by Libi Astaire
Mr. Lyon returned to his family, and Berel and General went to find a place where they could sit.
“What shall I write, General Well’ngone?”
The General could think of many things that he wished to say. But even though he had grown up in the streets of London, he had learned from the Earl that there was such a thing as polite manners. He therefore said, “Begin with, ‘To Miss Krinkle.’ And for the middle, write, ‘With my compliments.’”
Berel wrote down the words, but stopped at the final one. “Compliments is a complicated word, General. In your opinion, does it begin with a C or a K?”
Although spelling was not the General’s strong point, it was his nature to take charge of a situation. He therefore said, “In my opinion, I think either one will do, Mr. Krinkle. Otherwise, why have two letters with the same sound?”
Berel was not sure if this reasoning was correct, but he wrote down the word as best he could. “How shall we end it, General Well’ngone?”
How indeed? He feared it would be too forward to write “Your Faithful Admirer,” since he had met Sarah Krinkle only once—and the abruptness of that meeting had precluded their being formally introduced.
While the General sat and thought, Berel suggested, “Perhaps you should just say, ‘A Friend.’”
“Without my name? How will your sister know the book is from me?”
“I think it is better if she does not guess your identity at once. She might not accept the book if she knows it comes from you. We may be poor, but we are a respectable family. No offence intended, General, but there it is.”
General Well’ngone pondered the sad truth of this statement with a heavy heart.
IV.
Sarah tried to convince herself that she was not worried. She even left her station at the window, where she had been standing for more than a half hour, and took up some mending. As she jabbed the needle and thread into the place where one of Berel’s shirts had gotten a tear, she told herself there were a dozen reasons why her brother might have been delayed, even though the rumblings of his stomach usually brought him home in time for supper. Perhaps Mr. Barnstock had some work for her, and he was waiting to hear from his client before he could hand Berel the papers. Perhaps an elderly member of their community had fallen on the ice, and Berel was helping the person get home. There could be so many reasons, yet in her heart Sarah could not believe in a single one of them.
She set aside her mending and returned to the window for the dozenth time, and looked up and down the street. As the shadows lengthened and turned their little home a gloomy gray, her thoughts also took a darker turn. Perhaps it was Berel who had fallen and was now lying on some street, ignored by all who passed him by. He might freeze to death, if someone did not take pity upon the child and bring him home.
For the first time since her father had died, she knew what it felt to be utterly alone. Until this hour, she had been so busy working and cooking and trying to make their home cheerful that she had not had time to brood and properly mourn for her father. Now, she looked over to the place where her father’s bed had stood during those final days. Even in his weakened state, when he was no longer able to speak, her father had given her a smile, a squeeze of the hand, to let her know that he was still there watching over them, protecting them from harm.
She took down from the shelf the Book of Psalms that had belonged to her mother and tried to read. That is what her mother had done, when someone in the family was ill or when her father could not find work. But Sarah was too anxious to concentrate on the words. She felt herself drawn once again to the window.
Out there, somewhere in London, Berel was in trouble. She was sure of it.
The Evening Service at the Great Synagogue had come to an end. Mr. Melamed was speaking with a fellow member of the synagogue when he saw a person wrapped in a shawl making her way across the slippery pavement of the courtyard. From experience, he knew this probably meant someone was in need of his assistance. On such a cold night he could imagine that a poor family required fuel for a fire, or perhaps money to pay a physician’s fee.
“Mr. Melamed, may I have a word with you?” asked the person.
When they were inside the synagogue building, and the person had removed the folds of the shawl from her face, Mr. Melamed was surprised to see that it was Sarah Krinkle who had sought him out.
“Miss Krinkle? How may I be of service to you?”
Now that she was standing before Mr. Melamed, Sarah felt her cheeks grow red. It was hard for her to admit that she required his assistance, after her insistence on the day of her father’s funeral that she needed none.
