Death in the East

by Abir Mukherjee

  ‘What’s wrong, lad?’ said Whitelaw, slapping a meaty hand to my arm. ‘Looking at you, anyone would think you were a fellow Jew, rather than the copper who caught the bastard.’

  ‘So we’re going to charge him?’ I asked.

  ‘That we are,’ said Gooch, ‘and then we are going to inform the gentlemen of the press. The sooner this whole matter is put to bed, the better it’ll be for everyone.’ He turned to Whitelaw. ‘Including all of Whitechapel’s Jews.’

  I received a few congratulatory pats on the back as I walked down the corridor towards the entrance to the station. I needed some air, which is to say I needed a cigarette and a quiet place to think, and it was only on opening the double doors to the street that I realised my mistake. A scrum of journalists had gathered around the foot of the stairs. If word of Vogel’s arrest had spread around the station, it stood to reason that by now at least one of my colleagues would have tipped off the papers. After all, knowledge was power, but only so long as no one else had it. If you wanted to make a few bob it was vital to provide that information to the press before the officer sitting next to you did.

  The cacophony started immediately. A torrent of questions, each shouted on top of the last so that few were comprehensible and none answerable. Not that I had any answers to give. I just put on my helmet and dived head first through the throng until I surfaced the other side.

  A few minutes later I stood in an alley, leaning against a wall, and was about to light a cigarette when Harmsworth of the Gazette sidled up like a jackal on the prowl.

  ‘Mind if I join you?’

  ‘Not so long as you’ve brought your own fags.’

  ‘Absolutely.’ He fished a crumpled packet from his overcoat, then patted his pockets in search of a book of matches. He gave up and looked at me.

  ‘Would you mind lending me a light?’

  I lobbed a matchbox over to him and received a nod of thanks for my trouble. He proceeded to light up, threw the spent match to the gutter and passed back the box.

  ‘Seems you were busy after our drink last night, Constable.’

  I answered with an exhalation of cigarette smoke.

  ‘I knew I was right about you,’ he chuckled. ‘Destined for bigger things. Much bigger things … and I can help you … which is to say, we can help each other. Word is, Old Upright’s going to charge the Jew you collared.’

  ‘Once again it seems you know more than I do.’

  ‘Come now, Constable, don’t be modest. You’re the hero who caught him. I want to tell the story from your point of view. Handsome young copper such as yourself, our lady readers’ll love you.’

  I shook my head. ‘That’s kind of you, but I don’t think I want my face plastered all over the papers.’

  ‘You sure? Many of your colleagues would give their eye teeth for such an opportunity. You’ll be famous.’

  It did sound tempting.

  Harmsworth latched on to my hesitation like a shark smelling blood in the water.

  ‘Think about it.’ He reached into his coat, pulled out another small white business card and handed it to me.

  ‘Do you get paid to give these out?’ I asked. ‘You gave me one yesterday.’

  ‘It never hurts to have too many. And it makes sure you know where to find me – once you make your mind up.’

  THIRTY-ONE

  February 1922

  Assam

  A sari-clad woman sat on the ground, chewing a wad of something which, judging from her red-stained teeth, contained a fair amount of betel nut. Beside her, set out on a faded, patterned sheet, lay her wares, about three dozen sweet-smelling citrus fruits.

  I’d spent the last hour taking in the sights of Jatinga, such as they were, an exercise which entailed accompanying Emily Carter as she traipsed up and down the hillside running errands while pointing out sights of interest, of which there were few, and titbits about the local British residents, of which there were significantly more.

  On seeing the fruit seller, she stopped and began to barter.

  ‘Oranges?’ I asked. ‘Do they grow up here?’

  ‘Mandarins,’ she corrected. ‘And Khasi mandarins are the best of all. Try one.’ She lobbed one over. ‘The peel is a bit thicker, but it’s worth it.’

  I sat down in the shade of a tree and tore open the fruit. Pulling out a segment, I popped it in my mouth. She wasn’t joking. The juice tasted like nectar.

