'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.'
'Perhaps,' Barker conceded. 'Most constables are conscientious, but a case like this could involve more than they're willing to pursue. Did they escort you back to Bevis Marks or take you to a police station?'
'Neither. They simply let me go. I took an afternoon train back to Aldgate, stopped off at a wine house in Cornhill to steady my nerves with a glass of sherry, and came back here. Everyone was upset, of course, and the Chief Rabbi insisted that I go to a physician. My head was all right despite the clout. The doctor says I am thickheaded! But I may have cracked a rib.'
'Did you happen to notice if you were followed?'
The caretaker turned pale all of a sudden and clutched his ruddy curls. 'No. I didn't look. Do you think I may have been followed? My word. I'm glad I didn't go home. Wait, I did go home later! Do you think some of those fellows may have waited around and followed me?'
'Calm yourself, Mr. Da Silva. I doubt you were followed. But this is not the safest time to be a Jew in London. I would be more circumspect in the future, were I you. Thank you for your time.'
We took our leave of the synagogue. Outside in the lane, Barker took a deep breath, exhaled, and delivered his opinion.
'The Sephardim have been here so long they think like the English middle class. You'll never catch an Ashkenazi so oblivious to danger.'
As we were standing there, an old man passed between us and walked into the synagogue. Barker suddenly opened a note in his hand, perused it, and thrust it into his waistcoat pocket. He consulted his watch.
'I know we have yet to break our fast, but it is tea time. I don't believe it shall spoil our dinner if we stop for a small bite.'
I was near wilting. 'I thought you'd never ask.'
6
Racket's cab was waiting for us as we came into Duke's Place. It was uncanny the way he and his 'magic carpet' turned up at a moment's notice. His beautiful chestnut mare, Juno, stood comfortably in her shafts, her mane and tail glossy from brushing. John Racket was now taking the brush to his wheels. Many hansoms still had metal wheels, and a passenger could have an unforgettable ride when the cab went over cobblestones, but forward-thinking cabmen like Racket had installed rubber tires. They allowed a passenger to glide along the city streets, as if he were in a gondola in Venice. The cabman turned as we approached, scampered up onto his perch, and set the mechanism that opened the doors in the front for us.
'You again, Mr. Racket?' Barker asked, looking up at him over the reins.
'Aye, sir,' Racket replied. 'Wife's on holiday. Thought I'd make an extra bob or two.'
'Brick Lane, then,' Barker bellowed as we took our seats, and in a moment, Juno was clopping down the street with us in tow. We were back in Aldgate Street in a moment.
As we came up on Petticoat Lane to the left, I leaned forward. It was close to five now, and the once tumultuous street was nearly deserted. A few forlorn merchants stood staring at nothing, the hawkers had left off their cries, and the stalls were being dismantled for another week.
Barker sat silently across from me, his thoughts turned toward the new case, no doubt. It was my first moment to myself all day, and I took the time to reflect as we rode. So this was what a private enquiry agent's life was like: the sudden start of an investigation; the visits to morgues and conversations with the police; the formal summonses to clients and the hiring process; the questioning of witnesses; the endless walks and cab rides; the skipping of meals. As far as situations went, it was satisfactory. I wasn't locked up in chambers all day, and there were frequent changes in scenery. I could do without the gruesome bits, but presumably I'd grow accustomed to that. It was even rather thrilling. There was something daring about being an enquiry agent, or at any rate, an enquiry agent's assistant.
Racket brought us up in front of another foreign restaurant. I would have complained, were it not for the fact that the 'good British fare' I'd been experiencing at Barker's residence over the past few days would have choked a pariah dog.
It was an outdoor cafй this time, called the Bucharest. We were seated at a table not far from the curb.
