Baker Street Irregulars

by Michael A. Ventrella

  Rabbi Shlomo chuckled. “It wasn’t much of a disguise. It wouldn’t have fooled the most simple child. You neglected to remove the price tag from the sleeve of your overcoat. You’re wearing shoes that have clearly just been introduced to the unpaved roads of our village. And the subtle Lublin accent was easily detectable in your davening. I’m sure even my disciple Velvel was able to easily see that you were not who you seemed to be.”

  “That’s incredible,” he replied.

  “Not at all, although by the time Velvel recounts it, it will no doubt seem as if I had read your mind.”

  As usual, now that he had explained the process by which he had come to his conclusion, it seemed obvious. However, I was still not clear how he had figured out our guest’s identity. “Rabbi Shlomo, you never cease to amaze, but how could you possibly have known that this was Grand Rabbi Yitzhak?”

  “That was the easiest thing of all. I just received a new commentary on the Talmud tractate ‘Sayings of the Fathers,’ and it included a rather flattering likeness of the great scholar who wrote it.” He plucked a book from the table where he usually studied and showed us an inside page. It was, indeed, a pen and ink portrait of our visitor.

  “And now,” he continued, “if you’d like to join me for a glass of tea, I should like to know what brings such a distinguished visitor to my humble abode.” He turned to me. “Please stay, Velvel. I suspect your assistance will be invaluable.”

  We were shortly situated in Rabbi Shlomo’s study. The walls were lined with shelves filled with holy books and commentaries. I had spent many hours here since coming to Chelm, and been privileged to participate in and record many of Rabbi Shlomo’s adventures as he unraveled mysteries brought to him from near and far. There was the curious case of the chazzan, or cantor, who did not chant Kol Nidre on the night of Yom Kippur, as well as the baffling case of the missing afikomen, where an entire Passover seder ground to a halt until it was found, but those stories will have to wait for another day. For the moment, I joined Rabbi Shlomo in focusing on our guest, who was sipping the hot tea through a sugar cube he held in his teeth.

  “For you to have come all the way from Lublin must mean this is a matter of great import. Our Borscht Festival isn’t until next spring, and there aren’t many other attractions here in Chelm.”

  Rabbi Yitzhak put down his half-emptied glass and turned to Rabbi Shlomo. “There is indeed something here, and it is a matter of great delicacy.” He glanced at me as if uncertain whether he should continue.

  “You have nothing to fear from Velvel,” he assured our guest. “He is the soul of discretion.”

  “But what about his stories about you?”

  Rabbi Shlomo chuckled. “Colorful exaggerations. And he knows which stories not to tell.”

  I nodded in agreement. “Do you know the story of the scholar who ate a suckling pig?”

  Rabbi Yitzhak looked shocked. “What sort of man of learning would eat such treif?”

  “One who ordered a baked apple and found it served in the pig’s mouth. By the time Rabbi Shlomo was through with the case, the man had become a vegetarian.”

  “And who…?”

  “See?” interrupted Rabbi Shlomo. “Not only has he omitted the foolish man’s name, but it is a story that will remain unpublished. You can speak freely, Reb Yitzhak. You have nothing to fear.”

  Seemingly reassured, our visitor slumped back in his seat. “Well, then, I best get on with it. My son Menesseh is scheduled to be married next month…”

  “Mazel tov,” interjected Rabbi Shlomo, raising his own glass of tea in a toast.

  “If only it was that simple. He had a rival for his betrothed’s hand who has said he will not allow the wedding to take place.”

  Rabbi Shlomo sat up in his seat. “Please go on.”

  “There’s not much more to tell. Just a vague threat.”

  I could no longer keep quiet. “With all due respect, Grand Rabbi, it’s hard to believe you would go through all the trouble of coming here in disguise on the basis of a vague threat.”

  “Indeed,” agreed Rabbi Shlomo. “There’s something you’re not telling us.”

  The Grand Rabbi seemed to sink in on himself. Finally, in a barely audible voice, he said, “Yes, there is something more. He said that if the wedding takes place he will destroy my son’s reputation.”

  “In what way?”