  ‘What do you think?’ she asked, taking a seat on the ground beside me.

  ‘I think you could make a fortune exporting these to Calcutta.’

  She grinned. ‘That sounds like an intriguing idea.’

  ‘You’d need a point man there of course. Someone to look after the sales.’

  ‘And count the money?’

  ‘Naturally.’

  ‘Well, if there’s money involved, it would need to be someone trustworthy. Are there such men in Calcutta, Captain?’

  ‘They’re thin on the ground, but I think I could find you one. He wouldn’t be cheap though, so you might have to settle for me instead.’

  ‘That’s sorted then. When do you leave?’

  I shrugged. ‘A few days, I think. I’m not entirely sure myself. As soon as Shankar says I can … or Mr Preston chucks me out.’

  A curious smile played on her lips. ‘Charlie Preston,’ she said. ‘One of our more colourful gentlemen. I didn’t realise you were a friend of his.’

  ‘I’m not, which is to say I hadn’t really spoken more than a few sentences to him before this morning. Brother Shankar suggested I stay at his.’

  ‘That explains it,’ she said, though I wasn’t sure exactly what it explained. ‘So why’s he not showing you around?’

  I popped another segment in my mouth. ‘Said he had to go up to somewhere called Maibang. He’s rather an eccentric bird. Seems to think this place is haunted.’

  Emily Carter’s expression changed. ‘He’s right about that. There is evil in this place. Not just in the village but over the whole valley.’

  ‘Not you too?’

  ‘What else did he tell you about it?’

  ‘Nothing. Just that he’d show me tonight.’

  ‘Of course. It’s the new moon tonight. Did he say he’d be bringing you to the club?’

  ‘That’s right,’ I said. ‘Will you be there too?’

  ‘Absolutely. When it comes to the new moon, the club is the only place to be.’

  ‘What happens?’

  She laughed under her breath. ‘You’ll just need to wait and see.’

  I left Emily Carter at the edge of the path that led to her house and started walking back along the road towards Preston’s place. I was about to go in when I had a change of heart. Instead, I carried on, down the hill towards the Indian settlement. Somewhere in the space of half a mile the world changed: from the staid gentility of an English country hamlet to the raucous exoticism of native India. It wasn’t the first time I’d experienced it – the same dislocation occurred in Calcutta – but here the change was starker, as though two different countries had suddenly collided and ended up wedged to each other. One minute I was surrounded by hedgerows, picket fences and manicured lawns, and the next I was among the mud huts and the markets and the noisy exuberance of Indian village life.

  The natives went about their business as they did everywhere outside of the big cities, as though almost oblivious to the presence of the white men who ruled them. Men on bicycles, jute bags dangling from the handlebars, weaved along a rutted mud road, past shops and tea stalls. Women in saris, their heads covered, walked past with bundles of firewood on their backs.

  I stopped at a roadside shack from which the aroma of food emanated. Over an open fire, a man stirred a large steel vat, while beside him a woman cooked unleavened rotis on a flat metal griddle. In front of them were two rough-hewn benches, one of which was occupied by a solitary pensioner with silver stubble, who sat eating, slowly breaking off a piece of bread, then dipping it in the ye
llow curry on a plate made of dried leaves.

  ‘How’s the food?’ I asked.

  He looked up and smiled that ingratiating smile which we expected of Indians, and which we simultaneously despised them for.

  ‘Food is good, sahib. Potato curry.’

  I ordered some, and when it arrived, I took it and sat down across from him. With the roti in my hand, I scooped the curry and began to eat.

  It must have been about half past five by the time Preston returned. I was, it seemed, still weak from my exertions at the ashram, and the morning’s activities had left me exhausted. What’s more, it was when I was at my weakest that my thoughts returned to opium. The drug might have been out of my system, but I wasn’t sure it was quite out of my head. During the previous few nights, it had called out to me, and my body still ached at the memory. Each time, I’d steeled myself, drunk the herbal tea and returned to bed. Now though, outside of the stifling safety of the ashram, I wondered whether I’d be strong enough to resist the temptation should it come calling again.

