Anarchy

by Olivier Bosman

  We thought that if we were all implicated in Joseph’s murder, nobody would squeal. I had no intention of squealing when I took part in the shooting. But desperation has led me to this. When it comes to choosing between the life of a newborn innocent and those of four murderous brothers, I choose my son.

  My brothers and I meet every night at a tavern in Bethnal Green. I can take you there tonight.

  12. Blame and Recriminations

  “This is our one and only chance to catch the remaining Hirsch brothers alive, and it is imperative that we do so without incident.”

  England was addressing Billings and Clarkson.

  “A public house is not the ideal place to be arresting anyone. There are numerous exits through which the suspects can escape, and the punters are always looking for a fight, especially in the East End. A bar brawl is something we must avoid at all costs. We shall go incognito. Suitable clothes will be distributed to you shortly. Try not to speak while we are out there, as your accents might give you away. Keep your eyes averted at all times. The locals will be curious, and they’ll try to suss you out. Do not engage them in conversation. If they ask who we are, simply tell them we are navvies from out of town and we have come to the tavern for a drink. You shall go in first. Order your drink at the bar, then look for any back or side entrances and block the way. If any of the brothers should try to escape, you must stop them. I will enter the pub after you with two more constables. That will be your cue to approach the suspects, pull their arms behind their backs and drag them out onto the street. This should not take more than a few seconds. We must load the suspects onto the wagon and be out of the neighbourhood before the punters realise what is going on. Do you have any questions?”

  Billings was tired. The capture of the Hirsch brothers had gone without incident, but it had been stressful nonetheless. A new migraine was brewing in his head. He’d been suffering from those a lot since he had given up the morphine. While England and Flynt were questioning the suspects in one of the interview rooms, Billings hurried towards his office. His shift was over, and he wanted nothing more than to go to bed and lay a hot flannel over his eyes.

  Ada was sitting on a bench in the corridor when Billings started climbing the staircase to the second floor. She jumped off the bench and approached him, her baby still in her arms.

  “So what happens now?” she said.

  Billings looked at her and frowned. He had forgotten that she was still waiting for them.

  “I don’t know,” he said without even looking at her, and continued running up the stairs.

  Ada ran after him. “But what’s going to happen to my husband? When will I get my money?” She grabbed the detective’s arm to stop him.

  “I don’t know what’s going to happen, Mrs Hirsch. You should discuss that with Chief Inspector England.” He pulled his arm away and continued running up the stairs, leaving the woman behind him.

  He rushed into his office and grabbed his coat from the hatstand. He was still wearing the clothes given to him by the disguise department, but he didn’t care. He’d change out of them when he got home. He could feel his hand begin to tremble again.

  The look in Ada’s eyes had worsened his condition. No matter how hard he tried to ignore it, that desperate hoping against hope look kept recurring in his mind. He should have stood up to England. He should have told her the truth. Her husband was sure to be hanged. He had confessed to murder. And Billings doubted whether she’d even receive the money for turning him in. The Metropolitan Police Service was notoriously pernickety when it came to paying out rewards.

  He sat down at his desk, put his head in his hands, closed his eyes and took some deep breaths. He needed to block the world out from around him or he’d start trembling all over.

  He didn’t know how long he’d been sitting there, but when he looked up, he saw England standing in the doorway.

  “What are you doing?” the chief inspector asked him.

  “I… um… I’m going home.” Billings got up and grabbed his hat from the hatstand.

  “You can’t go home,” England said. “We need you.”

  “My shift is over.”

  “To hell with your shift! We need someone who speaks French and Yiddish.”

  “I don’t speak Yiddish.”

  “You speak German, and that’s good enough. We need you to hear out the Hirsch brothers.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “They’re not talking. We’ve tried interviewing them, but they’re keeping their mouths shut.”

  “So what do you want me to do about it?”

  “I want you to go down to the holding cells and eavesdrop on them. They’ll start talking to each other once they’re alone. There’ll be blame and recriminations. A wonderful source of information. Go down to the holding cells at once. You can go home once you have heard a confession.”

  Billings sat in the basement. A wall concealed him from the prisoners behind him. He listened in on their conversation and made notes in his notebook. Police Sergeant Dwight, the cell warden, sat at his desk, eating an apple. Billings was distracted by the constant crunching and munching sounds. He frowned every time Dwight took a bite of his apple, but Dwight would simply shrug, as if to say: “it isn’t my fault that your eavesdropping assignment coincides with the time I usually eat my apple.”

  There were eight holding cells, but only four were occupied. The Hirsch brothers spoke mainly French, with here and there a word or phrase in Yiddish.

  Billings scribbled down the following conversation, which he would later use to write up his report:

  RUBEN: After all we’ve been through, to end up like this.

  SIMEON: (to Judah) If I could reach your throat through these bars, I’d strangle you!

  RUBEN: Why did you do it, Judah?

  SIMEON: You know why he did it. He did it for the money. Two thousand pounds. That’s all he thinks we’re worth.

  RUBEN: If you needed the money, then why didn’t you come to us? We could’ve helped you. We’re your brothers.

