hub is a warren of desks and cabinets for the use of members of staff, and shooting off from it are spokes made up of adjoining desks and chairs for patrons, all in blue-green leather, one of which I had come to think of as my own, P16. I had been coming here since I was sponsored for membership by the patron of my youth, Lord Glendenning, before the unfounded charge of theft leveled upon me by my university nemesis, Palmister Clay. After my personal disgrace and imprisonment, his lordship had seen fit to sever all ties with me but had neglected to withdraw his sponsorship. That written recommendation had been an anchor to me since then. It was here, for example, that I had first come across Barker’s advertisement in the Situations Vacant column of The Times. I still came here on half days to read and think. Now I had come here to track down the tale of the vile Mr. Miacca.
I made my way to the section on folklore and soon found what I was looking for in a book containing legends and stories of London called Tales of the Old Town, published in 1849. I took it back to my desk and flipped through the contents until I found the tale of Mr. Miacca, and turned to the appropriate pages. My memory had been correct. Miacca had been a nasty fellow, but reading the story over, I saw that he was more. There was something of the supernatural in him. After copying the passage into my notebook, I closed the book and set it down on the desk.
Next came the Edward Lear. I didn’t suppose Barker considered Mr. Lear a serious suspect, but the author of the little poem in our office was certainly aping his style. I couldn’t find his books in the poetry section and had to ask one of the librarians if the British Museum stocked his works. It did, as it turned out, but they had been relegated to the children’s section, which I considered shabby treatment. True, children could read and understand his poems and limericks, but they had been intended for adults. I wondered what Barker, a serious if self-taught scholar, would make of “The Owl and the Pussycat,” or “The Courtship of the Yonghy-Bonghy-Bo.” I chose a copy of his book and sat down again, indulging myself in a poem or two. Mr. Lear is a silly fellow, and, as far as I am concerned, there are not enough like him in the world. After a few pages, I found myself chuckling. Much of his work is repetitious, but occasionally he skewers the foibles of man with his sharp wit. I wasn’t about to copy all of Lear’s nonsense into my notebook, so I contented myself with a few poems.
I looked over the top of the book to check the time on the wall clock over the door, and out of the corner of my eye caught a sudden movement. Looking about, all seemed as it should be, but I had the unsettling feeling that I was being watched. Was it Mr. Miacca, right there in the Reading Room with me, or was I letting my nerves get the best of me? I dipped back behind the book to collect myself. Why had I not thought to bring the pistol from my desk drawer? I steadied my nerves and attuned my senses before taking action. Barker wasn’t there to help me. I had only my training to fall back on.
I looked up suddenly and having done so, my ear caught a sound, the flapping of a newspaper. I looked about casually. Beside me there was a heavyset fellow intent on some work of translation. The rest of the people along my row were all reading with their heads down, as was the row of patrons behind us. I looked at the knot of employees. One held a book in front of his face, but I was certain I’d heard the rustle of newsprint. I continued glancing about the room until eventually I saw it, a newspaper facing me directly, in one of the rows on the other side.
I focused on the hands, which were small. I was being watched by a woman. It had been a while since a woman had stared at me in a library. I was not so naive as to think it was my grace or appearance that had attracted her notice. It must have something to do with the case, I reasoned. The newspaper began to settle slowly. I caught a glimpse of blondish curls before turning back quickly to my studies.
What shall I do now? I asked myself. I couldn’t exactly walk over and say, “Pardon, but I couldn’t help notice you were watching me just now.” On the other hand, any interest I had in fairy tales had evaporated with the attentions of a young lady at hand. I stood, stretched decorously, shooting my cuffs, avoiding the natural desire to glance in the woman’s direction. I then turned and made my way to the exit.
Of course, I had no idea whether she might follow. More probably, she would turn her attentions to some other young gentlemen studying at one of the tables. Once outside, I resisted the attentions of a cabman there and turned right, headed along Gower Street, and walked to Regent’s Park.
It was warm and sunny, a rare and glorious afternoon. I walked along the path between grassy expanses in the dappled shade of oaks that must have grown there since the park was first designed. I dared not look behind. It was rather like fishing; I didn’t want to spook my prey. In all probability, there was no prey to spook, and I was making a fool of myself. I was about to give it up, but as I passed the brass plaque that announced I had reached the Zoological Gardens, I saw in that highly polished metal surface that I was still being shadowed, and by a female in a bowler hat and a trim-fitting black outfit. I rather doubted this was the infamous Mr. Miacca. The glorious day suddenly got that much brighter.
Now that the fish, if I might be so crass as to equate the young lady in question with a fish, had risen to the bait, how was I to set the hook? She could still break off the line were I to change course in midstream. Not really having an idea of what to do, I walked past the lions and seals; finally reaching the wolf cages, which somehow seemed appropriate, I sat down at a bench and, with as much savoir faire as I could muster, I raised my hat.
“Good afternoon, miss,” I said as she approached. I recognized her as the friend of Miss Levy.
She stopped and actually gaped at me. “Was I that obvious?” she asked.
“No,” I replied, “but I am an experienced enquiry agent and it is difficult to pull the wool over my eyes.”
She sat down beside me. “My word,” she said, “you are good.”
“I am Thomas Llewelyn.”
“Beatrice Potter.”
She was attractive, with light-colored hair swept away from frank blue eyes and delicate features. Her clothes were of the best quality and in the height of fashion. She came from money, obviously. Not landed money, perhaps, but money all the same. When we were children, I wouldn’t have been allowed to speak to her, being a mere miner’s son, and now she was following me.
“Aren’t you going to ask me why I followed you from the museum, or do you know that as well?”
“I assume that you happened to see me in the Reading Room. You didn’t follow me there. Are you Jewish?”
“Jewish?” She frowned. “Why do you ask that?”
“Miss Levy, your friend, is Jewish. And you were reading the Jewish Chronicle in the museum.”
“So I was. I fancy that one of my grandparents was Jewish, but so far I have found little proof. Certainly the other three quarters of me are English enough, and my family is doing its best to deny the other. I find Jews fascinating and have been studying their history and politics. And you?”
“I’m as Welsh as rarebit, but most of my closest friends are from the Jewish quarter and my employer has worked for the Board of Deputies. So, if you happened to recognize me in the Reading Room, why did you follow me?”
“I’ll tell you if you’ll answer one question first. Why were you reading Lear?”
“It is pertinent to the case. Beyond that I can reveal nothing. Now you tell me why you followed me.”
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
“Oh, I like that even better,” I said. “So come, come. Tell me. I can believe anything, provided it is fanciful enough.”
“I am an investigator.”
I couldn’t help but smile. “Pull the other one. Are you private, or are you in fact working for Scotland Yard?”
“Neither. I am a social investigator.”
“I see,” I said, though to be frank, I didn’t. “I don’t suppose that pays very well.”
“Nothing at all, actually, but it’s very important. That’s why I am working in the East End. I wish to know why the greatest empire in history cannot feed, clothe, or shelter many of its people. I wonder why the mistakes and attitudes of one generation are doomed to be repeated in the next and why the arrival of a people with a rich and ancient culture such as the Jews inspires fear and loathing among an otherwise sensible people. And right now I’m wondering what caused a university man to take up what is obviously a dangerous profession.”
“What makes you think I was at university?” I asked.
“I may be a woman, but I do have a functioning brain, Mr. Llewelyn. The Reading Room is for scholars. You have a membership. I will even speculate that in spite of your education, you are of humble beginnings. So, was it Oxford or Cambridge?”
“It was Oxford. And you are right about my beginnings. How have I given myself away?”
