'Why do you think that?'
'Had she been of our crowd, he wouldn't have hesitated to announce it. He was in love with a common woman, I fear. Was it my fault, do you think, encouraging him? He once walked halfway across Europe, but for all that he still knew so little of the world.'
'One cannot help whom one loves.' I believed it, I think, trying not to stare at the jet hair that was down about her shoulders, and the way the light from the lamp caressed her cheek.
'Miriam,' I murmured to myself.
'It is all I know, I'm afraid,' she said.
'Perhaps not. May I continue?'
'Yes, but hurry!'
'Had Louis Pokrzywa ever mentioned Christianity to you?'
'Yes! He said he'd stopped into a church for Jews who had become Christians. I quite brought him to task. I called him a Marrano and asked if he was thinking of converting to gain political influence, like Mr. Disraeli.'
'I don't follow you. What is a Marrano?'
'You don't know your Jewish history, Mr. Llewelyn? They were the Spanish and Portuguese Jews who converted to Christianity, rather than be tortured in your Inquisition.'
'It wasn't my Inquisition, I assure you. I'm a Welshman, Miss Mocatta, and a nonconformist. I don't believe any of my ancestors were in Spain at the time.'
She smiled. 'Why, Mr. Llewelyn, that was an attempt at humor. I thought you such a serious fellow.'
'What do you know of me?' I asked, but of course the question was rhetorical.
'Only what Mr. Zangwill has told me.'
'You've sent your spies before you.'
'It's the only power I have,' she sighed.
'You have more power than you realize,' I responded, unable to hide a smile.
'You shall make me blush. Are all detectives this forward?'
A half dozen remarks teetered on the tip of my tongue, but I swallowed them and returned to the business at hand.
'Did Louis, at any time you knew him, speak as if his life were in danger?'
'No.'
'But he was secretive.'
'Only near the end, when he spoke of Miriam. Oh, I do hate thatЧ'near the end.' He had no idea he was near the end of his life, you see.' She twisted the lace of her gown.
'When did he first mention her?'
'Less than a month before his death.'
'Did he everЧ' A floorboard overhead creaked. I put out the lamp and flew across the room into the hall, as quietly as I could. I kept to the carpet and got into the sitting room just in time. I was stirring the fire with a poker when her mother came into the room.
She wore a robe so thick it might have been made from carpet, and her jet black hair hung down in a ropelike plait to her waist. Her manner had not changed, however, and she looked at me sternly.
'You're not using too much coal, are you?' she demanded.
'I am trying to be frugal, madam. I will use less, if necessary. Is the fire upstairs satisfactory for Rabbi Mocatta?'
'It is like an oven, but he likes it that way.'
'And the fires in your daughters' rooms, are they satisfactory?'
'Yes, yes.'
'Is there anything else I might be doing for the household beyond the fires and the lamps?'
'We have servants for that, thank you. There shall be several duties in the morning, but none until then.'
'As you wish, madam.'
'What is your name again?'
'It is Thomas Llewelyn.'
'And Mr. Mocatta says you are some sort ofЕ detective?'
'Assistant to Cyrus Barker, private enquiry agent. We're working for the Board of Deputies at the request of Sir Moses Montefiore.'
'Mmph,' she said. It must have irked her not to find anything to criticize. 'Mind you, don't fall asleep and let the rooms grow cold.'
'Your cook has left a full pot of coffee in the kitchen, along with some victuals.' I was rather enjoying the opportunity to use this servant speech. I don't believe I'd ever actually used the word 'victuals' before.
'Very well, then. Good night, Mr. Llewelyn.'
'Good night to you, madam. I hope you and your family sleep well.'
24
When she left, I waited a moment and went into the hallway to look up the staircase. Then I crept into the library again. The room was empty. Rebecca Mocatta must have flitted upstairs while I was talking to her mother. That was close, almost too close, but I was disappointed at not getting to speak with her again. Very disappointed, indeed.
By the time the servants arrived the next morning, I'd become better acquainted with Thomas Hardy, whose heroine, Bathsheba, was a willful, raven-haired beauty, and a danger to all males, coincidentally enough. I helped start the fire in the big iron stove and made myself as useful as possible in the kitchen. I got on well with the staff.
I barely got a glance at Rebecca amidst the flurry of Sabbath morning activity. The rabbi would be reading that day at one of the smaller synagogues in the suburbs. I understood that he made himself available to speak as an interim rabbi wherever he was called upon. At home, he had a distracted air. Perhaps he was thinking about his reading. He seemed to have one foot on this earth and the other in Paradise. His wife was more pragmatic. Both of her feet were firmly on the ground, and had it not been for her, the rabbi might not have made it out the door Saturday mornings.
I carried water to the rooms, acted as a stand-in valet for the rabbi and his son-in-law, a bland and portly fellow with Prince of Wales whiskers, and even added a word or two to Rabbi Mocatta's notes at his request, since he was forbidden to lift a pencil.
With measured precision, the courses were set on the side-board, and the family broke their fast. I replenished the new dining room fire and removed the ash. Later, I helped the rabbi with his coat, and the family left for service, after which I almost collapsed from exhaustion. I had gotten only four hours sleep out of the last fifty.
The servants cleared the dining room while I went upstairs to clean and rebuild the fires. I trimmed the wicks in the lamps that needed it, while the upstairs maid set every room in order and changed the sheets. It was a lot of work for just one family, and for a moment, I recalled Jacob Maccabee. He performed all of these duties himself, and so smoothly I hadn't noticed he'd done it. Did I think fresh sheets grew like manna, or that Dummolard's meals reheated themselves every night? I reproved myself a little, a very little. It was Mac, after all.
When the breakfast dishes were done, the cook and servants immediately began lunch. The meal would be pheasant consommй, roast beef with mashed potatoes, sprouts, carrots, and trifle, washed down with cabernet and coffee. For some reason, I thought of little Reb Shlomo, Pokrzywa's mystical rabbi. No doubt his repast would be more frugal, but it would also be more exotic: borscht with sour cream, perhaps, or pirozhki, gefilte fish, and homemade rye, washed down with strong tea made in the ever present samovars. The newcomers must think that the Sephardim, so long among the English Gentiles, had lost some of their heritage.
Eventually, the family swept in the door again, flushed from their activities and the brisk air. The cook was
