by Will Thomas
The fellow smiled condescendingly. “Not really, Mr., er, Llewelyn, was it? He was the ‘New Man.’ Can you picture him as a hook-nosed, kinky-haired, furtive little fellow? Of course not! He was a big, bluff carpenter, a robust leader of men, a man’s man. He was the perfect specimen of manhood, and in all ways we should aspire to be like him. Gentlemen, I don’t like turning away a group of hungry and desperate wretches any more than you. It does not seem Christian, I know. But sometimes, one must do the hard thing, when one knows it to be right.”
He sounded so logical, so convincing, that it seemed impossible that he was talking about the deaths by slow starvation and exposure of tens of thousands.
“Bravo!” Barker said, clapping the fellow on the shoulder. “Thank you, sir, for your time and your learned opinions. Look for an article in tomorrow’s Dispatch.”
“Certainly, gentlemen,” the Reverend Painsley said, flashing us a set of perfect teeth. “Thank you.”
Barker led me back through the aisles to the entrance. Once outside, he turned immediately to his left and punched the brick three times, until his knuckles were red. The sound was drowned out by the hammering inside. He grimaced, and his teeth looked as ferocious as an angry lion’s.
“Such a pathetic mixture of half-truths, twisted logic, and outright lies I have never heard in all my born days. Of all the creatures in the garden, the serpent was the most subtle. Hook-nosed? Kinky-haired? Mongol hordes? Natural avarice? It’s a wonder I didn’t seize the fellow by the limbs and toss him the length of the sanctuary. I’m going to keep an eye on that man. He wants to make Christ over in his likeness, not the other way round.”
“He’s not alone there,” I noted. “How often have you seen pictures of a flaxen-haired, blue-eyed Christ?”
“More times than I can stomach at the moment. Jesus was a Jew from the line of David. Those paintings make him look like Siegfried from a Wagnerian opera. New Man, indeed! They look upon Christ as the first of a super race, the Aryan race, who must watch over their ‘inferiors’ and exterminate them, if necessary. Have you ever heard such distorted history? He makes it sound like the Jews sit in their ghettoes, plotting the domination of the world.”
“Do you think he actually believes this nonsense?” I asked.
Barker nodded. “You know, I wondered that myself. He got himself appointed to an old church, and now, through preaching vitriol against the Jews, he’s revitalized it. He could have a new church in the West End a year from now. He may go far, and I have nothing to fight him with, legally. He’s riding a lie to achieve power. And he’s just the first on the list. Damn and blast!”
“Who’s next?” I asked, hoping to assuage his sudden temper.
“A fellow in Chelsea. That’s too far. Here’s one in Camden. Ah, yes. Mr. Brunhoff, the Anglo-Israelite. I haven’t crossed swords with him for several months. Capital, provided we can find a cab or omnibus to take us there.”
We did indeed find an omnibus heading east as fast as a pair of draft horses could pull us. After Racket’s fleet vehicle, the pace seemed maddeningly slow, but it allowed us to talk.
“Now, if I’ve got this right, an Anglo-Israelite is a Jewish person who was born in this country.”
“No, lad,” Barker corrected, “That’s an Anglo-Jew. An Anglo-Israelite is something utterly different. Are you familiar with your Old Testament?”
“Tolerably, sir,” I said. “I’ve studied the book as a schoolboy.”
“You know that God set aside the Jews as a ‘peculiar people,’ a race chosen to have a special relationship with Him, and with whom He made an eternal blood covenant. The Anglo-Israelites believe that this ‘mantle’ of being the chosen race has fallen on the shoulders of the Aryan races, notably the British, and to a lesser extent the Germans and Americans.”
“Why do they believe that?” I asked. “What makes them think the English and Americans are the new chosen people?”
“Remember the old legend about Joseph of Arimathea coming to England?”
“You mean the ‘Stone of Scone’ and all that?”
“Correct. The story goes that after Christ’s death, Joseph brought the holy relic, the rock upon which old Jacob lay his head, to England, where it now sits under the coronation chair. As proof of the transfer of grace, God sent King Arthur and his Round Table after the Holy Grail, the chalice Jesus drank from at the Last Supper.”
