19
The “usual place” of which Israel Spoke was the Barbados coffeehouse of Cornhill, the City, or to be more precise, Saint Michael’s Alley, where much of London’s coffee is first stored. Israel and I met there often to talk about life, literature, and women, though not necessarily in that order.
When the cab arrived, I jumped down and ran in the door.
“Black Apollo,” I called to the proprietor, who always looks as if I had disarrayed his plans merely by showing up. A black Apollo was a large cup of strong black coffee, the house specialty.
“Thomas!” Israel called from one of the high-backed booths that had been built in the 1680s. He looked the same as always: hatchet-faced, with far too much nose and not enough chin. He was wearing his spectacles because the chances were remote that he would be under female scrutiny there.
“Hello, Israel,” I said, sliding into the booth across from him. “I’m in a bit of a hurry today. What’s going on?”
“We’ve got something on tonight, if you’re interested. In fact, I really must insist you attend.”
“I’m not certain if I can,” I said. “We’re in the middle of a case.”
“I assumed that was over,” my friend answered. “Amy said it was.”
“Amy?”
“Miss Levy, of course.”
“You know her?”
“Thomas, you dunderhead, I’ve been courting her for six months. I told you about her, remember?”
Had he? I wondered. Then gradually, it came back to me. A girl named Amy Levy. Very smart. A published poet. He was trying to impress her. I’d been in the middle of a case then, as I was now, and had only listened with one ear.
“Sorry, Israel. So what’s going on?”
“There’s a public lecture tonight at the Egyptian Hall. Vernon Lee is speaking. I’m escorting Amy and your presence is required.”
My coffee arrived, and I took a sip before refusing. “I can’t. I wish I could. For one thing, I attended a funeral this morning. For another, Barker needs me to work tonight.”
Zangwill looked crestfallen. He does it with great pathos. “Are you sure you can’t come? She asked after you specially.”
“What have I done to recommend myself to Miss Levy?” I asked.
“Not Amy. I mean Miss Potter. She’s the one who asked if you would attend.”
“Did she, by Jove?” I asked. This was something more like.
“Oh, yes. You wouldn’t want to refuse her. It’s something of a command.”
“Hang it,” I said. “I’m not certain I can get off.”
“You’re acting more like your employer every day. How often do such goddesses step down from Mount Olympus, I ask you?”
“But I still have obligations,” I wavered.
“Both girls work at the charity. You could question them about events, then tell Mr. Barker that you interrogated them mercilessly. He needn’t know the difference.”
“I wouldn’t lie to him, but if I did ask enough questions to make it worth my while…”
“Worth your while? Have you seen Miss Potter? I think you need these spectacles more than I.”
“Look, tell her that I shall do my best to be there. If I’m not, it is due to some aspect of the case that required my presence and I’m most sorry. It’s the best I can do.”
Israel shook his head and then cradled his chin in one of his large, nervous hands. “Your priorities are all confused, Thomas,” he said, “but at this rate, you shall have several decades of bachelorhood to straighten them out. Come tonight. Amy insists. You can’t imagine how cross she gets when she does not have her way.”
“Oh, yes, I can,” I said, sliding out of the booth. “I’ve met her.”
I took a cab to the British Museum and began my search. Finding a particular poem from memory can be a lesson in patience, but every now and then one catches a bit of luck. I found what I was looking for in the second anthology of poems I paged through. With the copied pages in my hand, I ran out the front door and hailed a cab disgorging another patron.
“Blake, sir,” I said breathlessly when I arrived. “It is William Blake. It’s a poem called ‘A Little Girl Lost,’ appropriately enough. I knew he was cribbing.”
I laid it before Barker and pointed at the lines. “See? It says right there ‘Reading this indignant page,’ and farther down, it should really read ‘Love! sweet Love! was thought a crime.’”
“Our collector of young girls seems remarkably well read,” Barker noted.
“It’s as if he were a member of the Reading Room itself.”
“That’s not out of the question. Did you not say that you met Miss Potter in the museum?”
“Yes. We could make a list of suspects and compare it to a list of members of the Reading Room.”
“The museum would not give it,” Barker replied. “They respect the privacy of their members, some of whom are quite wealthy.”
“Indeed. Sir, speaking of Miss Potter, I was invited by her to attend a public lecture tonight. It may be relevant to the case.”
“But you must rest,” he pointed out. “You have a match tomorrow.”
“I could go without sleep for one night, I suppose.”
“Let us trade schedules for tonight,” the Guv replied. “I was going to follow young Dr. Fitzhugh from the C.O.S. and see how he spends his evenings. I’m afraid we have neglected to watch the doctor amid all the chaos.”
Jacob Maccabee gave a discreet cough. It is almost as effective as his shotgun, though obviously less messy.
“Yes, Mac?” Barker asked with an air of impatience.
“Forgive me, sir, for stepping into matters that are not my concern, but perhaps I might be permitted to shadow Dr. Fitzhugh?”
“You?” our employer asked doubtfully.
“Indeed, sir. My schedule won’t be changed at all, and I shall get a good night’s sleep. I am unknown to the good doctor, whereas he has met you both. I have at least a rudimentary understanding of how to follow someone, having read of it in various books.”
Mac has a taste for sensational novels, such as the gothic works of Poe and Le Fanu, as well as the modern romances of Mrs. Braddon. I wasn’t certain how accurate the methods of detection were in such works, so I was dubious, possibly even more so than Barker.
“But, Mac, you’d stick out like an old nail in your butler’s uniform,” I said.
“I’ve brought a less identifiable suit of clothing with me, in case of emergency,” came the reply.
“But your face is easily identifiable, and as for your yarmulke-”
“We are less than a quarter mile from the Jewish quarter. Besides, I have a soft hat I can wear over it. As for my face, he shall never see it. Is it not the way when following someone, to stay far enough behind as to just keep him in sight?”
I looked at the Guv. “Well, it would solve the problem.”
Barker was standing by the window. “I say that Mac has no time to change clothing. Dr. Fitzhugh has just left the charity. He is young, Mac, and is carrying his medical bag. He is heading east.”
“Yes, sir!” Mac said, and turning around, bolted down the stairs. I’m so used to seeing him glide about sedately and silently that I could not imagine him capable of running.
I looked over Barker’s shoulder into Green Street. By the time he reached the street, Maccabbee was carrying his coat over his shoulder. He’d pocketed his skullcap and his tie hung down untied. For Mac, it was quite a transformation.
“I guess that settles the matter,” I said.
“Perhaps, but there is still enough time to make one more stop.”