  I was lying on the bed when I heard the sound of a car coming to a stop, then a cursory conversation before the door slammed and the car drove off.

  I hauled myself up and stumbled to the sitting room just as Preston entered. His tie was loose around his neck.

  ‘Captain Wyndham,’ he beamed, removing his jacket and flinging it onto the sofa. ‘I hope you’ve had a pleasant day.’

  ‘In a manner of sorts,’ I said. ‘I bumped into Mrs Carter. She all but insisted she show me around.’

  ‘You sly old fox,’ he said, fixing me with a mischievous grin. ‘Of all the women in town, you just happen to meet the prettiest … and the richest. So what did the lovely Emily show you?’

  ‘Nothing much, to be honest, I think she just wanted some company as she went about running errands.’

  ‘Now that I can believe,’ he said, walking over to a sideboard and pulling the cork out of a bottle of gin. ‘As well as being the richest and the prettiest, she’s also one of the youngest – which makes her the one of the most bored. And you spent the day with her, did you? That’ll start tongues wagging.’

  I was about to protest my innocence, when he cut me off and shoved a glass in my hand.

  ‘Oh, don’t worry. Idle gossip is good for the soul. Especially up here in the back of beyond. In any case, none of it’ll get back to her old man. Everyone’s too scared of him.’

  ‘Except you, of course.’

  ‘Oh no, old boy. Including me. Ronald Carter might not have me in his pocket, but that doesn’t mean I’m not terrified of him.’

  THIRTY-TWO

  February 1905

  East London

  With the charges laid, things took on a life of their own: the wheels of justice began to turn, the papers published their stories, and the madness descended. Each incendiary page became a red rag to a fearful public, providing all the proof and pretext needed by those just waiting for an opportunity to settle things with their fists.

  And at the centre of the storm was Israel Vogel.

  The press portrayed him as the incarnation of evil, in fact as several different incarnations – a modern-day Judas, David lusting after Bathsheba, even a second Jack the Ripper – accusing him of blood libel and ritual murder.

  But outrage is difficult to maintain. There’s only so many ways you can paint a man as a monster, and only so many days you can do it before fatigue sets in and papers go unsold. So when anger at the man began to ebb, they went for his people. And in the vanguard of those crying for blood was the Gazette, with front-page reconstructions, outraged letters, and even an editorial entitled ‘A Judenhetze brewing in east London’, which began:

  Foreign Jews of no nationality whatever are becoming a pest and a menace to the poor native-born East Ender. They have a greater responsibility for the distress which prevails there probably than all other causes put together.

  Inspector Gooch read it, then tossed it contemptuously onto the table.

  ‘Funny,’ he said, ‘how the poor and wretched are always blamed for their own misfortune, isn’t it? As though the Jews who wash up on our shores are responsible for the pogroms against them and the filth that our own poor live in.’

  He gestured to the map of the East End on the wall. ‘Show me the safest wards in the borough,’ he said.

  ‘Here,’ I said, pointing to the area around Brick Lane, ‘and here, round Fieldgate Street. We don’t tend to get much trouble round there.’

  ‘Exactly,’ he said. ‘The safest wards on that map are streets which are mainly Jewish. The truth is, the crime and the filth in this place have nothing to do with the Jews. In fact it was worse before they arrived. But people don’t want to hear that. It’s easier to blame someone else for your problems than to look in the mirror and notice the plank of wood in your eye. And rags like the Gazette are more than happy to provide the targets. Divide and conquer – that’s their motto. And you know what? It works. It sells papers. The press, banging on about what these foreigners are doing to the country. Well, it’s my country too, and my country is better than this. Whatever happened to fair play, giving a man a chance, and not kicking him when he’s down? Aren’t those supposed to be the things that make us British? Shouldn’t we be proud to uphold them rather than vilifying the poor bastards seeking sanctuary among us?’