  “There was mention of an incriminating photograph with my son dressed disgracefully in women’s clothes. If this is made public it will destroy him…and me.”

  “Is your son a feigeleh?” I blurted out.

  “Velvel, please…”

  “It’s all right, Reb Shlomo,” said Rabbi Yitzhak, who then turned on me. “No, he is not someone in forbidden relations with men, but clearly that is what is being implied. The accusation alone would be enough to ruin his reputation and call off the wedding.”

  “But if it’s not true…”

  “It doesn’t matter. I don’t know how you deal with such matters in Chelm, but in Lublin people look the other way so long as they can. A photograph of my son cavorting in women’s clothes would cross the line. It is imperative that we stop this before it can happen.”

  • • •

  “I understand completely,” said Rabbi Shlomo. “We need to confront this blackmailer and ensure this never happens. Velvel, make arrangements for us to travel to Lublin at once.”

  A chance to travel and see the world beyond Chelm promised a great adventure indeed. However, Rabbi Yitzhak put up his hand. “There’s no need to travel to Lublin,” he said. “The miscreant is right here in Chelm. In fact, he was at your minyan.”

  “Here?” I asked, incredulously. “Who was it?”

  “Meir the butcher.”

  If Rabbi Shlomo was shocked at this revelation, he hid it well. “Rabbi Yitzhak, the matter is in good hands.”

  • • •

  We stood on the street outside Reb Meir’s butcher shop watching the customers come and go. As not only a purveyor of meat but also the shochet, the town’s ritual slaughterer, Meir was a prominent and well-to-do figure. Confronting him would not be easy.

  “You know, Velvel, there’s no reason to feel intimidated because he is a man of means,” said Rabbi Shlomo as we waited for a lull in the shop. “If I had chosen to be a shochet instead of a rabbi, I’d make even more money than Meir.”

  I studied the rabbi, awaiting his sage insight, but when he said nothing more I had to ask. “How so?”

  Rabbi Shlomo smiled. “I’d do a little teaching on the side.”

  I was about to respond when he grabbed my arm. Meir was serving Mrs. Adler, the widow of Nahum the shoemaker. He had handed her two packages, one the size of a small chicken, the other one large and boxy. She placed them both in her bag. She was leaving the shop just as we reached the door.

  “A pleasure to see you, Mrs. Adler,” said the rabbi with an expression I had not previously associated with him. He seemed almost taken aback in her presence.

  She seemed a bit flustered herself, wishing us a hasty “Gut Shabbes,” before scurrying off down the street.

  “Most odd, Velvel, most odd,” said the rabbi as we entered the shop. “Surely you noticed?”

  “How could I miss it?” I said. “She wished us a happy Sabbath and it’s only Monday.”

  “Clearly she was flustered. And surely even the hungriest widow could not eat such a quantity of meat in short order.”

  “Perhaps she was picking up an order for a neighbor?”

  “No, Velvel, in my studies on how meat is wrapped at the butcher, I’ve never seen a large box before. I do not believe that was meat at all.”

  Once again I was astounded at the rabbi’s powers of observation, but I was startled further at the notion that he had taken time away from the Talmud to focus on how meat gets wrapped. “What great purpose is there in knowing such things if you are not a butcher yourself?”

  “Ah, Velvel, how else am I to
know whose invitation for Shabbes dinner I should accept? But now, let’s focus on the matter at hand.”

  We approached the counter and waited for Meir the butcher to return. When he did I was taken by his size and his formidable arms, strengthened by slaughtering and carving up the cows and chickens that came his way.

  “Rabbi Shlomo,” he beamed at the rabbi, then acknowledged my presence with a polite nod, “Velvel. To what do I owe this pleasure? Are you looking for a nice piece of flanken?

  “Not today, Reb Meir, though your flanken is the closest I will come to manna in this lifetime,” said the rabbi.

  Meir beamed in response. “Then what may I do for the Sage of Chelm?”

  “I’m curious how you know Menesseh ben Yitzhak.”

