tower that William the Conqueror had built on old Roman ruins. So much history was here, and such pathos. I was shown to a cell where the little princes had been confined, and where Lady Jane Grey had spent her final hours. Sir Walter Raleigh, Anne Boleyn, and Elizabeth the First all were imprisoned here at one time or other.
The warder showed me through the armory, where suits of armor and weaponry of all sorts hung by the thousands. I conjectured that this was what had first brought Barker to the Tower. Then I saw the British crown jewels, in their heavily guarded cage, including the infamous Koh-i-noor, all 106 carats of her. Finally, I was led to the northeast corner of the White Tower, which once housed the old observatory.
'Best for last,' the warder said, putting his arm out of the window. There was a flapping sound, and when he pulled in his arm, a large black raven was on his wrist. He brought the bird to me. It cocked its eye at me, reminding me of Harm.
'I am the raven master here,' the fellow explained. 'As you know, legend has it that the Tower and England itself will fall if the ravens ever leave the Tower. We always keep a dozen or so with their wings clipped. Richard here is an exception. He showed up one day with a damaged foot, which we set to rights. He's stayed ever since.'
'Why do you call him Richard?' I asked.
'Because he walks with a limp, like Richard the Third. I didn't have the heart to hurt him any further.'
Barker and the yeoman porter came in, and the raven took the opportunity to fly out the window. Both men were walking with their hands behind them, like old friends. The porter, master over all the guards in the Tower, was a powerfully built man with salt-and-pepper whiskers cut in a perfect square.
'Ah, Thomas,' Barker said. 'Excellent. I brought you up to see the view. You can see all of Aldgate from here. There is the High Street and Petticoat Lane. There is where Fenchurch and Leadenhall split, and that large building in the distance is the Bank of England, with Saint Paul's looking over its shoulder.'
'It's an incredible view,' I agreed. From here the City still looked medieval, with narrow streets and low buildings.
'It's one of my favorite spots in all of the Tower,' the porter said. 'It makes me feel like we're still watchmen over the City, guardians, as it were.'
'You have a great responsibility, sir. This place is so full of history, so much of what made this country what it is,' I said. I thanked my guide for giving me a personal tour of the old fortress.
Barker was leaning against the thick stone window frame, contemplating the scene before him. For once, I thought I knew what he was thinking. Somewhere out there were the killers of Louis Pokrzywa.
'Cyrus,' the porter prompted.
Barker left the window regretfully. 'Thank you for your time, Robert,' he said, shaking the porter's hand. 'You have my card.'
In a few moments, we were walking along the Tower wall to the entrance again.
'That was just wonderful, sir. Words cannot describe it.'
'Thought you might like it,' he responded.
'Might I take it that the porter was another of your 'watchers'?'
'You heard it from his lips. He takes his responsibilities seriously. See these little flats along the wall? They are called the Casements. The warders live here, in the Tower itself. The old yeomen are an important part of the City community. They may be aging, but they were once the cream of the Royal Army and Marines. They are old hands at intelligence gathering.'
'Where to now, sir?'
'Let us go back to our office and check the final post, then step round to the Rising Sun for a light meal. I have an interesting evening planned. And look here! It's John Racket and Juno, right when we need them.'
9
Barker was silent after we returned to the office. He sat in his chair, with his fingers intertwined and his elbows on the desk, and did not move for twenty minutes. Whether he was praying, or meditating, or merely thinking, I took the time to go through the final post. At exactly five thirty, Jenkins sprinted out the door on his way to the Rising Sun and his first pint.
'How many men,' Barker said aloud, 'would it take to start a pogrom in London?'
I considered. 'Fifty at least. Perhaps a hundred.'
'And how many men in London have such a hatred of the Jews that they would band together to create one?'
'I have no idea.'
'It cannot be that many. Oh, there is always that part of society that finds others inferior. We all have our little prejudices. But hatred, enough to form a league bent on destroying themЕ'
He went over to a smoking cabinet among his shelves and took down another carved pipe, a coiled dragon. Then he crossed to an old wooden jar, full of his new tobacco, and charged his pipe.
'There's only one way to gather a group of any size. One must canvass. Now, if I walked into a pub and said, 'Let's go next door and attack the Jews, beat them, and destroy their businesses,' I don't think I'd get many to go with me. The English are not barbarians. But if I said, 'Those Jews are taking our jobs, our homes, and pretty soon our women; let's teach them a lesson,' I'd probably clear the room. It's how mobs start. Most of the men in pubs are half bored, looking for something to do, and anxious to air their grievances.'
'Someone should be watching the pubs, then,' I stated.
'I agree.'
'That's too tall an order for us. There are hundreds of them.'
'We need volunteers watching them.'
'The Jews!' I suggested.
'The Sephardim, perhaps. The Ashkenazim would be too obvious. I suppose we're only talking about the East End. Take a letter.'
I reached for my notebook.
Sir Moses Montefiore
Saint Swithen Lane
The City
Sir Moses,
I am convinced that any possible pogrom would be pressed from the public houses around the East End. It would be to our advantage to recruit a force of our own to patrol as many of them as possible. Needless to say, these fellows would have to be nondescript. Do you think such an army is feasible?
Your obedient servant,
Cyrus Barker
'What about the Reverend McClain?' I asked. 'Didn't you say he frequently went into pubs?'
'Now you're thinking like an enquiry agent, lad! Unfortunately, he is not generally in a position to overhear anything, considering that his face is so well known. He wears the blue ribbon of temperance and is not above busting up a pub with a stout hammer. Also, he wouldn't send any of his own people, for many of them have given up the bottle themselves. It would be too much of a temptation for them.'
'Just the letter, then.'
'Aye, the one letter will do. We'll drop it in the pillar-box on our way.'
I knew he wanted me to ask where we were going, but I decided to keep silent. Barker went down the short hall, into one of the anonymous rooms with the yellow doors, and returned with two disreputable-looking Gladstone bags. He tossed one to me and we left the chambers.
We had sandwiches at the Rising Sun, across from Scotland Yard. The proximity to the Yard rather unnerved me, for I still had the former prisoner's antipathy to policemen. For a moment, I felt the clasp of cold iron around my wrists and ankles again, and the prodding of a truncheon in my kidneys. I had a sense of what would happen next, and I spoke up.
'We're going into 'A' Division, aren't we?'
