Will Thomas: Some Danger Involved

"So he was not alive when he was crucified?"

"No, but he was for the drubbing they gave him. I'd say he must have received ten blows at least, some to the face, some to the rib cage. Either an entire party went at him, or one fellow who was hopping mad."

"Any other marks?" Barker prompted.

"Scratches, splinters, and creosote smears on his back, where he was hoisted up the telegraph pole."

"Telegraph pole?" I wondered aloud.

"Yes, they found him this morning in Petticoat Lane, hoisted up a pole right in the middle of the Jewish quarter of the City. That took brass," Vandeleur said.

"And brains," Barker added. "They must have moved swiftly in the fog last night and set him up before the first vendors came with their barrows. Now the Sunday market is at its busiest, wearing away any clues they left. Llewelyn, would you please find Constable Morrow, and bring the beam and rope?"

"Yes, sir."

There were two benches in the hallway, the first occupied by three biblical patriarchs who could only be the rabbi and his assistants waiting to claim the body, and the other by P. C. Morrow, looking somewhat improved. He had a long coil of rope over his shoulder and a length of wood across his knees. I motioned for him to bring them in. I noticed he followed me reluctantly.

Barker plucked the stout board out of the constable's hands the moment he saw it. It was a rough-hewn piece of wood, about five feet long, and gray with age. My employer turned it over. The entire length of the back had been written on in chalk. The legend read "The Anti-Semite League. Psalm 22:14."

Barker quoted it from memory. "†'I am poured out like water, and all my bones are out of joint; my heart is like wax; it is melted in the midst of my bowels.'†"

"Not a bad description," Vandeleur said. "His bones would have been out of joint while he was suspended, and the thrust of the knife up under the sternum into the lower left ventricle would have produced a watery discharge with the blood."

"A Bible-quoting group of killers. I don't like it," Barker rumbled, his chin buried in his coat. "Murder and faith make nasty bedfellows. Hand me the rope there, Constable."

My employer took the rope and counted the yards by measuring it between his outstretched hands. Then he examined the cut at both ends, the texture, and even the smell of the rope.

"Llewelyn, your notebook, if you please. This is common hemp, over an inch in diameter, and a little short of ten yards long. To what was the other end affixed, Constable?"

"A nearby gas lamp, sir," Morrow spoke up.

"What sort of knot?"

"Bowline, I understand."

"And was the rope tying Mr. Pokrzywa's body to the cross the same sort of rope as this?"

"Yes, sir. It's still in the other room. Shall I trot it out?"

"Aye, please do. This rope smells of animals. It may have come from one of the tanneries in Leadenhall Street, or a knacker's yard, or possibly a ship that transports livestock. Thank you, Constable. Yes, it is the same rope. Not as much blood on it as you would expect. He didn't bleed much from the hand wounds, since he was already dead. Thank you, Dr. Vandeleur, for your patience."

I was relieved we were finally leaving. The strong odors were making me light-headed again. We almost made it out the door when we were stopped on both sides, me by the supercilious guard, who demanded we sign out, and Barker by the rabbi. I filled out the time of our departure, while Barker conversed in low tones with Mocatta, a salt-and-pepper-bearded scholar of perhaps fifty. There were nods all around, the guard included, and we finally left, stepping out into blessed fresh air again.

I took in several lungfuls. Granted, we were near the river and a block or two from the fish market, but compared to inside, we might have been standing on the cliffs of Dover. Barker, as usual, appeared unaffected.

We entered the four-wheeler again and headed north into Aldgate, the Jewish quarter. Every square foot of pavement space contained a sign in English and in Hebrew, a stall of some sort, or an individualЧ man, woman, or childЧ engaged in personal commerce. Match sellers, book dealers, clothing merchants, men selling jewelry from a suitcase, women hawking handmade silhouettes in paper. All this on a Sunday, when church-going Christians in London daren't even ride the "Sabbath Breaker" to Brighton, for fear of breaking the Third Commandment.

Though it was a ghetto in name, Aldgate was not quite what I expected. One side of the quarter backed up onto the worst streets of Whitechapel, but we were just a few minutes' walk from Threadneedle Street and the Bank of England. Even as we drove, the streets began to improve, and within a few moments we were stopping in front of a prosperous-looking residence in Saint Swithen Lane.

A footman in powdered wig and breeches met us at the door. I noticed, just before we entered, that Barker set his walking stick against the wall, outside of the building. A small silver box attached to the doorframe glinted in the pale sunlight. It was my first glimpse of a mezuzah.

Inside, the hall was richly furnished in a somber and conservative style. Frosted globe lamps gleamed against mahogany paneling, and a rich Persian rug carpeted the floor. The footman led us down an opulent hallway lined with cases displaying relics of old Judaica. Silver menorahs, terra-cotta oil lamps, faded silk prayer shawls, ancient Hebrew coins and alms boxes caught my eye as I walked by. I wished I could have stayed a moment and inspected the small cards that told their histories, but Barker and the footman were pulling away, and I hurried to catch up.

We entered a room lit by two fires, so warm that it felt like a Turkish bath. An elderly man sat in a chair facing us, both hands resting on a cane between his feet. He wore a coat that may have fit him at one time, but which now threatened to engulf his frail frame, and a collar so high it looked like his head was resting on a marble pedestal. As I neared, his face seemed even older, his skin like parchment, but the eyes under the bushy brows glowed like coals. As we came up to him, he favored us with a gentle smile. I didn't have to ask if it was this man's note which had summoned us to Aldgate. Barker stopped and bowed low.

"Sir Moses," he murmured.

Of course, I had read of sir Moses Montefiore. Who hadn't? He was the unofficial ambassador of his people to the world, unofficial only because the Jews had no country of their own. Among his titles were knight, baronet, sheriff of London, deputy lieutenant for Kent, magistrate for Middlesex and the Cinque Ports, and president of the Board of Deputies. Since the 1840s he had been crisscrossing Europe, getting Jews out of scrapes in Russia, Romania, Italy, and countless other countries. Now, it seemed, he was finding trouble closer to home.

"Mr. Barker," he began, "pray be seated. You, too, young fellow. Thank you for coming on such short notice, and forgive an old man for calling you away from your observation of the Sabbath. Your devotion does you credit. This is, I believe, the second time we have availed ourselves of your services, is it not?"

"It is," Barker said, sitting relaxed but upright in his chair. "We have just returned from the City Morgue, where we have been examining poor Mr. Pokrzywa."

The old man stiffened. "You have notЕ"

"Touched the body? No, sir, or I would not have entered this residence. The stick I used to examine the corpse is out on the curb."

Sir Moses relaxed. "You know your Jewish customs, Mr. Barker. So, was he literally crucified? I have not viewed the body."

My employer tented his fingers in front of him. "He was tied and nailed to a board that was hung from a telegraph pole."

"Barbaric. A Gentile custom, despite our unwarranted title as 'Christ-killers.' Stoning is the only form of execution permitted to the Jews."