“It is Berel,” she managed to say. “He has not come home. It is not like him to stay out in the street after dark. I am worried that something may have happened to him.”
Mr. Melamed was silent. As one of the wealthiest Jews in the city and a person with social connections that extended to the upper reaches of London society, he had considered it his duty to take on a leadership role in the Jewish community. Indeed, he enjoyed being of service to others and had found that by immersing himself in communal affairs he could keep at bay, at least most of the time, the loneliness he continued to feel even though it had been several years since his wife had passed away. But there was one task he disliked immensely, and that was being asked to find a missing person. He was not God, and he was not a magician. He could not see into every building and alleyway and spy out every lost soul. He therefore felt quite helpless when confronted by a worried family member, who usually came to him as their last hope.
Yet he could not say any of this to the young lady standing before him. He therefore said, instead, “We must hope your brother is safe, Miss Krinkle. Perhaps he has only lost his way. It can happen, especially after dark.”
Mr. Lyon had been standing in the entryway and had overheard their conversation. “Is it Berel Krinkle you are speaking about?”
“Have you seen him?” asked Mr. Melamed.
“I saw him earlier this afternoon at the Frost Fair.”
“The Frost Fair?” asked Miss Krinkle.
“There was no harm in that, I assure you, Miss Krinkle. The freezing of the Thames does not occur very often, and any boy would want to see it. I took my family to see the Fair this afternoon.”
“Was he with anyone?” asked Mr. Melamed.
“Yes, he was with General Well’ngone.”
“General Well’ngone!” the young lady exclaimed. “I told him to never talk to that awful person again!”
Mr. Melamed gave a sigh of relief, certain that the mystery of Berel Krinkle’s disappearance had been solved and grateful that the solution had come about so easily.
“Miss Krinkle, I suggest you go to Devonshire Square with Mr. Lyon, where I am sure Mrs. Lyon will be happy to receive you. I shall go to Gravel Lane, where I shall hopefully find your brother safe and sound.”
“I wish to go to Gravel Lane with you, Mr. Melamed. I must give Berel a box on the ears that he’ll never forget.”
“What you do when you get your brother home is your private matter,” said Mr. Melamed, trying not to smile. “But Gravel Lane is no place for a young lady. You may either go home and wait for your brother’s return there, or go to Devonshire Square and wait at the Lyon home.”
“I suggest Devonshire Square, Miss Krinkle,” said Mr. Lyon. “Supper is waiting for us, and I am sure a bowl of hot soup will be very welcome on this bitter night.”
Gravel Lane was not a pleasant place to visit by day; darkness only made it more sinister and dismal. The first time Mr. Melamed had visited the street, he had not been sure he would ever emerge from it alive. Yet he had required the services of the Earl of Gravel Lane more than once to solve a crime affecting some member of the Jewish community, and so he was now familiar with many of the denizens who called that sad thoroughfare home and could approach the place without feelings of unease.
The Earl was at home when Mr. Melamed called. Indee
d, the young man seldom left his underground dwelling, miserable though it was. He was the organizer of his followers’ activities, while General Well’ngone was in charge of operations in the field.
“It is always a pleasure to see you, Mr. Melamed,” the Earl drawled, mimicking the mincing accents used by the upper crust of London society. “I hope you will excuse the chill in the air. You know how difficult it is to adequately heat these old ancestral homes, I trust.”
The Earl started to laugh at his little jest—for although his abode may have been a palatial dwelling during the times of good Queen Elizabeth, the large rooms were now known primarily for their smell and damp. But he was quickly seized by a fit of coughing.
“You should attend to that cough, Earl,” said Mr. Melamed, “unless you intend to cheat the gallows by dying of influenza instead.”
The Earl had taken out a dirty handkerchief, and after wiping his face he waved it in Mr. Melamed’s direction. “I do not intend to die before my time, Mr. Melamed. Someone must attend to the re-distribution of wealth in our fair city.”
