by Will Thomas
I went upstairs to my room and looked through one of the books of Jewish customs that Barker had placed on my desk since the case began. A Shabbes goy was to keep all fireplaces, lamps, and candles lit throughout the twenty-four hours of the Sabbath. Lighting a match is considered "working" by Orthodox Jewish standards and is prohibited on Shabbat. I was also to be on hand for the hundreds of other menial tasks that are forbidden the zealous Jew, from opening medicine bottles to cooking. Although Mocatta was keeping a tight restraint on his daughter, I very much wanted to snatch a few moments' speech with her if possible, for Barker's sake if not my own. The success or failure of the case might depend upon it.
Racket was there to take me to Saint John's Wood promptly at five.
"You must be growing as rich as Rothschild by now," I called up to him.
"There's no money I can make that the missus can't spend," he quipped back.
Despite Zangwill's words about the "Jewish ghetto," some Jews had left the confines of the East End for the prosperity and security of the West. Mocatta's home was a small manse set back from the road, a solid three-story, red-brick affair, softened with plenty of climbing ivy. Only the mezuzah on the door betrayed anything out of the ordinary.
I was about to knock, but somethingЧ instinct, if enquiry agents have itЧ prompted me to go around and use the back entrance. I was to be a servant, after all. I was shown into a bustling kitchen which was the headquarters of the Sabbath's day plans. All the servants were Gentiles. The cook, Mrs. Stahl, was everything an English cook should be: a buxom, no-nonsense woman who would die before seeing the joint and peas undercooked. The staff would see to the kitchen fires, while I saw to the rest of the house. Everyone was aware that the Shabbat would begin at 5:47 sharp.
An adenoidal youth who passed for a footman led me solemnly to the woman of the house. Mrs. Mocatta was everything I feared she would be, a hawkish woman with a severe bun and an even more severe expression. I expected her to raise her black shawl like wings, seize me in her talons, and take me up to some remote mountain peak to feed her young. I understood our relationship at once when she called me over.
"Boy!" she said. "Come here, boy. Let me look at you." She was not yet fifty, and there were only a few silver threads running through her fine black hair, but she could have been a septuagenarian for her temper. "I don't know what Mr. Mocatta was thinking. Do you know what you are about, boy? Do you understand your duties?"
"I believe so, madam."
"I do not expect any fires to go out tonight. Nor, on the other hand, do I expect you to be overliberal with the coal. I abhor waste. After dinner, the dining room fire is to be doused until morning, and the fire in the library when we retire. You may keep the sitting room fire burning for your own warmth, provided you are abstemious with the coal; a boy like yourself shouldn't need more than a shovelful to keep warm. The fires are to be well filled and banked in the bedrooms upstairs, and you are not to enter them after we retire. The tweeny shall attend to them first thing in the morning, and they shall be put into your charge after all are dressed."
"How many fires are lit upstairs, madam?"
"Three. One is for Mr. Mocatta and myself, one for our elder daughter and her husband, and one for our younger daughter."
"Are there any medications I may set out for any of you?" I asked, trying to sound efficient.
"Mr. Mocatta takes pills for his liver, Miss Mocatta has extract of malt every morning, and Mrs. Waldman, our eldest, takes a private medication. She may prefer to take it herself."
"Very good, madam. Which lights are to burn all night?"
"The dining room, sitting room, and hall lights on both floors are to be kept lit, but quite low. The cost of gas is exorbitant these days. Don't just stand there, boy. There is work to be done."
I nodded and tended to the fires. If there is one thing I know other than storytelling, it's coal. They used a good bituminous Welsh coal here, none of that cheap English coal, but whoever set the fire did not know how to prepare it properly. I filled it well, but not overmuch, knowing that one lump too many would put Mrs. Mocatta's claws into my back. I did the same to the library and sitting room fires. The home was well furnished and prosperous-looking, but every chair was so overstuffed as to be hard as stone. I don't think there was a comfortable place to sit in the entire house.
I went upstairs, greeted Rabbi Mocatta, who was studying at a table with his hand-embroidered prayer shawl about his shoulders, and asked about his medication. I unstopped it for him and built up his fire a little. The Waldmans were not yet arrived, so I set their fire, then moved on to the younger daughter's room. She was also not at home. I went into her room and glanced around swiftly. I felt somewhat guilty going into a girl's private chambers. I passed by her small secretary, where she had begun a letter to a friend. I suppose Barker could have told me if the penmanship was different from the notes in Pokrzywa's Bible, but I wouldn't have had the slightest idea. I moved to the fireplace and began to lay the fire. The room was very feminine, with chintz curtains and toile fabrics on the chairs. I had not spoken to a girl near my own age in almost a year. I had been living in a man's world, with all its harsher realities. This room with its lace and porcelain and gossamer fabrics seemed almost a fairyland.
"Good evening, Mr. Llewelyn."