  If I expected Meir to confess upon being confronted, I was sorely disappointed. Instead, he looked Rabbi Shlomo in the eye and calmly replied, “We went to cheder together as children. There was only one boys’ school there at the time, so of course we were all together. I grew up in Lublin and only came to Chelm when I apprenticed to the previous butcher. Why is this of interest? Do you know Menesseh?”

  “I’ve not had the pleasure, but I have some business with his father, the Grand Rabbi. Did you know Menesseh is getting married?”

  “I’d not heard,” replied Meir without missing a beat, “but then, I don’t get much news from Lublin these days.”

  After a few more moments of chitchat we took our leave, with Meir promising to hold some flanken for the rabbi for Shabbes. When we were on the street, Rabbi Shlomo said that we must, at once, go to the shoemaker’s widow. “Meir is clearly on his guard now. It’s highly unlikely the photograph is at the butcher shop any longer.”

  We headed to the outskirts of town where the shoemaker’s shop was situated. Mrs. Adler had maintained her late husband’s business, using an apprentice to do the actual work. Eventually, he would take it over and pay her an annuity for her declining years. At the moment, though, she appeared in the peak of health. Indeed, she did not seem at all surprised at our arrival.

  “Rabbi Shlomo, I’ve been expecting you. I assume Meir told you nothing.”

  I was startled at her forthrightness. I had worked out a cover story about needing a heel repaired, which would give Rabbi Shlomo time to investigate the premises. I’d have to save that story for another day and another shoemaker’s widow.

  “My dear Mrs. Adler, I’m glad that business is doing so well that you can afford chicken on a weekday.”

  She coughed into her handkerchief. “I’m making some soup. You know what they say. When a poor man slaughters a chicken for soup, either he’s sick or the chicken is.”

  “Yes, and when a widow carries two packages from the butcher, one of them is clearly not a chicken.”

  The widow sighed, and then, after a brief hesitation, bent down to remove something from a shelf behind the counter. She pulled it out and placed it for us to see. It was a photo album. “I should have known it was useless. Meir asked me to hold onto this, as he thinks he’s going to prevent a childhood rival from marrying someone back in Lublin. He asked me to hide it as he was afraid someone would try to break into the butcher shop to steal it. He’s a kind, generous man in many ways, but he’s also a bit of fool.”

  “It’s why he fits in so well in Chelm,” I offered.

  Mrs. Adler and Rabbi Shlomo ignored me. “I assume this album contains the incriminating photograph?” asked the rabbi.

  “There is no incriminating photograph, Rabbi Shlomo. Let me show you.”

  She opened the album and flipped a few pages. When she found what she was looking for she spun it around for us to see. It was a group of young boys performing in a Purimshpiel, a comic and frivolous skit done as part of the joyous Purim celebration, commemorating the story in the Book of Esther. Such activities were common throughout the land. I wasn’t sure what we were supposed to be looking at.

  “You see the eight-year-old with the mop on his head? That’s Menesseh playing Queen Vashti. This is the photo Meir thought would stop a wedding.”

  “May I?” asked Rabbi Shlomo as he lifted up the album and examined the picture closely. After a moment, he put it down. “Mrs. Adler, you are quite right. Meir is an excellent butcher, but he is a fool. Even if the damaging implication he hoped would stop the wedding were true, he cannot disseminate this particular photo as proof.”

  Mrs. Adler nodded. “Of course. It’s trivial. Many boys have done such things in their Purim cavorting.”

  “It’s more than that, Mrs. Adler. Look who’s playing Queen Esther off to the side.”

  She turned the album around and picked it up to look closely at the photograph. “Why that’s…”

  “Yes, it’s Meir the butcher. If he thought this childhood antic would embarrass Menesseh, how would he explain his own actions? It could only double back on him.” Rabbi Shlomo turned to me. “Come, Velvel, we must find the Grand Rabbi and reassure him that the wedding of his son will occur as planned.”

  We began to take our leave. “Rabbi,” said Mrs. Adler, “What shall I tell Meir?”

  The rabbi favored her with a broad smile. “Tell him to prepare an order of flanken for Friday night. It would be my privilege to share a Shabbes meal with you.”