“If so,” I said, with a smile, “then it never reached the English at all. Arthur was a Welshman at Tintagel. It’s the Welsh that are the chosen people, not this Anglo-Saxon lot.”
“Ha!” I’d actually made Barker laugh. “Don’t be cheeky, lad. Actually, you’ve shown the problem in microcosm. The entire thing is all about nationalism, and you know how that is sweeping across Europe. Being ‘chosen’ gives people license to do just about anything they like, from expanding into other countries’ territory, to wiping out undesirable people within one’s own borders. And the more a country prospers, the more they feel that God is on their side, and the more arrogant they become. In America, they call it ‘Manifest Destiny,’ this idea that all they do is ordained by God.”
“So the Jews are still the chosen people?” I asked, somewhat doubtfully.
“If you are a Christian, you must believe it so, because the Bible never contradicts it. A blood covenant is eternal. God never changes. I know it’s more congenial to think we are the chosen people, but one can’t build a strong biblical case for it.”
“Then how can these Anglo-Israelites go around preaching it?”
“My dear Llewelyn, you have a naive side, if I may say it. People don’t read their Bibles. They hire pastors to preach to them. And some pastors will preach total nonsense if it will tickle the congregations’ ears enough to open their purses. There are some very rich and very gullible people in the Reverend Mr. Brunhoff’s church. And they’ll defend the delusions he’s indoctrinated in them to the death.”
We got off the omnibus and traveled a block or two before coming up to another church. It still seemed strange to me, looking for a group of killers among a church congregation. I would characterize this as a neither-nor church: neither rich nor poor, neither old nor new, neither high church nor low. The name, the Universal Church of the New Jerusalem, was one of those nonconformist titles that make Church of England people uncomfortable, only one can’t say exactly why. Barker plunged into the building, going up one hallway and down another, while I bobbed along in his wake. Eventually, he found the church office and the Reverend Brunhoff.
“Not one more step, Mr. Barker!” the preacher thundered, rising from his desk at the first sight of my employer. “Get out of my church!”
“It is good to see you again, Mr. Brunhoff,” Barker said politely, as if the man had invited him in for tea. “Have you been doing well since last we spoke?”
“Do you mean, since you last accused me in front of Scotland Yard?” Brunhoff was a stocky bulldog of a fellow, with a Prussian haircut and heavy jowls. He wore a plain black suit with the cleric’s badge of office, a white tie.
“We briefly suspected him of being behind the desecration of a synagogue a year ago,” Barker said to me, conversationally, as if the threatening preacher were not even there. “That was the first case I handled for the Board of Deputies, of which you heard Sir Moses speak. It turned out to be the work of a Jewish atheist.” He turned back to face Brunhoff. “We’re investigating the murder and crucifixion of a Jewish teacher not half a mile from here.”
“I was innocent of the former charges, and I am innocent of these as well!”
“Prove it, then,” Barker said. “Provide me with an alibi for early Sunday morning, and I’ll have no reason to darken your door again.”
“I will!” the preacher cried. “By the heavens, I will!”
Barker looked about. “I see your little church is about the same,” he said. “You know, young Mr. Painsley’s is growing mightily. He’s adding chairs and building a new platform. I hope he’s not t
aking some of your membership away from you. I’d hate to see you have to shut the place up.”
I saw that Barker had struck a nerve. Brunhoff looked ready to choke in his tight collar. “You go to the devil!”
“Thank you, no,” my employer answered urbanely. “I’d prefer Abraham’s bosom, myself, after seeing this pox on the city’s hide shut down forever. Send me an ironclad alibi and I’ll let you alone. Come, Llewelyn.” We left the preacher near apoplexy.
Outside, John Racket and Juno were sitting patiently at the curb.
“You manhunters need a ride?” he asked laconically.
“Take Thomas back home,” Barker called out. “But first, drive me over to the mission in Mile End!” He turned to me. “I’m sparring with Brother Andrew tonight and taking him out to a chophouse he favors. Presumably, the chops will not have been held to someone’s eye.”
