Bruce Alexander - Person or Persons Unknown

It was unlocked. I swung the door open and eased him up the single step and inside. We stood in the hall and listened. There seemed to be no one about.

”Halloo!” he called. “Anyone here?”

There was indeed someone there. At the far end of the hall, a face appeared — bearded yet still peculiarly youthful. “Ah!” said the face, and out popped the body, black-clad and rotund. Rabbi Gershon hurried to greet us, his short legs propelling him forward with a rolling gait, the toddling walk of a very young child. “Sir John Fielding! Jeremiah! Welcome!”

I could tell from the smile spreading over Sir John’s face that he did indeed feel truly welcome. Yet he did not reply until the rabbi was upon us. Then did he grope forward with his right hand for the hand of the other. He grasped it firmly and shook it.

“Good day to you. Rabbi Gershon,” said he. “I trust we are not intruding?”

“Not at all,” said he. “I was studying Talmud, and that I can do, Baruch HaShem, every day of my life.”

Then did Rabbi Gershon shake my hand, as well, murmuring my name as he did.

“Now,” said he to Sir John, “to what do I owe your visit? I am always happy to see you here, but I sense this is some special mission. How can I help you?”

“Well, you are right that this is a special mission. And right, too, that we seek your help.”

“So… explain.”

And, briefly. Sir John did just that. He told of the two murders, twenty-eight days apart, and dwelt upon the brutality of the second. Putting emphasis on the difficulty he had encountered so far in his inquiry — the lack of clues, the absence of witnesses — he concluded by saying that there was one whom he wanted for questioning that had so far eluded them completely. “I had hoped,” he concluded, “that you might help us find him.”

“Then he must be a Jew.”

“Well, er … yes, so it is said.”

“And what is his name?”

“I have been given a first name only — or perhaps just a nickname, one in any case, with which I was heretofore unfamiliar…”

“Sir John, please, what is his name?”

“Yossel.” Though not difficult, the name seemed to come ill to his tongue in this instance.

“Ah. Yossel! Yossel Davidovich! — the very one who came to mind!”

“Would you think him capable of such acts?”

Rabbi Gershon considered this for a good, long moment, then he shook his head. “In my opinion, no,” said he. “He is, in the Christian phrase, a ‘lost sheep.’ He has turned his back on his family, his heritage, his religion. Yossel has, as I have heard, even denied he is a Jew. He goes about clean-shaven and dressed as any other who might be seen in the street.”

He paused and looked unhappily first at Sir John and then at me. “But no, I would not say he could do the things that you describe. Sir John Fielding. Let me tell you a story. In the town I lived in as a boy, there was a man who owned a dog. He was a hateful man, and his dog was vicious. He called him his Jew-killer, thinking that a great joke, and he let him roam free, so that every time we set off for shul it seemed that the dog would block our way. He would growl and bark at us wildly, like a monster, and come at us. He put fear into our hearts, for we were but children, and we would run from him and go another way to the synagogue which took us near a verst out of our way. Finally, as we grew older and our bar mitzvah approached, we began to take heart, thinking ourselves near manhood. One of our number declared that he would not again be stopped by that dog, no matter what his name and no matter how loud he barked. And so, the next time we took that same path, that same dog appeared. He growled — oh, how he growled! — and he barked like thunder and showed his teeth. Yet the brave one among us, who was neither the largest nor the strongest, would not turn round and run. He walked forward directly at the dog, slowly, staring him in the eyes. When they were close, the dog stopped, but the boy kept on. The dog could only attack or retreat. He retreated, barking at first, giving ground. But as the boy continued to come at him, he began to whine and trot, looking back at his tormentor. Finally, he ran away. The rest of us cheered at that, and from that day, whenever the dog saw us he went slinking off, never bothering any one of us again.”

A moment passed in silence. I took it that Sir John was waiting to be sure that the rabbi had concluded.

Then, having satisfied himself, he spoke: “Are you suggesting that Yossel’s bark is worse than his bite?”

“Is that how it is said here? It is different in Russian.” Rabbi Gershon nodded. “Perhaps I am saying that. But perhaps Yossel Davidovich has no bite at all.”

“It was reported to me that he stole from prostitutes, sometimes threatening them with a knife.”

“To threaten is one thing; to use, another. I think Yossel is a coward who would appear dangerous.”

“That’s as may be, but he was seen quarreling with the second victim by four witnesses — a woman, by the bye, who it now seems was herself a thief. In all truth. Rabbi, I wish only to put questions to him. He is not yet a suspect. Yet it counts against him that he is nowhere to be found.” “I will find him,” said Rabbi Gershon. “I will try.” “Thank you,” said Sir John. “I hoped that you would do this for me.”

“In all truth. Sir John, I do it also for my people, my congregation. Matters such as this often have a way of turning out for the worse for Jews.”

As if to justify the rabbi’s apprehensions, upon our return to Number 4 Bow Street Mr. Marsden handed me a broadsheet with a frown and a shake of his head.

“Just see what they’re hawking in Covent Garden.” said he quietly. “You’d best read it to Sir John.”

“Read what?” demanded Sir John, whose keen ears had picked up Mr. Marsden’s muttering with no difficulty whatever. “What have you there?”

“A broadsheet, sir,” said the clerk. “It’s all about the murder of that woman two nights back. I don’t think you’ll like it, not one word of it.”

No, he did not. I have not kept a copy of that inflammatory document, so I shall not attempt to quote verbatim. The important points were these: It had been a bloody murder (the writer had no idea how bloody, for he mentioned only the wound at her throat). The victim, one Priscilla Tarkin, known commonly as Polly, frequented the streets and inns surrounding Covent Garden. Those who knew her well had seen her that very night in great contention with a villain known as Yossel. Said Yossel was certain to be Polly’s murderer, her friends agreed, for he was known as a “high-ripper,” one who robbed women such as her of their meagre earnings at knife-point, threatening to disfigure or otherwise wound them. Yossel was known to one and all as a Jew, and the mortal wound he inflicted was of the ceremonial sort, well known in parts of Europe where Jews kidnap Christian children and bleed them dry in heathen ceremonies.

And so on. Each of these main points was developed at some length, particularly the last, which repeated many of the calumnies commonly laid upon the Israelites. It was noteworthy, however, that the anonymous author made no effort to tie the most recent murder to the one which had been discovered twenty-eight days before. It made me wonder if it was known to him.

Anonymous author, indeed! I was near certain that I knew him who had written this by his past works and even by name! Could Sir John be as certain as I? If so, then judging by all outward signs manifested by the magistrate, Ormond Neville, poet and journalist, was in for a rough go of it.

I had never before actually known Sir John to gnash his teeth. Yet as I sat in that chair which Thaddeus Millhouse had earlier occupied and read to the magistrate from that scandalous broadsheet, I became aware of a most disconcerting sound of grinding which came to me from across the desk. I looked up and saw that Sir John’s mouth was shut tight, his chin perhaps thrust forward a bit, but that his jaws were moving perceptibly from side to side. This reaction from him was intermittent and came at those moments when he was trying hardest to suppress his rage at what I read. Yet throughout my reading — in any case, each time I glanced up — I saw his hands on the desktop fixed tight in fists. At last, I concluded.