Murder in Grub Street (24 page)

He paused a moment to have private words with the Lord Mayor and the officer of artillery. Then, no doubt receiving the assurances he sought, he gave a nod and we set off across the roped plot in the direction of Half Moon Passage.

Constable Cowley led the way, and I behind him. Sir John held tight to my shoulder as we ducked beneath the barrier, and kept a firm grip as we pushed our way through the crowd. Cowley used his stick, holding it at shoulder height with both hands to separate the sea of men and women before us. We struggled on, and at last came to a point where we might begin to walk proper.

And so we made our way to the end of Maiden Lane where there at the corner stood our destination, all darkened and quiet — the meeting hall and hospice of the Brethren of the Spirit. When we reached that door at which we had demanded entry a day or two before, I informed Sir John; he in turn ordered Constable Cowley to beat loudly upon it.

That he did. There was silence — no answer at all.

“Beat louder,” said Sir John.

And louder he did beat.

“They may be asleep,” said Mr. Cowley.

“Then wake them up, Constable.”

With that, Mr. Cowley thundered so loud upon the door with his oaken club that I was sure that either it must break or the door would. Yet neither came to pass. And the great racket he made did at last bring someone to the door — a modest sort of man, sad of eye and sleepy, too.

“Praise the Lord,” said he, with a yawn. “How may I help you?”

Sir John stepped forward. “I am John Fielding, magistrate of the Bow Street Court, and I would see Brother Abraham.”

“Ah,” said the doorkeeper, “but he must be asleep. We are simple men, and we retire early.”

“Nevertheless, I must see him. Wake him, if need be. If Brother Abraham has had any sleep at all on this night, then he has had more than I. Tell him that Sir John is below, and he demands his presence.”

“I shall have to shut the door. You’ll forgive me? The late hour.”

“I understand.”

The sad-eyed doorkeeper eased the door shut on us, and threw the lock. We waited. Constable Cowley and I,exchanged looks, as if guessing whether or no the door would again open to us. But Sir John stood patient and waited as the minutes went by. He seemed to be deep in concentration, silent, thinking who knew what great thoughts. Would this be the time to bring up Moll Caulfield to him? No, I thought not.

At last I heard footfalls beyond the door. The lock was turned, and the door came open. Brother Abraham stood beiore us, making a great show ol rubbing his eves and yawning. Yet tor all that, he seemed quite alert to me. I doubted he had been asleep at all. Sir John, said he, “to what do I owe this … this …” Intrusion?”

“Thou hast said it.”

“Ah, quoting Scripture to me, are you?”

All words and phrases are in the Bible,” said Brother Abraham. “For one such as myself who knows it well, they come easy to the tongue.”

“W ell. then, perhaps you will have other such holy words in response to this. You see there is a bright glow in the night behind me? Perhaps you see flames, as well?”

“Ah yes, it would seem that a building is now burning.”

“Do you hear that tumult of shouting? That buzz trom the crowd now departing? I marvel that you could have slept through such a ruction.”

“I am a sound sleeper.”

“How fortunate for you, said Sir John in a manner most ironic. “But since you seem to plead ignorance of the great event that has taken place quite near your doorstep, it is the synagogue on Maiden Lane that has burned — indeed, burns still. What say you to that, sir? ‘Am I my brother’s keeper?”

“That I would not say, tor the Jews are not my brothers in Christ, though I would that they were.”

“I have heard or your keen desire to make them so. You made an appearance at that same synagogue, did you not, and preached to the congregation, seeking to convert them?”

“I did, well, yes,” said Brother Abraham, showing a degree or uncertainty lor the first time. “They welcomed me, listened most attentive to what I said.”

“And in particular when you said that if preaching did not win them, hre and sword might?”

“That I did not say! Oh no, that is a great distortion. I told them that while the Papists offered them fire and sword, I brought them love and sweet reason. Who told you I spoke so? It must have been that misbegotten, ugly little rabbi of theirs. He is an evil man, an agent of the Devil.”

“Brother Abraham, I know naught of the Devil’s agents, yet I have known a few evil men come before me as I sat on the bench, and Rabbi Gershon is certain not one.”