“In all seriousness, Earl, is your business so bad that you cannot afford a larger fire on such a cold night?”
“Every business has its cycles. The cold has been so bitter that it has numbed the fingers of my boys, preventing them from doing their work. I’ve had to give them a holiday, and we must all economize until we see better times.”
“I hear that some of your boys went to the Frost Fair,” said Mr. Melamed, turning the conversation to the topic that had brought him to Gravel Lane. Although he had no affection for the Earl, he knew that these preliminary exchanges—which the Earl considered to be opportunities to show off his wit—were part of the price he must pay to receive the Earl’s services.
“Surely, there is no harm in that,” replied the Earl, looking shocked at the thought that anyone might think such as thing. “Surely you will not begrudge a few hours of amusement to a poor orphaned boy.”
“Not at all. In fact, it is a poor orphaned boy that I am trying to find. By any chance did Berel Krinkle join you and the General for supper?”
The Earl’s ears pricked up at the mention of the name Krinkle. “Why would you think that?”
“Berel Krinkle was seen in the company of General Well’ngone at the Fair.”
“And now you think I have enticed him away from his home and intend to force him to join my brotherhood of thieves. Really, Mr. Melamed, by rights I should have you shown to the door for insinuating such a ridiculous thing. But my humble abode is at your service. Look through every cupboard and under every chair. If you find anyone named Krinkle hiding there, do let me know.”
Mr. Melamed knew that the Earl of Gravel Lane had his faults—a propensity to assume airs, being one of them—but experience had taught him that the Earl was not a liar. The young man might choose to not divulge information in his possession, but he would not deliberately twist the facts.
“The boy has gone missing, Earl. And it’s too cold a night to spend it wandering in the streets of London. General Well’ngone may have been one of the last people to see him. If you have no information about the child’s whereabouts, I would like to speak with the General.”
“I will see if he is available.” The Earl went over to the mantelpiece, where a bell was sitting. He gave the bell a vigorous ring and a child answered the call. “Tell the General that Mr. Melamed is in the drawing room and wishes to speak with him.”
When the General entered, the Earl explained the situation. The Earl then added, “Where did the two of you part company, General? I hope it was not on Duke’s Street.”
“Of course not,” replied General Well’ngone. “I gave you my word, Earl, didn’t I?”
“Then when did you last see him?”
“At the Frost Fair. He said he had to be getting home. So after we were done writing in the book …”
“What book?” asked Mr. Melamed.
The General’s cheeks turned red.
“Was Miss Sarah Krinkle at the Fair?” asked the Earl, looking none too pleased.
“No!”
“What does Miss Krinkle have to do with the two of you, if I may ask?” Mr. Melamed was also looking none too pleased at the mention of the young lady’s name in such disreputable surroundings.
“General Well’ngone thinks he is in love with Miss Krinkle,” said the Earl, with a smirk.
“I never said that!”
“What exactly are your feelings towards Miss Krinkle, then?” asked Mr. Melamed. He had never thought of General Well’ngone in terms other than being a thief, and he was now pleasantly surprised to find out that the youngster might possess finer sentiments—sentiments that possibly could be molded into a better sort of life.
“I can’t say that I have feelings, Mr. Melamed, at least not any I can put a name to. I just think that if I were to ever marry, I should think that a young lady such as Miss Krinkle would do very well.”
“I see. But what does Miss Krinkle have to do with this book you mentioned?”
“I thought that since she could not see the Fair herself, she might like something from the Fair as a remembrance. The booksellers were selling these little empty books that were made special for the Frost Fair, and so I bought her one.”
“And what did you write it in?”
The General looked even more uncomfortable. “Do I have to say?”
“If we can find the book, it might lead us to Berel’s whereabouts.”
“It wasn’t much. Berel isn’t much of a speller, and so I didn’t want to overtax him.”
“Mr. Melamed is not interested in the spelling capabilities of either you or Mr. Krinkle,” said the Earl. “Just tell him what you had the boy write.”