I spoke up, hoping I wouldn’t be getting the cook in trouble. “Are you that particular? Mr. Dummolard thinks you have no taste buds.”
“Ah, so you’ve met Etienne. Does he, by Jove? I admit, I’m not much of a gourmand, but I know good food when I taste it. I simply don’t rate it as high in importance as he. I’ve lived on some of the worst food imaginable, aye, and starved as you have in my younger days. I make it a rule never to complain when food is set in front of me. So the answer to your question is no, I am not particular.”
We came to a stop in Mile End, and Barker was out and off without a word. Racket’s little trap opened up above me, and he looked down at me. “Shall I take you straight to the Elephant, sir, or do you want to stop somewheres first?”
“Home is fine,” I said. Presumably Dummolard had returned to normal cooking and had stopped trying to poison us. I might get a decent dinner for a change. Then I realized what I’d said. I’d called Barker’s residence “home.” My parents still lived in Wales, outside of Newport, but I had long since stopped calling Wales home. Oxford Castle certainly didn’t deserve the name, nor did my former rooms in Clerkenwell. But my new room at Barker’s residence, was that home? I sat back against the plush cushions of Racket’s cab and pondered the question. That is why the bullet that passed through the cab, shattering the window and spraying glass everywhere, didn’t pass through my head as well.
14
I WAS STILL SITTING THERE, WIDE-EYED, when the trap opened overhead and Racket’s anxious face looked down at me.
“Mr. Llewelyn! Tell me you’re not dead!”
“I’m all right!” I called. “I wasn’t hit!” There was a sudden violent wrench to the entire hansom and I heard the sound of footsteps. Racket had dismounted and was running somewhere. Juno looked back at me, her eyes white with fear. By the rippling along her withers I could tell she’d been terrified by the shot. I thought for a moment she might bolt, taking me with her, but she’d been trained well. She didn’t move a step while her master was away from the cab.
As for myself, I was in shock and covered in glass. I looked to my right, where the small portal was nothing but shards, then looked to my left, where a tiny hole perforated the elegant scarlet padding. I raised a hand to my cheek, and it came away with blood. I’d been cut by a sliver of glass. Suddenly, I wanted to laugh, laugh loud and hard at cheating death, but I mastered myself. If Juno could do it, so could I.
Racket came back, winded from his exertions. He stepped up on the footboard and surveyed the damage.
“Oh, my cab!” he said, almost in tears. “Oh, my beautiful, beautiful cab! What has he done to ye, old girl?”
“Did you see the man who did it?”
“I did. He was a great big fella with a loud suit and a black beard. I think he looked Italian. He put the pistol back in his pocket and light-footed it down the street. Thought I’d catch up with him, but he just disappeared. Crikey! I’ll have to patch this up, temporary like. The window’s easy to fix, but I’ll need all new wood and fabric for this side. One hole and it never looks right, you know. You have to replace the whole panel. He couldn’t just break the glass. No, not him! He has to damage the woodwork!”
The fellow was talking about cab repair one minute after I’d just narrowly missed spattering his cab with my brains.
“I’m covered in glass, Mr. Racket,” I pointed out. “Is there somewhere nearby I can get cleaned up?”
“My stable ain’t more than a mile from here. You sit tight, and I’ll have you good as new in fifteen minutes. Then, I’ll take you home and send word to your boss. He’ll get that blighter. Nobody shoots at Racket’s cab and gets away with it.”
I sat in a daze, still covered in glass. Through the shattered window, I heard the rubber tires humming along the road. The thought occurred to me that my assailant might have an accomplice waiting to finish me off. I became convinced that I was in imminent danger of a second bullet’s tearing through the cab, and that this one wouldn’t miss. Like most fears, it was groundless. Without any further mishaps, we arrived.
Racket’s stable was in the Minories in Aldgate, not far from the Tower. The cabman opened the large double doors, then led Juno in by the bridle. It was dark and silent inside, and restful on my jangled nerves. Racket crossed to the far end and pushed open another set of doors, allowing light to stream in. Then he came back and helped me out of the hansom.
“We’ll have you right as rain in no time, Mr. L.,” he said, taking a brush to my suit. “Wisht I could say the same for my cab.”
