Thus did I find what I was looking for.
Though there was a rug covering that part of the floor, I distinctly felt a board give beneath my right foot. I threw back the rug and went down on my hands and knees — knocking, pressing, searching to find with my hands what my foot had but a moment before found quite without design or intention. In the end, I was forced to jump up and go stomping about once more with my heels in search of the place. Then, having rediscovered it, I grabbed the dagger off the bed and proceeded to dig away at a board in the floor of about the width of my hand, or perhaps a little larger. I did then manage to pry it from its place and look below.
The space beneath was filled fair to overflowing with all manner of items that might easily be napped from gentlemen. There were three or four silk kerchiefs, washed and folded neatly; there were three timepieces, one of them in a case that looked to be of gold; there were even two pairs of eyeglasses in the square style that was then most popular. This was a store of goods waiting to be sold. But where … perhaps … yes!
What I sought was beneath the pile of kerchiefs. Call it a wallet, or a purse, but it was of good leather and bound with thongs. I undid them carefully and peeked inside. It was fat with gold sovereigns and guineas, the harvest of three years dedicated to criminal pursuits.
Quite unable to help myself, I let out a yelp of triumph. Then, remembering that only a thin wall separated me from Mr. Millhouse, I quietened immediately; yet I could not resist muttering quietly, “Polly Tarkin, I have you to rights! You, my good woman, were a great thief!”
Barely had I time to present Sir John with the purse and account book (which he dropped in his desk drawer) when I was whisked off by him in the direction of Tavistock Street. I naturally assumed that we were on our way to visit Mr. Donnelly; this, however, was not to be the case.
As we went, I told him in detail of the search I had conducted. I was altogether bursting with pride at what I had accomplished. So it was that when I began to sense a certain lack of satisfaction at what I reported, I hastened to the end of my tale and asked a bit petulantly if there were anything wrong.
“Oh no, no, of course not. You’ve done well, Jeremy,” said he, “but I had hoped you might find letters, notations of one sort or another — in short, names. There were none, I take it?”
“No, sir.” Then, thinking further, I offered: “But, Sir John, there must be names aplenty in her account books. They are in code, but could the code be broken — ”
“Mr. Marsden has a talent for such games. I’m sure he will have no difficulty with the Widow Tarkin’s attempts to disguise the buyers of her wares. But, you see, these are mere fences, dealers in stolen goods. It may be that an arrest or two will result — and that is all to the good. But as for the homicide, I fear that having fixed the victim as a thief only makes the task of discovering her murderer that much harder.”
“Oh? How is that?”
“Why, don’t you see, anyone from whom she stole might seek her out and take revenge. And that, as you have proven, could be one of a great number.”
“I understand,” said I, feeling somewhat chastened.
It was about that time we passed the building which housed Mr. Donnelly’s surgery. Yet when we continued on, crossing Southampton Street and proceeded down Maiden Lane, I had a better idea of our destination.
“I have some interest in Mr. Millhouse,” said Sir John. “The fact that he was there at the scene says something, surely. He seems at a loss to explain his relation to the victim. When you went off to fetch your hat and coat, he confessed that he sensed something evil about her and disliked his wife’s charitable attention to her. When I pressed him further, he told me he thought the woman was attempting to seduce him, that she might hold it over him to extort tribute for silence, or some such. That seems a bit farfetched — unless, of course, something of the sort were already underway. Tell me, what had he to say on your journey to Half Moon Street?”
“Almost nothing at all. He seemed quite lost in thought. Yet he did expect to enter the Widow Tarkin’s apartment with me. I had to threaten to return with a constable to persuade him to give up that notion.”
Sir John gave a great deep chuckle. “Good boy, Jeremy,” said he. Then: “I believe we are quite close to our destination. Are we near the synagogue?”
“It is just ahead.” I had been right — on my second guess, at least.
“I had thought to seek Rabbi Gershon’s help in finding this fellow, Yossel, who seems to have quite disappeared.”