“As you say, you know naught of the Devil’s agents.”

“If that were said to me in my court, sir, I would count it as insolence and contempt,” said Sir John in his darkest mode. Then he added, after a moment: “However, we are not in court. We are here on your doorstep, and I wish to put before you testimony from two witnesses. Both agreed that they had seen three men dressed in black running from the synagogue moments before the fire was noted. One of the two went so far as to say that they were dressed in the style of the Brethren of the Spirit. She had seen them preaching in Covent Garden.”

“Had this witness seen faces? Could this witness identify them? I doubt it — nay, I more than doubt it, for unless these men were seen before eight o’clock, they could not have been members of our group. All were here and accounted for by eight o’clock. The members of this association would not have done such a thing, in any case. We stand for peace, justice, and understanding.”

“How admirable,” said Sir John—and nothing more. He simply waited.

“And … and as for the mode of dress,” Brother Abraham continued, altogether less assured than before, “what have you but that the three who were sighted wore black? Black, I would remind you, is a most popular color. Look about you on the streets of London, and you will see that half the men of the city wear it in some degree.” He hesitated then, then proceeded, revising his statement thus: “Or perhaps you would not see it, but you have but to ask, and it would be confirmed to you that this is so.”

“Interesting. Black, you say. I must then ask.” Simply that, and again he waited.

“The Jews! Most of them wear black. I’ve seen it with my own eyes. They and their fur hats and beards. I have seen them. I saw them so but the other night. They themselves could have set the fire in order that we might be blamed.”

“Their own synagogue? I think that highly unlikely.

“They are a devious people. But put that aside. Put all talk of men donned in black aside, and let us consider how such a fire might most likely have started in such a place.”

“And how would that be, sir?”

“Why, Exodus, chapter twenty-seven, verse twenty: ‘And thou shalt command the children of Israel, that they bring thee pure olive oil beaten for the light, to cause the lamp to burn always.’ “

“Meaning … what?” said Sir John. “I do not immediately perceive the point you wish to make.”

“But it should be plain,” said Brother Abraham. “Did you not notice the lamp burning before the Ark?”

“The Ark? I do not follow.”

“The cabinet wherein the scrolls are kept. Surely you noticed — no, I suppose you would not: your sight, of course, or lack of it. In any case, there is a lamp kept burning there always in respect to the Scriptures. Such a lamp could easily have caused the fire, been upset, or jostled, spread burning oil about. That is the likely cause of the fire—as indeed should be plain.”

“Is it? If I understand you aright, then the lamp would have been placed quite near the scrolls. And if that were so, the scrolls would have burned early. Yet Jeremy witnessed and described to me a heroic rescue by the rabbi — this agent of the Devil, as you called him — of those same scrolls. He brought them from the fire unburned. Commendable, to say the least. Miraculous, indeed, if they were placed so close to the origin of the fire.”

For the moment, Brother Abraham could make no response. He stood in the doorway, mute and frowning.

“But,” said Sir John, “let us call this discussion to an end. We shall have opportunity and time to reopen it in the future. In fact, Brother Abraham, I promise you we shall.”

With that and not a word more, Sir John Fielding turned about, and extending his stick that he might find the down step, he walked out into the street and waited there for Constable Cowley and myself to catch him up. The two of us could do no more than look in surprise, each at the other, nod at Brother Abraham, and run to join Sir John. I heard the door slam after us.

“Come along, come along,” said Sir John. “We’ve wasted enough time with that charlatan.”

He started back along the way we had come then, moving along at a good, swift pace. Constable Cowley and I took places on either side, fearful that he might misstep. Yet with no more than his stick to guide him he found his way sure, even as he railed every step of the way against the time wasted in the interview just past. He declared the man had messianic pretensions and should himself no doubt be confined in Bedlam.

“Yet he is clever as regards the law,” said Sir John. “He knows full well that to have seen the backs of three men in black hastening from the scene would in no wise stand in court as positive identification. Well, we ruffled his feathers at least, did we not? He knows we shall give our attention to him and his band. Perhaps we can drive them from London, send them back to their New Jerusalem across the ocean. I would count that a victory, and if—”

“Uh, Sir John?”