  “I shall do so at once,” she said, with what seemed to be a twinkle in her eye.

  “And now Velvel and I must take our leave. It is almost time for the evening service, and all this talk of flanken has made me hungry for dinner.”

  The Affair of the Green Crayon

  BY

  Stephanie M. McPherson

  The soft clinks of metal on metal started at dawn. Dark gray haze from a mid-November sunrise teased through the gnarled remains of the old trees outside my window, mutating their silhouettes into looming monsters. I’d just started brushing my teeth by the dim light of my vanity when the scratches caught my attention.

  I approached the entryway, careful not to alert the prowler that I’d caught onto his designs. The noises stopped. I watched the door handle. I imagined the figure on the other side doing the same. Then a shuffling of fabric betrayed the would-be intruder’s intentions to switch lock-picking tools. My chance had come.

  I flung the chain off its hook and wrenched the door open.

  “Watson!” A tall, angular man looked surprised to see me open my own front door.

  “Sherlock!” I replied, extending my arm to welcome him into my home.

  “Well done, I suppose.” He strode in, spun himself on his heel, and landed his slim frame hard on the armchair by my fireplace, where he started tinkering with wood and matches. “I had been under the impression you’d be scrubbing away at your teeth.”

  “Oh, I was,” I shouted from the kitchen. I emerged with a carafe of fresh coffee and a few warm scones. “I was,” I repeated, settling by the fire. “But, believe it or not, I’m able to distinguish the sound of bristle on enamel from the scraping of metal.”

  “Consistently surprising, John.” He bit into the scone, slouched back, and stared at the ceiling.

  “Still, though,” I said through a mouthful of crumbs. “I had the chain up. You’d have been out of luck.” He moved only his eyes to look at me as though he pitied my lack of imagination.

  Sherlock Holmes and I met five years ago on the first day of term at the prestigious Baker School, a charming private elementary school ensconced in the hills of New Hampshire. I had just been hired as head nurse after years as an army medic capped off with nursing school. Holmes was starting as a fifth grade general education teacher, embarking on his first true profession after years of chasing degrees.

  We’d been living down the hall from one another in an old converted mill for the past year. Each morning Holmes tried to break into my apartment by one method or another. Each morning I tried to outwit him. The balance stood in his favor.

  “How was your day yesterday?” I inquired. “Any new little problems to solve?” The staff at Baker School had been
employing Sherlock’s unique intellect to arrive at speedy resolutions to petty problems around campus, thus avoiding the involvement of the police—or worse, the parents.

  “Quite the little drama,” he replied. “Someone stole Bobby Simmons’s green crayon during art class.”

  “Oh, you might need to delve deep into your resources to solve this one.”

  • • •

  “Something foul is afoot at the Baker School!” Sherlock’s frame overtook my doorway.

  “Do tell,” I said, not looking up from the bandage I was applying to little Sarah’s knee.

  “Benjamin saw a strange woman skulking about in the woods yesterday. Probably one of the teachers, but I’ve found children have difficulty identifying familiar faces in unfamiliar settings. I should add exercises to improve that skill that to my curriculum.”

  “I saw a man in the woods today,” Sarah piped in. “That’s what me and James were fighting about when I fell. He said I was being weird and creepy, and so I pushed him, and so he pushed me back.”

  “Well,” I said, looking at Sherlock. He looked dubious as to the little witness’s credibility. “Why don’t we all go together to tell the principal what you saw?” I suggested. I whispered to Sherlock to collect Benjamin and meet us in the front office.

  Principal Lester was an amiable, capable man who’d worked his way through administrations across New England before becoming the head of the Baker School. I quite liked him, though his staid adherence to the norm clashed with Sherlock’s distaste for the current state of education. We sat on the other side of the desk from him behind the children, as though we were grandiose shadow projections of their much smaller frames.

  “Yesterday, I saw a lady in the woods,” started Benjamin. “She was just kind of looking at some trees.”

  “It wasn’t a lady, it was a man, stupid. And it was today,” Sarah interrupted.

  “Come on, now, Sarah,” I admonished. “There’s no need to call Benjamin stupid.”