I stood and turned. Rebecca was standing in the doorway.
"Miss Mocatta," I answered, bowing.
"One doesn't generally find a gentleman in one's private boudoir." There was a touch of playful irony in her tone.
"Not a gentleman, but a humble Shabbes goy," I corrected. Though it was rude to stare, I couldn't take my eyes off her. She was a vision. Though she still wore black, it set off her tiny waist and fine figure. There was a comb set in the back of her dark hair, from which hung a veil of black silk.
"I understand I am to set out extract of malt for you," I continued.
"You needn't bother," she said, a smile playing on her pretty lips. "If truth be told, I only pretend to take it for Mama. It tastes quite terrible. And you needn't act like a servant around me. I know exactly why you are here. You wish to speak to me about Louis."
"I admit it. I do," I said, thinking I would willingly speak with her about the price of corn and any other subject under the sun. My conscience smote me then. Was it not only yesterday that I was mourning the anniversary of my wife's passing?
"We cannot speak now," she said. "I shall contrive a time."
"As you wish," I bowed. "I am in your hands."
"A dangerous place," she countered. "I might drop you."
I thought for a moment of how easily she could do just that.
As the family went through the blessings and candle lighting of the traditional Sabbath meal, I sat in a corner and tended the fires, as remote and forgotten as the moon. The members of the dinner party took no notice of me, save for a glance every half hour or so from Rebecca Mocatta. I counted the minutes between every chance meeting of our eyes. It would not do to give any sign, however, for Mrs. Mocatta was in the middle of the room, keeping an eye on me to make sure I was working. For all that Rebecca was there, I found the meal a long affair, full of the rituals which link the modern English Jew to his ancient past. I might have paid more attention had there not been something more distracting in the room.
I hoped for some quiet moment during the evening when I could speak to her again, but it never came. The family went to service, they returned, they played cards, and they talked. They might have been a normal English family on a Friday evening, if one didn't catch the references and Jewish turns of phrase. Finally, the evening party began to wind down, and I was busy replenishing and banking the fires upstairs for the night. Mrs. Mocatta was behind me every moment, fearing perhaps that I would nick the silver. Unhappily, from her point of view, she could find little fault with my work.
Eventually, everyone went to bed, and I was left in charge downstairs. The servants left for the night or retired to their qua
rters. By eleven, the fire in the sitting room grate, the ticking mantle clock, and I had the place to ourselves. The cook left some food for me, along with a new pot of coffee. I sat in a strange kitchen and ate someone else's bread.
I felt a little brighter after I'd eaten. I got up to look into the library. Perhaps I could find a novel to read. I lit a small lamp. Most of the volumes were in Hebrew, I was sorry to see, but I persevered. On the shelf farthest to the right, I found some English novels; obviously, someone other than the rabbi had chosen these. Most of them I had read, but there was a copy of Hardy's Far from the Madding Crowd, which I had not. I took it down and thumbed through it. A cup of coffee and a book seemed a good way to while away the hours. I turned to leave.
I heard a rustle of fabric, and she was there. Rebecca Mocatta, in her night attire. True, it covered her as much as her day attire, if not more so. But just the thought that she was uncorseted and ready to retire, and so close, unnerved me.
"Don't look!" she began, a protective hand over the ribbon at her bosom. "You needed to see me, and I wanted to help you find whoever killed Louis. This is the only way, I'm afraid. Mama had her eye on me all night, and no doubt will tomorrow."
"I fear I must look, Miss Mocatta, if only into your eyes. You see, I am trained in knowing if one is telling the truth."
"Very well, if you must."
"I thought to formally ask for a word with you from your father."
"Mama would refuse. She has strong beliefs about propriety, and she does not trust Gentiles. If she catches me here now, I shall be married to someone I don't even know within the fortnight."
"That's fine," I blurted out before thinking. "You don't know me."
Peripherally, I saw her smile. "I don't believe you shall be on Mama's list, you impudent fellow. But come! I want to help you find Louis's killers. What can I do? Ask any question you like, but be quick, I pray." She sat down on the edge of a settee and buried her slippered feet in her voluminous gown.
"I take it you and Mr. Pokrzywa were close. Was there any understanding between you?"
"Between Louis and me? No. Not at all. Louis was a sweet, intelligent fellow, but we had no romantic attachment. We were simply friends. I was tutoring him. He knew little of what passed between the mothers and daughters of his acquaintance, and he asked me candidly if I could help him find a suitable match. But as it turned out, he didn't need any help."
"How so?"
"He fell in love, of course."
I watched her soft hand smooth the fabric of her gown. "With whom?"
"He wouldn't tell me. I called him an ungrateful wretch. Her name is Miriam and she is a Jew, but that was all he would say. There must be a thousand Miriams in the East End. I assume she was low-born, from the neighborhoods farthest east."
"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.