“What is it, Cowley?”

“Just ahead the crowd grows thick again. Perhaps we should proceed as before?”

“All right, all right. Clear a path for the blind man then.”

And so Constable Cowley went ahead once more and Sir John last of all, his grasp firm on my shoulder. There were not near as many gathered as before — in fact, only two or three deep at the rope and they growing restless and ready to leave. This meant, of course, that the fire was near out.

And so it was. Ducking under the rope, Constable Cowley displayed his crested baton to the soldier nearest, who took no interest but let us pass. This gave me my first fair look at the fire since we had departed it to seek out Brother Abraham. It was burned down to embers in most places. Only in one corner of the ground floor did it still flame, and the squirter was aimed square upon that spot.

This I imparted to Sir John, and told him, too, that the soldiers were now collecting the kegs of gunpowder and loading them onto the wagon.

“Well, thank God for that,” said Sir John. “Constable Cowley?”

“Yessir?”

“I have for you an onerous but necessary task. The soldiers will be leaving soon. The rope barricade is to be left up, though pulled in somewhat. When the fire is fully dampened down and the engine has gone, it will be your duty to stand by what is left of the synagogue and keep all pillagers away. Let no one by — the sole exception being the Jews whose house of worship this is. If they wish to stand guard with you, let them. But advise them against entering. It will be quite dangerous inside for some time, I daresay. We will send you relief in the morning. Is this understood?”

“It is, sir, but …”

“But what?”

“How will I tell a Jew, sir?”

“Well … they wear beards, and they … oh, you tell him, Jeremy.”

Rather than tell, I showed, pointing out to Constable Cowley the raggle-taggle group now pushing hard at the pump.

“Those be Jews in the fur hats?”

“So they are.”

“Well, I’ll not have no trouble telling them apart from the rest. All’s well then, Sir John.”

“Carry on, Constable Cowley. And Jeremy? Let’s to bed.”

Only minutes later, we two had made our way through the last of the fire fanatics, and thus reached Tavistock Street. We walked along at a slower pace, ambling through the night, he as well as I showing signs of the exhaustion we both felt. I knew not the hour for certain, though I thought it to be near two in the morning. Covent Garden seemed safe enough even at that late hour, for the walks were peopled with those straggling home from the night’s entertainment, disappointed perhaps that the fire had not burned longer, or that no houses had been exploded.

We went in silence. I thought the time had come at last to make my report.

“Sir John,” said I, “I must tell you of something of considerable importance.”

He sighed. “Not now, boy, I’m much too tired to give you a proper hearing.”

Then I took a deep breath and got my courage up. “I must insist you listen, sir,” said I, with a quaking voice. “I’ve tried to inform you a number of times tonight, yet was always put off or interrupted. You would not take it well if I did as you said and held it to the morning.

“All right,” said he, “you have me. Tell me what you will.”

And at last I did, telling my tale as a tale, from start to finish, leaving out little yet adding nothing in the way of commentary or surmise. I made it plain that Jimmie Bunkins had made the discovery of poor old Moll Caulfield’s body and had taken me to witness it so that I might inform Sir John. I spoke for the Raker, saying that he had not called attention to it, for there were no marks of violence on it. Lastly, I told Sir John that on my own authority I had ordered the Raker to hold her body from burial, for someone would be by to collect it in the morning. He listened to all this without comment to the very end.

“For what purpose had you thought to hold her body from burial?” he said at last.

“Why, for an autopsy, sir. And I thought she might be given a proper church burial. She was a right pious woman.”

“Well,” said Sir John, “Mr. Donnelly is not here, and I trust none of the other saw-your-bones hereabouts to give an opinion. There are many ways to kill without leaving marks. Had I had this information earlier, I would have taxed Brother Abraham with it. Yet we both know that he would simply have reiterated that she left their company of her own will and under her own power. And we, of course, could not prove him wrong.”

“And a church burial?” I put in.