“I just told him to write ‘To Miss Krinkle, with my compliments.’”
“And then Berel wrote your name?” asked Mr. Melamed.
“Not exactly. Berel and I decided it would be best if it just said ‘A Friend.’ And then Berel said he had to leave. I spotted my boys standing by one of the toy stalls and I went over to them.”
“You did not see Berel speaking to anyone else?”
“Not after I left him.”
“So you see, Mr. Melamed,” said the Earl, “we have not kidnapped the boy.”
The General turned first to the Earl, with a look of astonishment on his face, and then he turned to Mr. Melamed. “Does Miss Krinkle think that? Is that what she told you?”
“Apparently, the young lady does not think as highly of you, General, as you do of her,” said the Earl, with more than a dash of glee.
“Miss Krinkle is worried about her brother,” said Mr. Melamed. “If the boy is not here, would you be willing to help me find him?”
This last question was addressed to the Earl, who said, “London is a big city. And, as you said, it is a cold night.”
Mr. Melamed placed several coins on the table. “Buy some more fuel. I shall have some soup sent over, and whatever else I can find. Let me know as soon as you find the boy.”
“If we find him,” said the Earl, scooping up the coins.
“We’ll find him,” said the General. “Tell Miss Krinkle that …” The General glanced in the direction of the Earl of Gravel Lane, who was once again looking at him with raised eyebrows. “We will find her brother.”
V.
When Mr. Melamed arrived at Devonshire Square, the Lyon family was still at the supper table. Despite the best efforts of Mrs. Lyon to convince their guest to eat, the plate placed before Sarah Krinkle was still nearly full, since the young lady had no appetite. When Mr. Melamed entered the room she rose from her chair and asked, “Have you found him? Have you brought Berel?”
“No, Miss Krinkle, I have not yet found your brother. But the Earl of Gravel Lane and his boys have agreed to begin the search this evening.”
“I don’t want their help.”
“I can understand your feelings, and normally I would agree. But General Well’ngone
knows the streets of London better than almost anyone, and it is my opinion that it would be foolish to refuse their offer of assistance.”
“And what shall we do?” asked Miss Rebecca Lyon, who had been touched by the thought of the frail child wandering alone and unfriended on such a night.
Mr. Melamed glanced in the direction of the family’s matriarch. “I did promise the Earl to send over some hot food for his boys.”
Mrs. Lyon glanced, in turn, at their servant Meshullan Mendel. “Please tell Sorel to prepare a basket of food. If there is not enough soup left, she should make another pot.”
“You should eat something, too, Mr. Melamed,” said Mr. Lyon. “Won’t you join us?”
After Mr. Melamed had been seated and served, he turned to Miss Krinkle and said, “I do not wish to appear that I am prying into your family’s affairs, Miss Krinkle, but the more information we have the better our chances of finding your brother quickly.”
“I understand,” she replied.
“Have you any idea where he was going, when he left your home?”
Sarah hesitated. However, it did not take long for her to come to a decision. If she had to choose between honoring her promise to the solicitor and finding her brother, she must do all she could for Berel. “My family has been in the employment of a solicitor named Mr. Horace Barnstock for several years. Berel was supposed to go to Mr. Barnstock’s place of business.”
“What sort of work does your family do for Mr. Barnstock?”
“My father was employed by Mr. Barnstock to make clean copies of Mr. Barnstock’s legal papers. When he became ill, I took over for him. Berel takes the finished copies to Mr. Barnstock’s office and brings back the new work.”
“And brings back the money?” asked Mr. Lyon, glancing over at Mr. Melamed.
“You do not think someone murdered Berel for the money?” asked Miss Krinkle with alarm.
“I believe that is highly unlikely,” replied Mr. Melamed. “Unless Berel was known to carry money upon his person, I cannot see why anyone would accost a child.”
“Then why was General Well’ngone following Berel around this afternoon?” asked the young lady.