, of course. He hadn't so much as read the New Testament, or compared it to the Old, so the only arguments he could give were secondhand. His faith was not an obstinate one, you know, merely cautious. I invited him to our church, gave him a spare BibleЧ I always carry one for emergencies such as thisЧ and offered him the chance for a rematch when he was better prepared. I must admit I was surprised when he actually appeared one Wednesday evening in January."

  "How many times did he attend services?"

  "Three times, perhaps four. We never had our rematch. And now we never shall."

  "Were these Wednesday evenings or Sunday mornings?" Barker asked.

  "Both, I believe."

  "Tell me, Rabbi, are there many young women of marriageable age in your congregation?"

  "A dozen or more. Why do you ask?"

  Barker took the program from his pocket and showed it to the pastor, pointing to the notes on it with a stubby finger.

  "Louis's handwriting? Hmmm. I see it now. So it wasn't just an old man he was coming to see. Why don't you gentlemen make yourself at home for a few moments, while I ask a few discreet questions. I shall return shortly."

  "I like him," I told Barker when we were alone.

  "He's likeable enough," Barker agreed. "I encourage you, however, to resist impulsive decisions during an investigation."

  "Surely you don't suspect Mordecai of being a member of the league? I should think him the least likely person on the planet."

  "It is highly unlikely, I'll admit, but he was an acquaintance of Pokrzywa's and cannot be ruled out yet. This is a nice little office, is it not?"

  It was. The rabbi's office was small but cheery, much like its owner. Bookshelves overflowed themselves with volumes standing every which way, along with ancient artifacts, menorahs, prayer shawls, and alms boxes. It was a smaller collection than the one we'd seen in Saint Swithen Lane, but this one was not behind glass. Two clay oil lamps flickered on the desk, by a small marble copy of Michelangelo's Moses, giving a mystical, timeless feeling to the room. Surely, I thought, Barker was just being overcautious.

  "A
fellow would need to be rather clever to outclass Pokrzywa in an argument," I pointed out.

  "He'd need to be even more clever to keep a church like this one going, with opposition from church and synagogue alike. He can't be having an easy time of it. He's neither fish nor fowl, you see."

  "†'To the Jew first, and also to the Greek,'†" I quoted.

  "Romans two ten. It's funny how people forget that verse."

  The pastor came bustling back, his grin replaced with a sheepish look. "Alas," he said, throwing his arms up. "We are undone. None of the girls will admit to being the coauthor of the notes here, much as it would have pleased them to be her. Also, nobody can recall who sat near Louis during the first Wednesday in March, which is when the program is dated. I will continue to press. If I hear something, I shall send word to you."

  "We can ask no more. Tell me, sir, have you noticed any anti-Semitic activity in the neighborhood lately, aside from the crucifixion?"

  The pastor nodded gravely. "My congregation has been fearful about getting out at night. A couple of drunken louts gave one of our young men a black eye on the way here last week, and the girl he was with had the comb and veil stolen from her hair. But we're accustomed to persecution here. This is a dangerous area, particularly in the alleyways."

  Barker turned to me. "Come, lad. Let's leave the gentleman to his sermon notes. Thank you for your time, sir."

  On our way out the door, Barker stopped me with a raised arm. He'd stopped once or twice before during our investigation, for a final look, a remark, or a note to me. I flattered myself that I was beginning to catch on. In this case, there was an offering box by the door. Barker ran a thumb across the side of his index finger, and I reached for the wallet in my pocket. He extracted a ten-pound note and folded it several times before it would fit into the small slot on the top of the wooden box. No doubt they were not accustomed to large denominations in Poplar.

  Barker fished the watch from his pocket and popped the case.

  "Ten minutes until six. We have just enough time to return home. Have you any plans for tonight, Thomas?"

  "None at all, sir." It was a formality, of course. He knew I didn't.

  "Excellent. You have no objections, I trust, to accompanying me to the theater? It shall give you an opportunity to try on your evening kit."

  My employer had given me the impression that he was not a theatergoer, and it was not in his character to do something so frivolous as to attend an evening's entertainment in the middle of a case. It took me several minutes' silence in the cab before I finally remembered Sir Moses' concern about a production of The Merchant of Venice. As he said, Barker was leaving no stone unturned.

  Once in the door, the Guv was giving orders to Maccabee, while I went upstairs to change. My evening clothes were my most impressive outfit, and I admit I felt it something of an extravagance, since I would get little or no use out of it. As usual, Barker had prepared for every contingency. I changed my day suit for evening wear and smoothed my unruly hair. I had never been so formally dressed in my life. My shirt front was snowy white, my white silk tie peeped from under the tips of my collar, and my evening jacket was of the latest cut. There was even a pair of kid gloves.

  Mac provided himself and me with a cold meal by the door: slices of game pie, a bean salad with vinaigrette, and a carafe of water on a silver platter. I leaned against the wall and ate standing up. Presently, our employer came down as well.

  Cyrus Barker in evening dress was a sight to behold. The expanse of white linen across his chest seemed immense. His day spectacles had given way to an evening pair, the round disks inside the tortoiseshell frames as green as jade. Altogether, he looked grand and foreboding, a figure of mystery.

  Gloveless, he picked up a slice of game pie in his fingers and consumed half of it in one bite. Mac handed him a goblet of water and began whisking imaginary crumbs from his suit with a small brush. For once, this all seemed rather decadent. Evening wear, cold suppers, and a butler brushing away stray crumbs was a far cry from starving in a garret. London is truly a city of extremes.