  ‘But how do you fight the power of the press?’

  Gooch fixed me with a smile.

  ‘There are ways, son.’

  Over the next three days, Vogel became famous and the crowd outside the station turned into a mob.

  First came the coroner’s report. Armed with the post-mortem and testimony from Tom Drummond, Dr Ludlow and Sergeant Whitelaw, it didn’t take long for the coroner and his jury to record a verdict of wilful murder and issue a warrant committing Vogel for trial.

  The following day, under the custody of Inspector Gooch, he was taken to Thames Police Court where formal statements from the witnesses were taken and a magistrate provided a committal for trial. Gooch informed the magistrate that, this being a case of murder, the trial would be prosecuted by the Treasury, and things were adjourned for a week and Vogel transferred to Pentonville Prison.

  The days passed, and my doubts as to Vogel’s guilt began to buckle under the weight of newspaper headlines, both condemning the Jew and praising us for catching him before he murdered more innocent young Englishwomen. There was also the personal factor: plaudits from senior officers, backslaps from colleagues, and a new-found admiration from the locals, especially the ladies, who’d read of my part in the arrest.

  And I wasn’t the only one whose misgivings were fading. The Jewish establishment hardly came rushing to Vogel’s aid. Their papers, keen to distance themselves and their people from him, condemned the man almost as vociferously as the Gentile ones, writing him off as a madman. An aberration.

  During that week, no rabbi or Jewish official visited him. No one did. Except for Rebecca Kravitz, who made the journey from Whitechapel to the Caledonian Road, waited hours and suffered the indignities heaped on her by prison guards and the public, all to provide Vogel with fifteen minutes of human company. I know because she told me, over the top of a samovar in the tea room in Hanbury Street.

  She wore a thick grey shawl over her shoulders and a look of bitterness on her face.

  He’d maintained his innocence to her, and added that he could no more kill Bessie than she could.

  ‘We found the murder weapon in his room,’ I reminded her. ‘He’s no alibi and he tried to run. But he’ll get a fair trial.’

  ‘Really? With the papers calling for his head and mobs in the street? You think a Jew will get a fair trial from twelve Englishmen?’

  I said nothing. Indeed there was nothing to say.

  She left shortly afterwards, without a goodbye and in a manner that suggested that I, as a copper, was part of the problem. It was nonsense of course. I was no more responsible for the way the press treated Vog
el than I was for the sun setting in the west, but something about the conversation stung me. I’d see her again, at the trial, and later, when things became even more complicated, but that afternoon in the Russian tea room was the last time I’d ever really talk to her.

  THIRTY-THREE

  The hearing resumed a week later. Vogel entered a plea of not guilty and was committed for trial at the Old Bailey. As was the way of these things, a grand jury of twenty-three men assessed whether there were grounds to move to trial, and agreed that indeed there were, to be judged by a petit jury of twelve good men and true. It lasted three days, and Vogel had a translator who stood beside him, whispering in Yiddish whenever the English got too complicated.

  Once more, the usual suspects gave their testimony: Tom Drummond and the other residents of number 42 Fashion Street, Sergeant Whitelaw, Inspector Gooch, some doctors and me.

  The defence called only one witness, Rebecca Kravitz, who testified to Vogel’s good character. But after everything that had gone before, it felt like a whisper in the face of a gale.

  I was called on the Thursday, the second day of the trial. Standing in the witness box, I swore on the Bible and parroted Sergeant Whitelaw’s testimony on how we came to find Bessie, then added my own beef to the broth with an account of how we’d arrested Vogel in the bathhouse. All the while the man sat impassively in the dock, and if it wasn’t for the translator whispering in his ear every so often, I might have imagined he’d neither understood nor cared a jot of what was going on.

  The final day was a Friday. I came in for the verdict, as did quite a few East End Jews, packing themselves in tight up in the gallery like they were in the cheap seats at the Shoreditch Empire.