  Finally, Judah speaks. He hasn’t said anything since the arrest of his brothers.

  JUDAH: You don’t have that kind of money.

  RUBEN: We could’ve raised it for you. If we’d known you needed it. We are your brothers. We should stick with each other.

  JUDAH: You didn’t stick with Joseph.

  A pause. I wait anxiously for Ruben’s response. This could be the confession I’m waiting for. But Ruben doesn’t answer.

  SIMEON: Why are you so quiet, Levi? What have you got to say about all of this?

  LEVI: I’ve got nothing to say. All I want to know is, when will we eat. (calling out to Dwight) Oi! Guard! When are you going to bring us some food!

  Dwight ignores him.

  SIMEON: (laughing) Good old Levi! Nothing worries him as long as he’s being fed. At least we can trust him. He won’t sell us down the river for two thousand pounds (he laughs again).

  JUDAH: I’d have sold you out for less! You mean nothing to me! You’ve been nothing but trouble! The only people who matter to me are Ada and my son. And at least now I know that they will be looked after.

  SIMEON: You know that for certain, do you? You really think they’re going to give Ada that money? The reward wasn’t for finding us. It was for finding the person who killed Joseph. You’d need to prove to them that we killed him. They won’t pay out unless they have proof. And you can’t prove anything.

  JUDAH: There were four bullet wounds on Joseph’s body. One for each shot we fired.

  SIMEON: That doesn’t prove anything. You could’ve fired all four shots.

  JUDAH: They know it was us. They know we killed Joseph together.

  Again, I wait for Simeon’s response. Judah is saying all the right things. It´s almost as if he knows that I´m listening in on them.

  SIMEON: That’s not the way it works in this country. The police need to prove that it was us. And they can’t. They’ll l
et us go in the end. And you will hang alone.

  JUDAH: They won’t let you go. You’re a threat to them. They’ll hold you here forever. They’ll interview you day and night. They’ll wear you down until someone talks.

  SIMEON: We won’t talk.

  JUDAH: Ruben will. He’s weak. He’ll cave in.

  RUBEN: No, I won’t.

  JUDAH: You know you’re to blame more than the rest of us. It was your idea to kill Joseph. You talked us into it. You arranged the rendezvous with Joseph in the cemetery. Your conscience will be your downfall. You’ll all confess in the end.

  Another pause. The brothers aren’t biting.

  SIMEON: (laughing) Poor Judah. Always the optimist. They have laws in England, and the police will stick to them. They can’t hold us without a charge. And they can’t charge us without proof. It’s time to face the truth, Jude. You’ll be dangling from the gallows on your own. And your widow will be chasing that reward money in vain for the rest of her miserable life.

  Judah doesn’t respond. The conversation simmers down to a halt. I envisage all four brothers withdrawing into their cells and reflecting on all that has been said.

  Simeon is right, of course. The brothers have played the game well. Apart from Judah, who has already confessed to murdering Joseph, we have nothing to charge the brothers with, and we will soon be forced to let them go. Judah will undoubtedly hang. And it remains doubtful whether Ada will ever get the reward money.

  It is evident that the conversation will not resume. There will be no confession. The Hirsch brothers are too cautious to incriminate themselves.

  13. ‘M’

  “I’ve got a job,” Enoch called as he saw Billings approach him. He was sitting on the pavement in front of the house, smiling from ear to ear. “The old man at the fruit and veg stall is from Sligo. He paid me a whole shilling to help him load the crates on and off the cart. He said I should come back tomorrow, he might have another job for me then.”

  Billings smiled. This was good news, of course, but he was unable to summon much enthusiasm for it. He was still thinking about the fate that awaited Judah and Ada Hirsch.

  “I bought a newspaper with my earnings.” Enoch jumped up from the curb and rushed towards the detective with the newspaper in his hand. “I’ve circled some vacancies, which I intend to visit tomorrow. And you won’t have to give me any money for the omnibus. I can pay my own way now.”

  The boy smiled proudly, displaying that sparkle in his eyes that had so endeared him to Billings when they first met, and which still made the butterflies in his stomach flap their wings.

  “I also read this.” Enoch showed Billings an article in the newspaper about the Hirsch brothers. “They’ve been caught, then?”

  Billings frowned. “You know I can’t talk to you about the case.” He headed for the front door and stuck the key in the lock.

  “Well, you don’t need to tell me that they’ve been caught. It already says so in here. You arrested them at a pub in Bethnal Green. What I want to know is, what will happen to them now? Will they be sent to prison? Will they be extradited?”

  Extradited. How did a poor, working class boy like Enoch know a word like extradited, Billings wondered. He remembered Mrs Appleby’s concerns about the Irishman’s identity. He also noticed that Enoch’s accent, which was very broad when they first met, had watered down over the past few weeks.

  “Why do you care about what happens to the Hirsch brothers?” he asked.

  “I care, because it’s your case. I want you to share things with me.”

  “Why?”

  “Because I’m your friend. Don’t you want someone to share things with?”

