A moment passed in silence. I took it that Sir John was waiting to be sure that the rabbi had concluded.
Then, having satisfied himself, he spoke: “Are you suggesting that Yossel’s bark is worse than his bite?”
“Is that how it is said here? It is different in Russian.” Rabbi Gershon nodded. “Perhaps I am saying that. But perhaps Yossel Davidovich has no bite at all.”
“It was reported to me that he stole from prostitutes, sometimes threatening them with a knife.”
“To threaten is one thing; to use, another. I think Yossel is a coward who would appear dangerous.”
“That’s as may be, but he was seen quarreling with the second victim by four witnesses — a woman, by the bye, who it now seems was herself a thief. In all truth. Rabbi, I wish only to put questions to him. He is not yet a suspect. Yet it counts against him that he is nowhere to be found.” “I will find him,” said Rabbi Gershon. “I will try.” “Thank you,” said Sir John. “I hoped that you would do this for me.”
“In all truth. Sir John, I do it also for my people, my congregation. Matters such as this often have a way of turning out for the worse for Jews.”
As if to justify the rabbi’s apprehensions, upon our return to Number 4 Bow Street Mr. Marsden handed me a broadsheet with a frown and a shake of his head.
“Just see what they’re hawking in Covent Garden.” said he quietly. “You’d best read it to Sir John.”
“Read what?” demanded Sir John, whose keen ears had picked up Mr. Marsden’s muttering with no difficulty whatever. “What have you there?”
“A broadsheet, sir,” said the clerk. “It’s all about the murder of that woman two nights back. I don’t think you’ll like it, not one word of it.”
No, he did not. I have not kept a copy of that inflammatory document, so I shall not attempt to quote verbatim. The important points were these: It had been a bloody murder (the writer had no idea how bloody, for he mentioned only the wound at her throat). The victim, one Priscilla Tarkin, known commonly as Polly, frequented the streets and inns surrounding Covent Garden. Those who knew her well had seen her that very night in great contention with a villain known as Yossel. Said Yossel was certain to be Polly’s murderer, her friends agreed, for he was known as a “high-ripper,” one who robbed women such as her of their meagre earnings at knife-point, threatening to disfigure or otherwise wound them. Yossel was known to one and all as a Jew, and the mortal wound he inflicted was of the ceremonial sort, well known in parts of Europe where Jews kidnap Christian children and bleed them dry in heathen ceremonies.
And so on. Each of these main points was developed at some length, particularly the last, which repeated many of the calumnies commonly laid upon the Israelites. It was noteworthy, however, that the anonymous author made no effort to tie the most recent murder to the one which had been discovered twenty-eight days before. It made me wonder if it was known to him.
Anonymous author, indeed! I was near certain that I knew him who had written this by his past works and even by name! Could Sir John be as certain as I? If so, then judging by all outward signs manifested by the magistrate, Ormond Neville, poet and journalist, was in for a rough go of it.
I had never before actually known Sir John to gnash his teeth. Yet as I sat in that chair which Thaddeus Millhouse had earlier occupied and read to the magistrate from that scandalous broadsheet, I became aware of a most disconcerting sound of grinding which came to me from across the desk. I looked up and saw that Sir John’s mouth was shut tight, his chin perhaps thrust forward a bit, but that his jaws were moving perceptibly from side to side. This reaction from him was intermittent and came at those moments when he was trying hardest to suppress his rage at what I read. Yet throughout my reading — in any case, each time I glanced up — I saw his hands on the desktop fixed tight in fists. At last, I concluded.
“That is all? There is no more to it?”
“That is all, sir.”
“It is quite enough.” He sat, inhaling deeply, saying not a word, unticlass="underline" “Never, and I repeat, never, have I known such a vicious and unprincipled piece of ordure to be printed and given general distribution in this city. Not only does it interfere with and impede my inquiry and thereby the judicial process, it also goes so far as to irresponsibly slander an entire people. Do you realize, Jeremy, that there are those who can read who truly believe that if even the grossest fabrication appears in print, then it must, for that reason, be true?”
Being myself at that age somewhat overawed by whatever I might happen to read, I had not given the matter sufficient thought. And so, under the circumstances, the best I could manage was a rather lukewarm agreement.
“I suppose that is so. Sir John.”
“Indeed it is! And perhaps the more lasting damage has been done the Jews. Who knows, when such an evil seed is planted, what may grow from it in years to come? I will not have such filth circulated in my precincts! I will not allow Londoners to behave in the manner of denizens of some benighted province of Eastern Europe.”
He punctuated this by beating with both fists upon the desktop. I had not seen him before quite so overwrought.
“I foresee a bad night ahead,” said he. “I shall have to post two men at three-hour intervals at Rabbi Gershon’s synagogue. I’ll not see it put to the torch again. And then let us — ” He broke off of a sudden and leaned across the desk towards me. “Jeremy,” said he then, “I know you to spend a good deal of time in Grub Street. You must have the acquaintance of one or two there?”
“I do, sir, yes.”
“Could you go asking about there and discover the author of this … this …”
So seldom was he at a loss for words that I relieved him of the task of putting a name to it. “There is no need. Sir John.”
“Why? What do you mean?”
“I believe it to be the work of one Ormond Neville. You recall that he was author of the broadsheet which demanded the swift trial and execution of John Clayton, the poet?”
“I do indeed.”
“There have been others, not near as inflammatory, which have appeared since then which have caused you some distress. You recall the dissertation in support of public hanging?”
“I do, yes. It called for executions to be moved from Tyburn to Covent Garden. That was his?”
“Of that Tm sure, for we happened to meet at the shop of his printer, Boyer, and Mr. Neville claimed it proudly. He asked impudently what you thought of it.”
“He did, did he? Well, I shall be happy to tell him my opinion of this, his latest work. Do you know where this fellow lives?”