Will Thomas - Some Danger Involved

Not even the most virulent invective Madam Mocatta might have come up with could have dashed colder water on my dreams than the gentle words of the rabbi. No one had planted a tree when I was born. We owned no plot in which to grow it. My family had no mansion and had never even heard of a chuppa. The water in my father's bath was gray with coal dust when he left it each night, and my mother's faith in Jesus Christ and John Wesley were all that kept her going when times were lean, which was often. I felt just then that I had no more chance of a relationship with Rebecca Mocatta than if she had been a princess among the Venusians. For all the studying and mingling I had done, I felt no closer to this alien race than I had to the crown jewels when I was in the Tower looking through the bars. I am always an outsider.

How had he known? Rebecca and I hadn't exchanged a word in his presence. Was it coincidence, perhaps, or a set speech he made to discourage unworthy suitors? No, he scarce seemed the type. These rabbis seemed rather unworldly to a fellow raised among solid Methodists. I felt they could almost read my mind. And just what had Reb Shlomo meant by that remark about trapdoors?

I came into the hall through the kitchen, and the first thing I saw was Rebecca with a look of concern on her face. Did she already know what her father had said to me? Were they all clairvoyant? I wondered. Then she turned her gaze and I saw that it was not her father who caused such anxiety. A tall figure stood in the hallway, black as death against the white entrance door. It was Barker.

I looked into the sitting room at the clock. It was barely four. He was early; I still had almost two hours left. He paid no attention to me but stepped over to the rabbi and spoke to him in low tones. I strained to listen but only caught the words, "Take him." Mocatta nodded his agreement.

"Come, lad," my employer said. "Fetch your hat and coat. We must away."

I collected my things in the kitchen. By the time I came back, the rest of the family had come in, no doubt to look at the spectacle that is Cyrus Barker, agent of enquiry. I couldn't resist one parting shot at Mrs. Mocatta. I spoke up boldly.

"I fear we must leave early, Madam, but it has been a pleasure serving your family. I thank you for inviting me into your beautiful home. Good day."

What could she say after that? She was speechless. She gave a high-pitched squeak as if her pearl necklace was too tight and nodded as I shook her icy hand. Then I turned and put on my bowler hat. I dared look boldly into Rebecca's eyes for just a second, and tilted my hat at enough of an angle to be rakish, before following my employer out the door.

"What was all that about?" Barker muttered as we got into Racket's cab. He missed nothing.

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"Let's not start that again, Thomas. Don't play the innocent with me. I know better. Tell me everything from the moment you walked in the door."

I did so. I had hoped to leave my romancing out, but it was too tied up in everything. The best I could do was to abbreviate. If I hadn't risked that glance and had set my hat on properly, I might have gotten away with it. But I'd forgotten that behind those black lenses Barker sees everything.

"I don't approve of your romancing witnesses," he said, "unless it is on my order. But then, you were in prison for a few months. I suppose you're only human. Just watch yourself, Thomas."

"Yes, sir," I said. I sat back in the cab and looked out ahead of me as Barker did. We were heading northeast, toward the City again.

"You arrived early," I said, with a sudden pricking of my thumbs.

"Yes," Barker responded. "There has been another murder."

Cyrus Barker was upset. I could see it now in the way he sat. He didn't have that calm demeanor I'd come to expect from him. In fact, he was restless, bouncing about in the cab until I could hear the springs underneath protest. I was about to protest, myself.

"I don't like it!" Barker said, smiting his thigh like a petulant child. "Perhaps I am vain, but I like to think that when the criminals hear that I am on a particular case, they blanch in fear, or at least alter their plans. This carrying on as if I were inconsequential is an affront to my abilities. To quote Shylock, 'I shall have my pound of flesh.'†"

"Have they crucified another Jew?"

Barker seemed not to hear me, but he finally turned toward me. "What? Oh, I beg pardon, lad. I haven't told you. A body has been found in a quarry wagon on a spur near Aldgate Station. It was buried under rubble. Another message from the Anti-Semite League had been scrawled on the wall by it. It is in a short tunnel of the underground, or it would have been found sooner. I haven't seen it yet. Inspector Poole sent me a message."

"Not crucified, then?" I asked. "How was he killed?"

"Stoned. Another Biblical punishment. But it was not a 'he.' The victim was a woman."

"A woman? They killed a woman? How can anyone kill a woman? This is monstrous!"

"I agree."

The enormity of the whole thing struck me. I pictured a phalanx of angry Englishmen stoning a poor Jewess to death. It made my blood boil. As far as I was concerned, the fair sex was somehow precious, inviolate. Had I not just shared a few brief moments with a daughter of Zion? Somewhere, even now, the poor dead woman's loved ones were wringing their hands, perhaps, wondering what had become of her.

We spent the rest of the journey in silence. Barker was irritable and I did not desire to have his discontent directed toward me. I had an unusual question on my mind, one that had only occasionally occurred to me during the course of the investigation: what if we failed?

What if we failed? We'd taken on a seemingly impossible task, hunting down a pack of murderers, a vigilante group, in a city the size of London, with only a few clues and a good deal of hope. What would happen if the league were successful in hiding their identities? Detective work is not like tailoring; when you engage a tailor, he doesn't have to go out on blind faith, hoping that somewhere in the City there is material of the correct color and yardage sufficient to make a frock coat and trousers. We detectives wander about, making cabmen rich, asking innumerable questions and being tossed out of places, hoping that in the end we don't look like fools with our hats in our hands. What does one say to a client at the end of a month or so? "Sorry, old man, couldn't find the blasted fellow?" A couple of those and it's time to take up your brass plate and see if some barrister in the Middle Temple needs a former detective to clerk and run messages.

Aldgate was the easternmost station of the Metropolitan Line, serviced by the London, Midland and Scottish line. Once we entered the station and walked down the staircase to the lower level, it was only a matter of following the policemen, who, like so many breadcrumbs, were scattered along the line. Of course, it wasn't as easy as that, because every constable demanded complete particulars. Barker was reasonably pleasant to the first, a little less so to the second, and downright cold to the third. Finally, we came upon a clutch of blue helmets in the tunnel by the tracks, and there in the thick of them was the heavily whiskered face of Inspector Poole, looking somewhat upset himself.

"Have you removed the body?" Barker growled.

"Don't start, Cyrus," Poole said, running a hand through his thinning ginger hair. "We're already in the middle of a jurisdictional nightmare. Scotland Yard maintains that this is part of an ongoing investigation, the city police claim that the murder occurred in Aldgate and belongs to them, and the railway police have announced that the death was on railway property and refuse to give it up. We're waiting for our superiors to arrive and sort it out. The lord mayor himself may be involved by the end of the day. Still, I think I may get you close enough for a look-see."