  “Is that part of my duty as your sponsor?”

  “You’re not my sponsor anymore.” He took a threepenny bit out of his pocket and held it up for Billings to see. “I told you. I can pay my own way now.”

  “So if I’m not your sponsor, then what am I?”

  Enoch thought about this. “You’re a friend.”

  “A friend?”

  “A companion.” He smiled mischievously, then leaned in to the detective’s ear and whispered: “A lover.”

  Billings laughed. He wasn’t sure what to make of that term. A lover. He never thought he’d be somebody’s lover.

  Billings opened the front door, and they entered the house.

  “So what’s going to happen to them, then?” Enoch asked. “Are you sending them back to France to be guillotined?”

  “I told you. I’m not allowed to speak to you about it.”

  “Oh, come on. You can tell me.”

  “No, I can’t. Now stop pestering me about it.”

  Billings hung his coat and hat on the hatstand and rushed up the stairs.

  Enoch called after him. “Aren’t we going out for a drink? It’ll be my treat.” He held his coin up again.

  “Not tonight. I’m tired.”

  Billings rushed into his room and locked the door behind him. His hand was still trembling, and his head was pounding. He plunged himself down on his bed and covered his eyes with his forearm. He was just able to hear Enoch mumble to himself as he did so.

  “You’re always tired.”

  Mrs Appleby was standing in the hallway when Billings came down for breakfast the following morning. She was holding a letter in her hand.

  “Oh, Mr Billings, I just received this,” she said, waving the letter in the air.

  “What is it?”

  “Have a look for yourself.” She handed the letter to the detective.

  It was a telegram addressed to Mr Enoch McCain.

  “It’s from Paris,” Mrs Appleby said, raising her eyebrows.

  Billings turned the letter around in his hands while Mrs Appleby looked on. “I’ll go upstairs and give it to him.”

  “You’re not going to open it now?”

  “It’s not addressed to me,” he said, and before Mrs Appleby was able to say anything else, Billings rushed back up the stairs, eager to avoid any more of her suspicious insinuations.

  Enoch was lying in his bed. Billings popped his head into the room. “There’s a letter for you.”

  “A letter? For me?”

  “It’s a telegram. From Paris.”

  Billings handed him the telegram. He stood by the bed while Enoch read it.

  Enoch finished reading the telegram and folded it up. He opened the drawer of his bedside cabinet and slipped the letter in it. “Thank you,” he said, looking up at Billings and smiling.

  Billings remained by the bed, watching him. He was dying to know the contents of the telegram but didn’t want to ask. “You had better get dressed now,” he said. “I’ll be leaving for work soon.”

  “I’ll be down for breakfast shortly.”

  Billings hesitated. He waited a little longer to see if Enoch would tell him anything more, but the Irishman just stared back at him, smiling.

  “Very well.” Disappointed, Billings finally turned around and headed for the door.

  Enoch burst out laughing. “You’re priceless, John! You really are! I know you’re dying to know what was in the telegram. Why don’t you ask me?”

  “Because it’s none of my business.”

  “Of course it’s your business. You have every right to know what’s in it.” He took the telegram back out of the drawer and held it out to Billings. “Here you go. Read it. I have no secrets from you.”

  Billings took the letter from him. The telegram was in French. It read:

  I have transferred 100 Francs to your account.

  Love

  M

  “You speak French?” Billings asked, looking up from the telegram.

  “Why wouldn’t I? It’s commonly taught at school, you know.”

  “It’s just that I thought…”

  “You thought what? That I was a poor, ignorant Irish boy?”

  “Well…”

  “One of the many unskilled, uneducated rural papists who cross the Irish
Sea looking for a better life?”

  “Most of the Irish that come here are poor and uneducated. It was a fair assumption to make.”

  Enoch smiled. “I suppose it was. And perhaps I did mislead you a little bit.”

  “How did you mislead me?”

  “Perhaps I exaggerated my Irish accent a little when I first met you.”

  “I have noticed you’re speaking differently now.”

  “Well, you seemed like the type who liked a bit of rough, so I put on an act. But I’m not who you think I am. I grew up in Liverpool, like I told you. And I come from a good family. My father was a school teacher. And I did a bit of teaching myself.”

  “What did you teach?”

  “French. I taught French at a girls’ school in Liverpool.”

  Billings raised his eyebrows. Enoch didn’t seem old enough to be a teacher. He wasn’t sure whether or not to believe this. The boy was an enigma. The only thing he knew for sure about him was that he didn’t know anything at all.

  “I see.” Billings turned back to the telegram. “So who’s ‘M’?”

  “‘M’ is short for Marcel.”

  “And who’s Marcel?”

  “Marcel is a kind French gentleman I met when I first arrived in London. He looked after me for a few weeks.”

  “Another sponsor?”

  “That’s right. Another gentleman with a weakness for rough-looking Irish boys.”

  Billings cast his eyes to the ground and blushed. A weakness for rough-looking Irish boys. Enoch was right, of course. He always did feel attracted to wild youths. They were passionate, spontaneous, unafraid of life. The complete opposite to him.