  "Mr. Llewelyn, I must ask you not to lean on the wall, please. It is indolent. Mac, whisk him."

  Mac took the broom to me rather thoroughly. There hadn't been a crumb on me to begin with. Any satisfaction the butler derived was removed by Barker's next question, however.

  "Might Llewelyn borrow your silk hat for the evening? I have not had the opportunity to purchase one for him yet, and I did not anticipate he would require one so soon. I fear one of mine would o'erwhelm him."

  For a moment, Jacob Maccabee looked as if he'd just been slapped. He glanced at me as if I were a species of vermin that had somehow been carried into the house. Then his professional demeanor took over, he acquiesced, and in a moment or two was adjusting a beautiful silk top hat on my head at just the perfect angle. Somehow I wanted to apologize, though I knew it was not I but Barker who had commanded him. Mac tied a voluminous opera cape around Barker's neck, handed us our sticks, and we were off.

  19

  Arriving at one of London's premiere theaters in a top hat and evening kit was a novel experience, but my day had been full of them. In the last twenty-four hours, I had been shot at, had a knife thrown at me, and been nudged by a wild beast. I'd faced down an old tutor and watched a man defeated who may have tried to assassinate me. Still, none of these events had prepared me for a night at the theater, or the sight of my employer in an opera cape.

  I suppose I had once aspired to come here and walk among these beautiful, elegant people as one of their own, but that had been long ago, before all my dreams had been dashed like porcelain on paving stones. Now that I was finally here, I felt all the more like a Welsh collier's brat, as if I were still twelve, nose running, and starting to outgrow my brother's cast-offs. I was in the right place at the wrong time. Such was the refrain of my life.

  "Cheer up, Thomas, old man," I told myself, looking down at the crowd from one of the immense stairways. I would try to enjoy the evening out for its own sake. Heaven only knew if I would ever be in such a situation again.

  The Pavilion was as long in the tooth as an old dowager, but a fresh coat of paint covered a multitude of sins. The plush was wearing thin on the seatbacks, and plaster showed here and there beneath the gilt of the cherubs and ribbons, but all in all she was still handsome. The marble flooring and stairs had reached that luster of beauty which nothing save time and millions of pairs of shoes could create. Barker and I were admirably situated mid-distance between the orchestra pit and the stalls, close enough to hear all of the dialogue, yet far enough away to have the illusion unspoiled by heavy-handed makeup and garish sets. I must state as well that I am a classicist, and much prefer Shakespeare over the latest patter-operas of Messrs. Gilbert and Sullivan.

  The performance was a tragedy in every sense. The actor playing Antonio was stoic and noble, and Bassanio was justly aggrieved at his kinsman's predicament; Portia was just as I imagined her, and in the portrayal of the Jewess Jessica there was nothing of which Sir Moses could disapprove; but in the casting of Shylock the sponsors of the play had made a dreadful mistake. The Merchant of Venice is a play which must be done subtly if one is to get the full benefit of the tragedy therein, and the character of Shylock should be portrayed realistically, so that we feel his alienation as a Jew. Instead, the actor, Frederick Rosewood, portrayed him as a cold, calculating villain, whose only desire is to destroy every Gentile he gets in his clutches. Such a performance might have caused little concern to the Board of Deputies had the audience been merely members of the upper class, but the shilling stalls were filled with East Enders who booed and hissed whenever Shylock appeared. They seemed very likely to vent their emotions from the play in the streets afterward.

  "No wonder Sir Moses is concerned," Barker murmured, as we gathered our things. "I had the good fortune to attend Irving's interpretation at the Lyceum in 'eighty-one. Now that was a performance."

  "Rosewood wa
s heavy-handed," I admitted. "He's turned Shakespeare into a cheap melodrama."

  Barker and I had fallen in with the crowd making their way out to the staircases, when he turned to me. "There's something I'd like you to do, Thomas. I've got a mind to have a word with Rosewood, and it might be useful if you would mill about and see if you recognize anyone from the investigation."

  "Certainly, sir."

  "Good, lad. Off with you, then."

  I reached the top of the stairwell and leaned against the rail nonchalantly, all the while scanning every face for a connection to the Jews. I did indeed see some faces I recognized, but only from their illustrations in the popular press. The Pavilion may not have been the grandest theater in London, but it still had the ability to bring in the fashionable crowd. One could count the dresses, the suits, and the jewels in the tens of thousands of pounds. I was looking down on this pageant as it passed below me, when I found myself staring into a familiar pair of cool brown eyes.

  It was the beautiful young Jewess from Pokrzywa's funeral, moving slowly and gracefully down the stair. She wore a gown in a deep forest green, with a matching mantle over her bare shoulders. She had noticed me again and was giving me the same scrutiny that she had in the cemetery. For some reason, I remembered the scene in Eliot's Deronda, when Gwendolen first meets Daniel's gaze. I expected her to look away demurely, but she did not, not immediately, anyway. My heart began fluttering in a way it hadn't in a year; I had thought it cold and dead since my wife's passing. I determined to find out who she was.

  She turned her head and spoke to a woman at her side. I wondered if she was speaking of me, but the other woman did not look up. Surely, it must have been some commonplace remark. Her companion was a stern, harsh-looking woman some twenty years her senior, whom I concluded was her mother. I was quite content, therefore, not to be the subject of their conversation. The girl gave me a final glance with those velvety eyes of hers and frowned when I dared offer her a reserved smile. I summoned my pluck and made my way down the staircase after her, but when I reached the lobby, she was gone.