Will Thomas - Some Danger Involved

"You see that roughening up there near the top? That's where they threw the rope over to hoist him up. I'll hazard there's a groove worn there. And look, here's the gas lamp to which they tied the other end of the rope."

"Ghastly way to die," I muttered.

Barker held up a finger. "Remember, lad, he died from a stab wound and was already dead when he was brought here. Not that it was any less painful."

He walked around the pole a final time, looking at the surrounding pavement. It was free of any soil which might leave tracks.

"Nothing. Clever rascals. Come, lad, let's continue our tour of Aldgate."

We left the crowds. Barker turned down a street called Harrow and moved swiftly through a number of short streets and odd turnings. It was obvious he knew the area very well. We turned up in Duke's Place, a respectable-looking street of the middle class. We hadn't gone a block when my employer suddenly nudged me into a side lane or court. The alley had a stone archway with large finials shaped like pinecones.

"What is it?" I asked. Barker pointed to a doorway behind me. There was a white stone entranceway engraved with Hebrew lettering, set into a brick wall, with delicate iron tendrils reaching out to bracket a lamp in front of the door.

"It is Bevis Marks, the Spanish and Portuguese synagogue."

"What's it doing in this alley?"

"One of the demands of the Church of England in 1700 was that the synagogue not attempt to attract converts with an ostentatious entrance."

"So, what are we doing here?"

"We're interviewing our first witness, the fellow who got into that spot of trouble in Hyde Park. According to Sir Moses' little note, he is the shammes or caretaker of the building. Let's go in."

We entered through the discreet doors. Inside was a lobby lit by a huge chandelier. The place seemed deserted. It was afternoon. Barker raised an eyebrow my way, with an almost conspiratorial look, and led me forward to the door of the sanctuary. We dared to peek in. The interior was dim, even with more chandeliers casting a warm glow. Ancient high-backed pews took up the middle aisles, and there was a gallery with latticework, where I assumed the women were to sit. There were marble pillars, and a large ark on the east side for the sacred scrolls. For all that, it didn't have the alien feeling I expected.

"Architecturally, it's not much different from the Tabernacle this morning," I said to Barker.

"That's because the builder was a Quaker. Jews were prohibited from building for themselves."

"May I help you gentlemen?"

We both jumped. Barker let go of the door, which swung shut with a biblical finality. Our discoverer was even less foreign than the sanctuary. Instead of a solemn-faced Ezekiel, or a devout Moses, he was a red-haired, jovial Pickwick of a fellow in spectacles and starched white tie. Young, and tending toward portliness, he could have posed for a John Bull advertisement for ale or cigars.

"I'm looking for Michael Da Silva," Barker said.

"Look no further, then, for I am he. How may I be of service?"

Barker rummaged around in his coat, and for a moment, I saw him through Da Silva's eyes. Were I caretaker of this edifice, I'd look twice at this tall, dark-spectacled stranger. He finally produced the carte de visite Sir Moses had given him and explained in a few words his purpose in coming.

"Are you here because of the murder in Petticoat Lane?" the shammes asked. "Was he actually crucified? We heard the wildest reports at service this morning. Yes, before you ask, we do have service on Sunday morning, just not Shabbat service."

"We are investigating the murder for the Board of Deputies. They are also concerned about a possible increase in anti-Semitism in town. May we speak privately?"

"Certainly. Let us step into my office."

I would more likely have called it a broom closet. Space must be at a premium in the old synagogue, or perhaps people were smaller in 1700. As we squeezed in and sat among the chairs and desk and filing cabinets, I had a closer look at our witness. There was little to suggest his Semite blood at all, save the small gold Star of David suspended from his neck. His sleek stoutness, his ruddy hair, and his entire costume bespoke the well-fed country parson.

"Mr. Da Silva," Barker rumbled in that foggy voice of his, "could you tell us about the incident in Hyde Park last week?"

"Oh, that!" the caretaker said, as if he'd suddenly found which cubbyhole to put us in. "†'Straordinary thing. We weren't but a few hundred yards from Sir Moses' old residence in Park Lane. I was coming back from a Jewish women's organization luncheon, the Daughters of Judah, where they had asked me to speak about my work. Bevis Marks is the oldest surviving synagogue in England, gentlemen, and we pride ourselves on the fact that almost everything in the building is close to two hundred years old, including the chairs you are sitting in right now."

"You were coming backЕ," Barker prompted him.

"Yes, I was. They feed you well at these luncheons. To be truthful, I would have liked to retire to my office and close my eyes for about twenty minutes. I wasn't even really listening to the fellow ranting in the Speaker's Corner, until I heard that unfortunate word."

We looked at the caretaker for a moment, before Barker finally asked, "What word would that be, Mr. Da Silva?"

"Well, I will not say it. Bad enough that it should be forever in my ears. I do not wish it to pass through my lips." The man's yellow sleekness began to mottle red, as if one had adjusted a valve at his collar and admitted some steam.

"What exactly was he saying, beyond the unfortunate word?" Barker continued.

"He claimed we were responsible for a lot of good men being out of work. He called us bloodsuckers, charging usury on loans, and living off people who could ill afford it. He said London would be knee-deep in Eastern Europe refuse if something wasn't done. He hinted at unnatural ritualsЕ I assume he was talking about the old blood libel. He just went on and on. It was the worst amalgam of old superstition, prejudice, and blistering invective I've heard in years. Pure vitriol."

"What did he look like?"

"Fortyish. Average height and build. He had a red birthmark on his chin. Middle class at best. He had a strong voice, rough, but it carried. I'll bet they could hear it on Serpentine Lake and Rotten Row."

"Had he attracted much of an audience?"

"He had, indeed. When I arrived, there must have been close to three dozen men listening, and a few in the periphery, I'd say."

"How would you describe his audience? Were they upperclass or lower? Young or old?"

Da Silva looked to the right, and I saw he was concentrating.

"Lower-class idlers, mostly, in the area as a lark. A few may have been drunk. No women or children. All sorts of ages."

"And how were they responding to the message?"

"There were a few 'hear-hear's' and 'that's right's' while I was listening. That's why I spoke up. I couldn't let this fellow sway the crowd."

"What exactly did you say?"

Mr. Da Silva ran a hand over his face, leaving a whitish print across his mottled features where his hand had passed. "I have little idea nowЕ Something like 'Dash it, you're getting it all wrong.' I tried to argue with him point by point, but he wouldn't argue. He just called me an idiot and a Jew-lover. The crowd was getting surly, and one of them seized my jacket. That's when they saw the Magen David hanging around my neck. One took hold of my collar and cuffed me in the head. The next I knew, I was lying in the grass, being kicked in the ribs and shoulders. Can you believe it? In Hyde Park! In broad daylight!"

"How did you get free?" Barker asked.

"I heard a police whistle, and two constables came running from different directions. The listeners all scattered, including the speaker who'd started it all. The constables were not exactly solicitous when they found out I was a rabbi, but they realized an outrage had occurred. They took my statement and told me they would look into the matter. If you ask me, that statement is in a rubbish bin in Hyde Park right now."