his veneration of the saints, et cetera? Or would he have long ago been subsumed into the general population, leaving the memory of a strange race known as the Hibernians only a footnote in the history books?'
'I see what you mean,' I conceded.
'There was a very interesting page I came upon. Just an entry in his journal, among the others. Louis was pondering whether the coming Messiah would know he was the Messiah. He wondered how high he could go, to what heights he could aspire.'
'Are you telling me Pokrzywa wondered if he was the coming Messiah?' I gasped.
'Not outright, but it was implied.'
'And the looking like Jesus Christ?'
'Was all a part of it. I suppose he could not help looking like he did. He didn't grow a beard to look like Christ, only to follow Jewish custom. But looking so much like him affected him in some ways, I believe. It contributed to his grandiose plans.'
'Can one be obsessed with Christ and not be a Christian?' I said aloud.
'Well, of course, you saw the New Testament in his room. I even found a book of our own Reverend Spurgeon's sermons. But there were also a half dozen books written by Jewish scholars giving their reasons why Jesus could not have been the Messiah. He was studying them. So, I would have said that, no, he was not a Christian, except for one thing.'
Barker reached into his cavernous pockets and pulled out a fold of paper. I took it from his hand. It was a church bulletin from the First Messianic Church of Poplar, dated the ninth of March, not two weeks ago.
'Where did you get this?' I asked.
'It was in the Bible.'
'First Messianic Church of Poplar,' I said. 'It's no denomination I've ever heard of.'
'It is a church for Jews that have converted to Christianity.'
I sat up in my chair. 'Really?'
'Yes, though it was not something he would have spoken about with his friends or rabbis, or put down in journals that didn't have a lock or key.'
'Of course! No wonder he stopped the entries! Was he thinking of converting?'
'There may have been more than religion involved. Look at the margins in the back.'
I turned the circular over. The service's hymns were printed there. Notes had been scribbled in the margins, in pencil, notes in two different hands.
Can you get away tonight?
I'm not sure.
I'll be at the usual place until nine thirty.
I make no promises. I'm being watched. I'll try to be there.
'An assignation!' I said, and whistled. Barker had not wasted his time.
'Yes, and a feminine hand. Unless I'm entirely mistaken, Pokrzywa had met the princess of whom Moskowitz had spoken.'
'I wonder how long it had been going on.'
'Three months, I'd say. The journal entries stopped, you see. I think not only did he wish to avoid setting down his feelings about a Christian-convert girl on paper, he also had nothing else to write about. It is not yet proven, but I believe we shall find that Louis Pokrzywa had given up most of his charity work and could generally be found in the girl's neighborhood, mooning under her window. The longer love tarries, the harder it strikes. After twenty-nine years, Louis was deeply smitten.'
'Was it the girl Ben Judah mentioned seeing?' I asked. 'Was the telegraph pole their 'usual place,' do you think?'
Barker shrugged his thick shoulders. 'Who can say, at this point? But it certainly gives us a place to start.'
'Where?'
'Why, Poplar, of course.'
13
In chapter seven of Matthew, Jesus says, 'Knock and the door shall be opened unto you.' That technique did not work at the First Messianic Church of Poplar. No amount of knocking or knob rattling brought anyone forward to open the door. It was not a traditional church. More likely it had been a large shop, converted over for church usage. There was a faded silk banner over the shop's original sign, which bore the name of the church and the message, 'If the Lord comes today, will you be ready?' The windows were large, but no amount of pressing my nose to them brought anyone out of the gloom. All I could see were rows of chairs and a makeshift podium. It was not exactly Saint Paul's.
'Do you see anything that says when services are held?' Barker asked, looking in as well.
'Yes, sir. There's a small card stuck to the window here. Sunday mornings at nine thirty, Sunday and Wednesday evenings at six thirty.'
'Tomorrow night, then. Very well.' He leaned against a lamp post and pulled some notes out of his coat. I think he carried a working office in his breast pocket.
'What have you got there?' I asked.
'These are the lists of anti-Semite speakers and organizations in London, provided by Brother Andy and the chief porter of the Tower. It's probable that one or more of them are members of the Anti-Semite League that murdered Pokrzywa.'
I looked over his shoulder at the list.
'Good heavens,' I said. 'Most of them are pastors of churches.'
'That is so. One is not five blocks from here. Shall we go and have a look?'
After ten minutes' walk east, we came upon a modest but venerable church. It was not old by London's standards, mid-seventeenth-century at the earliest. Looking around me at this decayed area east of the City, it was hard to imagine it new a century and a half ago, when this was the edge of town and the church looked out onto acres of empty pasture. Now the faзade was crumbling, the stonework blackened with soot, and the board- covered windows were in need of a glazier. Across the entire front were hoardings explaining how the old building was receiving a reprieve:
Come hear the VERY REVEREND ALGERNON PAINSLEY preach from his immortal series, 'THE WANDERING JEW' or 'THE LOST TEN TRIBES OF DIASPORA' every Sunday in April at six P.M. You DARE not miss it!
From the open doors of the church came the steady pounding of hammer and nail. Work was being done on a new platform for the altar, and I noticed as we stepped inside that the old and musty pews had been augmented with temporary chairs. Attendance must be picking up. I followed Barker down the aisle, as he inquired about the whereabouts of the Reverend Painsley. We found him pounding on the platform, as preachers are wont to do, but not generally with a claw hammer in their hand. He stopped at our approach, rolled down the sleeves of his shirt, and came forward to meet us.
'Good afternoon, gentlemen.'
'Sir, we are reporters for the Daily Dispatch, and we are investigating the recent unrest among the Jews.'
'I'll gladly help in any way I can, sirs,' Painsley said. He had a square jaw, blue eyes, and straight, crisp hair the color of straw. A cursory glance told me the fellow was going places and that this crumbling church would not hold him for long. There was high color in his cheeks from his physical exertions, and the strong hand he extended toward me was hard and calloused.
'A terrible tragedy, gentlemen, this crucifixion, but not totally unexpected. The Jews are making things hot for themselves here, flooding in like a Mongol horde from Eastern Europe. I fear the citizenry has grown tired of the steady influx of foreigners, and taken matters into their own hands. It is a mistake, I believe, for our government to leave the drawbridge down for all the refuse of Europe. A worse group of dirty, illiterate communists, anarchists, nihilists, and atheists have never crossed our borders before.'
