cheap!'
'Just ignore them, lad,' Barker ordered, pulling me through the crowd.
'Why aren't they bothering you?' I asked. 'You're dressed as well as I.'
'They know better.'
I looked at the faces of the crowd. Most looked like average Londoners, and a few like music-hall versions of Jews, but now and then I saw true Semitic faces: Russian Jews with babushka scarves or fur-trimmed hats, old men who would have looked at home in bazaars in Damascus or Casablanca, and bright-eyed children with black curls and earrings, looking as if they'd just fallen off a gypsy caravan.
'Mind your wallet,' Barker continued. 'This is a knucker's paradise.'
I tapped my back pocket. My wallet had no money save the five-pound note of Barker's, but it contained a few things important to me, so I held on to it. I hadn't heard the word 'knucker' since prison. Where had Barker picked up the word?
'What are we looking for?' I shouted over the noise.
'The telegraph pole they hung him on!' Barker growled back, pointing to the wires overhead.
'How do we know which one it is?'
'Poole will have stationed a peeler underneath, to keep people from climbing it! Evidence, you know!'
We pushed on, and I do mean pushed. It was like being a drone in a beehive, everyone speaking at once, everyone slowly working toward his or her own destination. Barker seemed to have little problem moving through the crowd, but someone plucked at my sleeve every moment or two.
'Aha!' he said, after a few minutes. 'I spy a blue helmet in the crowd about a hundred yards ahead.'
A merchant more determined than the rest had attached himself to my sleeve and was telling me in rapturous terms all about the goods and services he had to offer a fine gentleman like myself. It was flattering to be addressed in such terms, considering I was less than a week away from being a homeless idler, but Barker was pulling away again. So, with one hand I separated him from my arm, then planted the other full in his bearded face and pushed. He gave up and sent me on my way with several curses in Hebrew, before latching on to another fellow almost immediately.
Finally, we reached the center of the Lane, where a burly constable guarded an ordinary-looking telegraph pole. The coroner, Vandeleur, must have been right in his assumption that Pokrzywa had been killed somewhere else. There was almost no blood to be found, just a few rusty stains on the pavement by the pole. It was no secret among the Jews what had happened here, and they vented their displeasure at the terrible event and the presence of the law by spitting on the pavement, though none would dare spit near the constable. He looked like he could tear your head off and use it for rugby drills, were he so inclined. He also looked so inclined.
'I'm Barker,' my employer told the constable. 'Inspector Poole sent me to view the scene of the crime.'
'Yes, sir,' the constable responded, tugging at the brim of his helmet.
'Has anything been disturbed?'
'Nothing really to disturb, sir. There's no soil here to leave impressions of feet and such. Just cobbles and paving stones.'
'Was any blood found in the Lane beyond these few spots?'
'Only at the entrance to the High Street, sir, and that was probably from the Leadenhall meat market.'
'Was there any indication of a wheeled cart having been used? A dogcart or barrow?'
'Well, sir, the fog had deposited a heavy mist on the road, and there were already a coupla' dozen barrows here when we arrived, so it's hard to say.'
'So, nothing. These fellows covered their tracks well.' He stepped back and surveyed the telegraph pole, making a slow circle around it.
'Were the street empty, I'd climb this thing, or have you do it, Thomas. But we'd attract too much of an audience, I suppose.' He contented himself with circling the pole, like a lion that had trapped a pygmy in a tree. He pointed upward.
'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.