“This is a nice stable you have here,” I said. It was built of old beams and had a high ceiling with a loft. Fresh hay was strewn over the floor, and a couple of stalls had rope, harnesses and tack hanging from hooks. I stepped over to the open back doors. Instead of a mews, there was a drop of twenty feet down to tracks belonging to the underground.
Racket lay a heavy hand on my shoulder, and I jumped, almost precipitating down onto the tracks below.
“Watch your step,” he said. “You just missed one killing.”
“This is a bit dangerous here, don’t you think?” I asked.
“I ain’t fallen yet,” Racket responded, looking down with me. “It’s handy being so close to the rails. I can hoist hay bales into the loft direct from the wagons below, and I’ve got a hook in front as well and can lift bales from the street. The rent’s low, and I can reach the West End in a matter of minutes. Lend me a hand here?”
Between the two of us, we lifted a panel of raw wood from a pile of lumber and eased it into the cab. I held it while Racket hammered it into place with some stout nails. Then I brushed the glass out of the cab while he fed Juno a bucket of oats to soothe her a little.
“We’re almost done here. I’ll have you home in half an hour. ’Struth. The strain-and-strife will have all kinds of words to say when she sees the state of this here cab.”
“Where did you say your wife was?”
“The missus is in Dover, looking after her ailing mum. I been using the time to work extra hours while she’s gone. I’ve even been sleeping here o’ nights. Don’t hardly seem worth it, going home with her gone.”
Racket judged the cab serviceable, and within the prescribed half hour, he deposited me at Barker’s front door in Newington.
“What happened?” Maccabee asked at the front door. He was wearing half-moon spectacles perched on his elegant nose. I informed him about the shooting. He took off the spectacles and tapped them on his other wrist for a moment, deep in thought.
“Why don’t you sit down in the front room here while I poke about,” he said. “I believe we’ve got a bottle of restorative somewhere on the premises.”
He led me into the sitting room and left me in an easy chair. I had glanced into the room once or twice but had never been seated in it before. Most of the furniture was Chinese or Anglo-Indian, lacquer and rattan with lots of pillows and potted palms. The wallpaper looked like it had been stenciled in gilt with peacock feathers.
Mac glided in with an oversized balloon glass containing an opaque liquid the color of café au lait.<
br />
“What’s this?” I asked, suspiciously.
“Brandy and milk, sir. It will help calm your nerves.”
I hazarded a sip. I’ve never been much of a drinker of spirits, but it seemed to me the mixture was particularly vile. At Mac’s insistence, however, I drank it down.
“Wonderful, sir. Are you hungry? No? Perhaps you should go upstairs and rest a while. I must say you are getting on famously. Less than one week! It took Mr. Quong months before his first…uh…experience.”
Usually I would have come back with some retort after such a remark, but it wasn’t in me at the moment. Once in my room, I undid my collar and tie, removed my jacket and shoes, and slid my braces from my shoulders. I lay down on the bed and slid into a fitful slumber.
I awoke several hours later. The room was dark, save for a shaft of moonlight coming in from the back window. The silver beam illuminated my employer, who sat in my desk chair by the window, fiddling with some coins in his hands. He was deep in thought, as far as I could tell. What had brought him here? Ah, yes. The shooting. I’d almost forgotten. Was he standing guard? If so, he was a little late.
“What o’clock is it?” I asked.
“Almost ten,” he responded. “How do you feel?”
I sat up, and swung my stockinged feet over the side of the bed. “I feel fine, sir,” I said. “Why do you ask?”
“You’ve just been shot at,” he growled.
“Yes, but they missed. I’m fine, really.”
He sat for a moment, manipulating one of the coins through his fingers like a conjurer. “You’re dissembling,” he decided. “I’m taking you off the case.”
“Why, sir?” I asked. “Have I not given satisfaction?”
“It’s too dangerous for an untrained man.”
“Begging your pardon, but until today, the only danger I encountered was barking a shin in the tunnel on the way to Ho’s. ‘Some danger involved in performance of duties’ was clearly printed in the advertisement. I didn’t enter your employment merely to push papers about.”