I held Sir John at the door to the synagogue. It was a new building of brick, put up in short order by the congregation of Beth El on the site of the old one of wood, which had burned under mysterious circumstances two years past. They had made a proper job of it. It looked to be the so-lidest and most durable of any structure on the street.
“Should I knock?” I asked.
“Try the door,” said Sir John.
It was unlocked. I swung the door open and eased him up the single step and inside. We stood in the hall and listened. There seemed to be no one about.
”Halloo!” he called. “Anyone here?”
There was indeed someone there. At the far end of the hall, a face appeared — bearded yet still peculiarly youthful. “Ah!” said the face, and out popped the body, black-clad and rotund. Rabbi Gershon hurried to greet us, his short legs propelling him forward with a rolling gait, the toddling walk of a very young child. “Sir John Fielding! Jeremiah! Welcome!”
I could tell from the smile spreading over Sir John’s face that he did indeed feel truly welcome. Yet he did not reply until the rabbi was upon us. Then did he grope forward with his right hand for the hand of the other. He grasped it firmly and shook it.
“Good day to you. Rabbi Gershon,” said he. “I trust we are not intruding?”
“Not at all,” said he. “I was studying Talmud, and that I can do, Baruch HaShem, every day of my life.”
Then did Rabbi Gershon shake my hand, as well, murmuring my name as he did.
“Now,” said he to Sir John, “to what do I owe your visit? I am always happy to see you here, but I sense this is some special mission. How can I help you?”
“Well, you are right that this is a special mission. And right, too, that we seek your help.”
“So… explain.”
And, briefly. Sir John did just that. He told of the two murders, twenty-eight days apart, and dwelt upon the brutality of the second. Putting emphasis on the difficulty he had encountered so far in his inquiry — the lack of clues, the absence of witnesses — he concluded by saying that there was one whom he wanted for questioning that had so far eluded them completely. “I had hoped,” he concluded, “that you might help us find him.”
“Then he must be a Jew.”
“Well, er … yes, so it is said.”
“And what is his name?”
“I have been given a first name only — or perhaps just a nickname, one in any case, with which I was heretofore unfamiliar…”
“Sir John, please, what is his name?”
“Yossel.” Though not difficult, the name seemed to come ill to his tongue in this instance.
“Ah. Yossel! Yossel Davidovich! — the very one who came to mind!”
“Would you think him capable of such acts?”
Rabbi Gershon considered this for a good, long moment, then he shook his head. “In my opinion, no,” said he. “He is, in the Christian phrase, a ‘lost sheep.’ He has turned his back on his family, his heritage, his religion. Yossel has, as I have heard, even denied he is a Jew. He goes about clean-shaven and dressed as any other who might be seen in the street.”
He paused and looked unhappily first at Sir John and then at me. “But no, I would not say he could do the things that you describe. Sir John Fielding. Let me tell you a story. In the town I lived in as a boy, there was a man who owned a dog. He was a hateful man, and his dog was vicious. He called him his Jew-killer, thinking that a great joke, and he let him roam free, so that every time we set off for shul it seemed that the dog would block our way. He would growl and bark at us wildly, like a monster, and come at us. He put fear into our hearts, for we were but children, and we would run from him and go another way to the synagogue which took us near a verst out of our way. Finally, as we grew older and our bar mitzvah approached, we began to take heart, thinking ourselves near manhood. One of our number declared that he would not again be stopped by that dog, no matter what his name and no matter how loud he barked. And so, the next time we took that same path, that same dog appeared. He growled — oh, how he growled! — and he barked like thunder and showed his teeth. Yet the brave one among us, who was neither the largest nor the strongest, would not turn round and run. He walked forward directly at the dog, slowly, staring him in the eyes. When they were close, the dog stopped, but the boy kept on. The dog could only attack or retreat. He retreated, barking at first, giving ground. But as the boy continued to come at him, he began to whine and trot, looking back at his tormentor. Finally, he ran away. The rest of us cheered at that, and from that day, whenever the dog saw us he went slinking off, never bothering any one of us again.”