Will Thomas - Some Danger Involved

"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.

I loitered with intent in the theater as it slowly emptied, but I saw no one else involved in the case. I half expected to see Nightwine or Rushford; this was their type of crowd. Within ten minutes, the time it took Barker to return, the ushers and I had the lobby to ourselves.

"Are you ready, lad?"

"Yes, sir."

"Did you see anyone connected with the case?"

I told him about the girl I'd seen at the funeral. "Have you any idea who she might be?" I asked.

We stepped outside. Barker raised his cane and we hailed a cab. "A Jewess that pretty and still unmarried is rare enough to be remarked upon. I believe she is Rebecca Mocatta, the rabbi's daughter. I've asked her father for a private interview with her, since she was a close friend of Pokrzywa's. So far, the rabbi has not responded. I wish I had been here myself."

"Sorry, sir. I would have gladly stopped her had I known you wanted to speak to her."

"I have no doubt you would, you rascal," he chuckled. "So, the Mocattas went to the theater tonight, did they? I'm sure they enjoyed it about as little as did we. And you saw no one else here tonight you recognized, Jew or Gentile?"

"No, sir. How was your interview?"

My employer snorted. "That egotistical little windbag. To hear him tell it, his fame has been long overdue. He's going to ride this hobbyhorse as far as it will go. He's talking of playing Fagin next in a version of Oliver Twist."

"Is there anything to connect him to the case?"

"I doubt it was his plan to kill Pokrzywa as some sort of publicity stunt for his play. I cannot see Rosewood as some diabolical leader of the Anti-Semite League, not unless he's a much better actor than I give him credit. Frankly, he doesn't seem intelligent enough to orchestrate such an operation."

"Another dead end," I complained.

Barker turned his head my way. "Would you rather I fasten blame on someone without proof or sufficient evidence?"

"No, sir!" I said, realizing he'd taken my remark as a criticism. "I didn't mean it like that."

"Patience, lad. Remember? Every suspect you eliminate brings you closer to a solution. It's still early days yet, and we're coming along. You've discovered something very important."

"What's that, sir?"

"The stunner with the pretty eyes is Rabbi Mocatta's daughter," Barker said, giving me another of his little nudges in the ribs. It galled me to think that he had complained about my sense of humor.

I was at the Hammond the next morning, typing up all that had occurred so far in our investigation. Barker claimed that a dry listing of facts would be helpful in clearing his mind, but I secretly felt he was giving me busywork. I couldn't think of anyone else to interview, and, I suspected, neither could he. Was this normal, or was my employer floundering out of his depth as Nightwine had suggested? I had no way to judge; the fellow was an enigma to me, and my knowledge of detective work rudimentary at best.

Jenkins came through the room with some papers, moving as slowly and surely as a clockwork automaton. He was always this way in the mornings, half asleep, moving about like a somnambulant and propping himself against door frames for support. As the day progressed, he would become more and more animated, until he was near frantic by five o'clock, trying to get all the duties he had neglected finished.

As for Barker, he, too, was ruminating. He began in the office, pacing from the desk to the window, the window to the bookshelves, and back to the desk. Eventually, he ended up in the little outdoor court, wandering about in the cold. It didn't matter to me how mad he looked, if his thoughts were actually getting him somewhere.

Since joining Barker's employ, I had enjoyed a highly irregular schedule. Some days we ignored the office entirely, our only communication being a telephone call or a message from Jenkins. We had meals at all hours of the day and sometimes went without. Our visit to the theater the night before had been part of our investigation, and since we did not get home to Barker's ritual bath until nearly midnight, I had put in a sixteen-hour day. Not that I'm complaining, you understand. I was fortunate indeed to have an employer who liked a little flexibility in his schedule.

I had picked up The Times and was preparing to study it for the day's events. Barker felt a complete reading of the daily was essential in our work. It was nearing noon, and my employer, having completed his circuit, was back by his desk. Jenkins was lazily buzzing around the room, like a trapped bluebottle, lighting here and there. I had finished my report and placed it on Barker's desk, and he was just starting to go over it. I was a bit bored, to tell the truth, and hoped we might go back to the City after lunch, as this inactivity galled me. Those were my thoughts as I picked up the newspaper and noted the date, which was the twentieth of March.

I leapt to my feet, knocking my castered chair across the room. My heart was pumping like a thoroughbred's at Ascot, and though I reached out to the desk to steady myself, I couldn't feel the wood under my fingers.

"Good heavens, man," Barker remonstrated. "What is the matter?" He had that same look on his face his Pekingese got when its dignity was affronted.

"IЧ IЧ IЧ" I began, then tried again. "I have to leave, sir. I require the rest of the day off."

"You what?"

"I have to go, sir. Now! I'm sorry. Oh, hang it!" I ran out of the room. Jenkins was ambulating again, and I got past him just in time. If Barker tried to follow, the clerk had sealed up the doorway for a moment or two. I clattered down the front steps, too upset to even remember my hat and stick. I hurried down Whitehall toward Charing Cross, close to a dead run. I didn't care a pin about what the people who watched me pass by must think. I had more important things on my mind.

I reached Waterloo, and realizing I couldn't keep this pace up, I stopped to catch my breath, while I watched the cold gray water of the Thames pass under the bridge. My mind kept repeating the phrase: twenty March, twenty March, twenty March.