“THE TALE OF MR. MIACCA
“There lived in Old London Town a man, though some say he was a giant or an ogre, and his name was Miacca. Mr. Miacca loved good children and would leave a farthing upon their windowsills, even those who lived high in attic garrets, but bad children he threw into a sack and took home for his supper. Mothers used to warn their children, ‘Be good, and do not go out of the street, or Mr. Miacca shall surely take you.’
“Now there was a boy named Tommy Grimes who lived in the Old Town, and like most boys and girls he was often good, but sometimes he had the devil in him. His mother warned him about his behavior and about leaving his street, but one day he turned the corner and Mr. Miacca took him. He threw the boy in his sack and carried him home for dinner.
“Mr. Miacca pulled Tommy out of the sack and set him on his chopping block. He pinched Tommy’s arm.
“‘You are too tough for my Sunday joint,’ he said, ‘but boy meat is good for a stew with herbs. But look, dear me, I have forgotten the herbs! Sally!’
“Mrs. Miacca came in from another room. ‘Yes, my dear?’
“‘Here is a boy for supper, and bitter he shall taste without some fresh herbs. Watch him while I am gone, and if he moves, hack off a limb with my cleaver.’
“Mrs. Miacca agreed, and Mr. Miacca went off, leaving her alone with Tommy.
“‘Does Mr. Miacca often have children for supper?’ the boy asked.
“‘Now and again,’ she replied. ‘But only bad ones such as yourself.’
“‘And is there no pudding to go with me?’ he asked. ‘I think I should make a poor meal without pudding.’
“‘Ah, I do so love pudding,’ Mrs. Miacca admitted, ‘but my husband is always giving our farthings away to good children. We can ill afford it.’
“‘Why, my mother has made a pudding this very morning,’ Tommy Grimes told her. ‘And it is sitting this very moment on the windowsill to cool but a street away. I’m sure she will not mind if I take it. Shall I run and get it?’
“‘Yes, do,’ came the reply. ‘But be quick about it. It shall take hours to boil you tender enough for a stew.’
“Tommy Grimes hopped down from the chopping block and ran out the door. He kept running until he arrived at his own house, safe and sound. That night in his bed, he admitted he had got off cheaply and swore never to be bad again.
“Now, promises are all well and good, but one cannot be good forever. One day Tommy took a step around the corner, and the next thing he knew, he was upside down in Mr. Miacca’s sack again.
“‘That was a shabby trick you played upon the missus and me,’ Mr. Miacca complained as he walked. ‘I shall be sure to watch you myself this time.’
“Once they were in Mr. Miacca’s house, he thrust the boy under the chopping table.
“‘Get under there and don’t move while I cut the herbs for the pot. If you stick out so much as one limb, I shall chop it off with my cleaver.’
“Tommy knew he was in desperate straits, but he was a clever boy. There was a pile of kindling by the chopping block, and he pulled one log under him and began whittling it with his pocket knife. He whittled all the time Mr. Miacca was chopping the herbs and adding spices to the stew.
“‘It’s almost ready, boy. Stick out your leg so I can toss it into the pot.’
“Tommy pulled off a shoe and sock and quickly put them over the end of the log. He poked it out from under the table and yelled when it was cut in twain with the cleaver. While Mr. Miacca was busy simmering the limb, Tommy slipped out unobserved and ran home as fast as his legs could carry him.
“Now, children will be bad from time to time and Tommy Grimes was no exception, but from hence he was only a menace to his own street. He never dared go into Mr. Miacca’s neighborhood until he was a man full grown, and able to care for himself.”
Barker put down my notes and leaned back in his chair in thought.
“What do you make of it, sir?” I dared ask.
“I’m not certain,” he said. “I have no frame of reference. I have never read a fairy story before.”
“Never? Not even when you were a child?”
“No. I was raised in a strict Calvinist home and all we read were the Bible and our clan histories. Reading tales of ogres and such would have been considered desperately wicked. What do you gather from it?”
“It is a variation on the classic giant story,” I said. “A child is caught by a slow-witted giant and through an act of cleverness escapes. It is also a morality tale. Be good and do not wander off or else the bogeyman shall get you. The difference is that the tale takes place in the center of London instead of a castle or at the top of a beanstalk.”
“The tale is rather gruesome,” Barker said. “Boy meat and hacking off limbs.”
“Yes, but that’s the thrill of it. When a child first hears it, it is harrowing. After that, it is humorous-the slow-witted man and his wife tricked twice by a child.”
“Do you think there might have been a Mr. Miacca around whom the legend grew?”
“It is possible. Parents would be sure to point out someone they wished their children to avoid, particularly if he was a foreigner. As you said earlier, the name sounds Jewish or Mediterranean. There’s no telling how old the legend is. It could be centuries old.”
“You’ve made a very good analysis, Thomas. I knew I was not mistaken in hiring a scholar. Is there anything else?”
“Well, sir, there is one other legend about cannibalism in Old London.”
Barker nodded. “Sweeney Todd.”
“Exactly. He’s in the book as well, but he’s under legends rather than fairy tales. I thought I’d call it to your attention.”
“And so you have.” He picked up the verses I’d copied from Lear, and began turning the pages. I watched his brows slowly sink behind his round spectacles.
“Poems,” he grunted. “Limericks. I have heard many a limerick in my time, mostly from sailors. They were generally ribald. These are not, but I do not understand the humor. What is humorous about a man who has birds nesting in his beard? It does not look like Miacca’s note.”
“His longer poems do, sir. Look past the limericks.”
He flipped impatiently through the pages. Finally, he tossed it onto his blotter with more vehemence than he normally gave the printed word and made his pronouncement. “Rubbish. The similarities are superficial. Anyone with a grasp of English could have written the poem. As for this fellow, I cannot understand Lear’s appeal, save to the smallest of tots. Do you have anything else?”
“Well, sir, there is one thing. I was followed from the British Museum.”
Barker leaned back in his seat and pressed his fingertips together. He looked rather like a schoolmaster when he did that. “Continue.”
I told him about Miss Potter and our conversation. I left out any attempts at flirtation on my part, but I knew he was smart enough to imagine it back in again. Here it comes, I thought, the lecture: This agency does not exist to provide you with female companionship, etc.
“She offered to keep an eye on the Charity Organization Society,” he stated.
“Yes, sir.”
“We may take her up on the offer.”
That was all. No lecture.
“Socialists,” he growled.
“You do not approve of socialism? If it makes any difference, I believe the term Miss Hill used was ‘Christian socialist.’”
“Christian socialist,” Barker muttered. “That is even worse.”
“What is the difference, pray, in the good works you do in the Tabernacle and the work of the Christian socialist?”
“It starts with their entire worldview, lad. They believe that man is basically good, and that, given the proper nudge by such crusading women, they can turn the earth into a utopia and usher in the millennium.”
