Mr. Perkins marched Mr. Neville forward through the milling group to Sir John; I followed along.
“Here’s your man Neville,” said Perkins. “Jeremy found him, and we brought him in.”
“Oh,” said Sir John, a bit owlish, “so we have our author, do we? You are the writer of that broadsheet which appeared today, are you not?”
“I am, sir,” mumbled Mr. Neville.
“Well, speak up, speak up, sir. I hear a good deal about the pride of authorship. Surely you feel a bit of it. Anyone who can cause all this confusion must be a very powerful writer indeed. What have you to say for yourself?”
He said nothing.
“Not a word? Well, I have many words for you — you may depend upon it — but just at the moment all the trouble you have caused me prevents me from speaking them, so I must detain you until such time as I am free to do so, and that may not be until tomorrow. And so, sir — what is his name again, Jeremy?”
“Ormond Neville,” said I.
“Thank you. And so, Ormond Neville, I arrest you for interfering with a criminal inquiry and inciting to riot. I shall hear your case in my court at noon.”
“Riot?” cried Mr. Neville. “What riot?”
“Mr. Baker,” yelled Sir John, “lock him up in the strong room.”
The words that Ormond Neville lacked a moment before rushed of a sudden from his lips as he was dragged away. He protested the unfairness of it all, the injustice, the -
Just at that moment there was a great commotion down the hall. The door to Bow Street flew open. There were footsteps, a few shadowy forms, and a great rush of noise from beyond.
“Bar the door! Bar the door!” came the cry.
“What is it?” called Sir John. “What has happened?”
I started down the long, dark hall with two or three others and nearly bumped into Rabbi Gershon. He was pulling along a dark man about twenty years of age who was sniveling and wailing with fear. This, it seemed, was the notorious Yossel.
“There is a mob out there,” panted the rabbi. “They chased us, would have killed us, except for Sir John’s men.” He pointed back at the two missing constables — Alfred Langford and Clarence Brede — as he pushed past.
I turned about in confusion and saw the rabbi had already reached Sir John. He must already have told him all about the situation. I saw his prisoner backing away. I grabbed him stoutly by the arm and pulled him forward.
“Cutlasses and clubs!” shouted Sir John. “Cutlasses and clubs!”
The Runners grabbed up swords and pulled loose their clubs. They poured into the hall, filling it.
“Sir John,” said I, “here is the prisoner.”
“Yossel Davidovich,” put in the rabbi.
“You were as good as your word. Rabbi Gershon,” said Sir John. “Mr. Baker! If you are about, take the fellow with the rabbi and put him in the strong room with our author. That should give them both something to think about.”
Down the hall I heard the voice of Benjamin Bailey, the captain of the Runners. It was in such skirmishes as these that he proved himself a leader of men.
“Now, when the door goes open, we shall fly at them like the very devils we are. Clubs first, and if they don’t give way, use the flat of the blade. Just follow me!”
A pause. Then: ”Open the door!”
SIX
The anticipated battle did not, in fact, take place. The Runners swarmed out the door of Number 4 Bow Street with a grand hurrah and hollo, only to find no mob to oppose them. The few stragglers still hanging about took to their heels, scattering in all directions. Whether from surprise or in genuine amusement, the band of constables looked one at the other and let out a sudden great roar of laughter, all in concert.
“What is it, Jeremy?” demanded Sir John. “What is it strikes them as so damnably funny?”
We stood together in the doorway. The Runners were ranged out in an arc, still looking about them, and still chuckling as the laughter gradually died down.
“Why, I don’t know, sir,” said I, “unless it be that they came out looking for a fight, and there was none to be had. The mob has dispersed.”
“Well, they may yet have their wish.” Then he shouted out: “Hi, you fellows! Get yourselves off to the Jewish church on Maiden Lane, and be quick. The mob may have formed up again there. And, Mr. Bailey?”
The captain of the Runners came up swiftly at a jog-trot as the others started off.
“Aye, Sir John?”
“If there be no great crowd at the synagogue, leave two men there, as we agreed, and send the others out on the routes as you altered them.”
“As you say, sir.”
Then the captain went off at a run to catch the rest up.
“Now, Jeremy, I have a man-sized job for you. I would not ask you to perform the task, but as you can tell, we are at this moment a bit shorthanded.”
“Whatever it be,” said I.
“I want you to convey the rabbi back to the synagogue. But use good sense. When you come into Maiden Lane, be sure there is no disturbance there before proceeding.” He hesitated. “Reluctantly, I think it perhaps best that you wear a brace of pistols. They should be loaded, but think of them only for purposes of display. If you discharge one of them, you had “better have good reason — and let it be into the air. Now go, fetch the rabbi and get properly outfitted by Mr. Baker.”
We must have looked a queer sight as we made our way down Tavistock Street — Rabbi Gershon in his flowing black robes and dark beard; and I a mere stripling, a raw youth wearing two great pistols, pretending to manhood. We did not hurry but went watchfully at first, listening as well for sounds of disturbance. Yet none who passed seemed notably hostile; if they stared a bit, it was in the spirit of curiosity, or perhaps mild amusement.
Still and all, we talked, for the man quite fascinated me, and whenever I had him to myself (which was not often) I had questions for him. On this occasion, they had to do with matters close at hand. I recall asking him if he had had difficulty in finding the fellow Yossel.
“Oh no,” said he. “I knew where to look.”
“And where was that, sir? — if you don’t mind my asking.”
“Jeremiah,” said he — for that was what he called me — “I shall tell you something about Jews. When one of them gets in trouble — let us say he has turned his back on his people and on HaShem, let us suppose he is a miscreant, a terrible villain — nevertheless, when such a one gets into trouble, he goes straight to his people, begging to be taken in, asking forgiveness. And his family takes him in — for who could tum his back on one of his own blood?”
“And so that was where you found him?”
“Yes, with his family, who are good, pious people, all of them together praying for Yossel’s deliverance. But — ” He halted, frowning with concentration. “Listen! What is that?”
It was the raucous noise of shouting voices — nor was it indeed so distant. But then I noted that just ahead of us was Shakespeare’s Head, a place for eating and drinking which attracted a rather rough crowd.
“There,” said I, pointing just ahead at Shakespeare’s Head. “It comes from there, I think.”
“Then let us hurry past,” said he.
And that we did, spurting forward at a sudden brisk pace. It was not until we were a good distance beyond that he resumed his speech to me.
“Where was I? Ah yes, now I recall. I had but entered their home and found them at prayer, Yossel with the rest. I told them that perhaps I had come with the deliverance they sought for Yossel. I also told them of Sir John and praised him as a just man. They listened unconvinced, Yossel most skeptical of all. And then his brother came forward and pushed into my hand that terrible sheet with all the old lies about the people of Israel, and he said, ‘Here, read, there will be a pogrom — not just Yossel, all of us will be murdered!’ So I argued with them. Yossel denied that he himself had murdered any — threatened murder maybe, threatened to cut off a nose or an ear. I said to him, ‘See what your threats brought to your family. Just think what they could do to all the Jews in London!’ Oh, I soon had him crying, begging our forgiveness, and finally he agreed to go with me. We thought it wise, though, to wait until after dark. And so we waited an hour, and you know, Jeremiah, what happened then. We were halfway to Bow Street when one of the women on the street, one he had threatened with that knife of his. she sees him, and she shouts. There’s Yossel. That’s him! There he goes!’ And then he did something foolish — he started to run. That brought forth a great multitude. If he had not run straight into the arms of two of your constables. I believe we would both have been torn apart by the mob. Oh, they were good, those two men of Sir John’s — they faced them, they drove them back, they — ”