Some Danger Involved

15

It was not a good morning. Dummolard made me coffee and an omelet in the kitchen, but neither of us was in a garrulous mood. He moved about, the stump of a cigarette in his teeth, ready to bite off my head at the first comment. I'd had a small disagreement with my employer the night before, had not endeared myself to the butler, and now I was in danger of angering the cook.

Barker came down the stairs, as steady as the eight twenty from Brighton. He greeted me formally and led me outside to the curb. Racket at least had a smile for me, though Juno seemed unimpressed. Perhaps she associated me with the shot last night. The new glass and patch on the woodwork of the cab were as evident as Racket had predicted. Barker and I rode to the office in Craig's Court in relative silence. He asked but one question.

"How's Deronda coming along?"

"Fine, sir. How did you know I was reading it?"

"I saw the book on your table just now before I came down," he responded.

"Is it all right for me to borrow it?"

"The library is open to you, lad."

In the office, I felt more like an actor than an agent's assistant. I hadn't sat at my desk more than once or twice, hadn't used any of the materials in the top drawers, and hadn't even opened the bottom ones.

Barker drafted a letter to a Sыretй inspector in French. Then we attempted a letter to a retired criminologist in Vienna but bogged down completely. I didn't know a word of German, and when he wrote down a word for me, I couldn't read his horrid scrawl. We agreed to send it in English and hope that the old duffer could find a translator.

Finally, Barker finished his office business, or perhaps he merely took pity on me, and we climbed into another cab. Barker yelled "Chelsea" over our heads, and we were off.

"What is in Chelsea?" I asked.

"Aesthetes," he responded. I had read in The Times how that district of the West End was rapidly filling up with artists, poets, authors, and let us not forget the wealthy female patrons who feted them. In drawing rooms there, Mr. Whistler was slinging paint for all he was worth, and the arbiters of taste and fashion walked those gilded streets. I noticed a picturesque fellow in a velveteen suit leaning against a building, looking as if he had barely enough energy to smoke the cigarette that hung limply between his thick lips.

We disembarked in front of a fashionable-looking residence in Cheyne Row, with a brass doorknocker in the form of a sunflower. Our rap brought to the door a Sikh manservant in a suit and a turban of an unrelieved peach color, which in no way diminished his fierce appearance. He took our card and led us through an overdecorated hall, awash in Liberty wallpaper and heavy furniture. He carried our card into a room and emphatically closed the door behind him. After a moment, he opened it again, bowed, and ushered us in. The room was a book-crammed study, filled mostly with classics, less modern and more academic than the outside of the residence would lead one to expect. A white-haired gentleman sat at his desk, scribbling away at his journal. He set down his pen and turned at our approach. I was unprepared for his appearance. It was Walter Rushford, my old tutor from Oxford.

I had read in the newspaper that he was settled now here in London, probably in the same article about the aesthetic movement. A wag therein had called him "Old Nebuchadnezzar," after the Babylonian king from Daniel, for at the pinnacle of his fame and genius, with his books flying out of the bookshops, and with invitations to speak the length and breadth of England, he had suddenly gone quite thoroughly mad. Some called it a brainstorm brought on by overwork, some a natural extension of his genius, and others a punishment for his radical beliefs. No one would say exactly what form this madness took (perhaps he ate grass like his biblical predecessor), but the outcome was swift: he was quietly sent to a sanitarium outside of London. Now that I found myself confronted with him, I was busy worrying that he would recognize me, and wondering what he would say when he did.

"Good morning, gentlemen," he said, graciously. "May I be of service to you?"

"You may, sir, you may," my employer began. "I am Cyrus Barker, and this is my assistant. We'd like a word, if possible."

"Certainly. Won't you be seated?"

We sat. I took a moment to surreptitiously observe my old professor. Though he was only in his late forties, his hair had gone white during his stay in the asylum. All his faculties seemed to be still with him, however, and he appeared hale and hearty for all his recent misfortunes. He turned a curious eye my way, and I could see that he recognized me but couldn't exactly place me. One could see him going through filing cabinets in his mind, looking for my picture. I hoped, for my sake, that the filing room had been overturned enough that one file in particular had been lost forever.

"Mr. Rushford," Barker said. "A few nights ago a young Jew was murdered in AldgateЧ crucified, in factЧ by a group calling itself the Anti-Semite League. Have you ever heard of such an organization?"

"No, sir, I have not."

"I have been retained to discover the identities of the men responsible for this crime, and I am leaving no stone unturned. You, sir, are one of the stones."

"Me? Surely you're not implying that I had anything to do with the matter?" he asked.

"No, sir, I merely came to solicit your aid in my investigation. It is true, is it not, that you are an exponent of the science of eugenics, that you are in fact its most vocal exponent?"

The scholar got up to pace. "I don't know about that. Sir Francis Galton invented the science, and he still lives. I wholeheartedly believe in it, and I speak my mind when I believe in a cause. I am a philosophical eugenicist; that is to say, I believe some races are genetically inferior to others and must be governed by those more capable. Our superiority is what has made us a world empire. But I would not call for the destruction of other races, not even one little Jew. Certainly I would not be part of an organization that committed such an atrocity."

"Perhaps not, sir," Barker continued, "but in one of your published essays you claimed that were the Jews to be assimilated into the general population, they would produce a race which was 'physically stunted, mentally decayed, and morally corrupt.' What solution do you propose?"

The professor shrugged his shoulders. "None at all. Not for the Jews that are already here. But I think we should shut our borders. I don't object to Jews, and I know many, but I do not wish my country inundated with them. Close to a hundred thousand have arrived here in the past few years. They are un-educated and superstitious, little better than animals. Some are criminal, and some are insane. The East End is already rife with other disasters: the Irish, the Italians, even the Cockneys. It's like some terrible melting pot, producing a noxious brew."

"But, sir," Barker continued, "are you not concerned that your published philosophical musings may encourage your readers to take the crusade into their own hands? We mustn't forget the hysteria in 1291 that resulted in the Jews' being driven out of England. Do you wish that to happen again?"

My old tutor looked at us hard. "I do. I hope it is as bloodless as possible, but I agree with it. We are dealing with issues larger than ourselves: a people, nay, an organism defending itself against contamination. We are seeing one of Darwin's principles at work, that of natural selection. I cannot help you, gentlemen. I cannot interfere."

"Mr. Rushford," Barker continued, "We have not come here today to debate race or religion with you. Names, sir! I need the names of possible members of the Anti-Semite League. I'll concede that to your way of thinking, a pogrom is a naturally occurring phenomenon. But we have a mob of citizens taking a man off the street and crucifying him from a telegraph pole in the middle of the City. That isЧ"

"Madness?" Rushford drew himself up to his full height and grasped the lapels of his coat, as he once did while pontificating. "I think I am a better judge of madness than you, having so recently escaped it. It is not madness to want the best for one's people. Even now, in Limehouse, the blooms of English womanhood are walking arm in arm with Chinese men. In Soho, they are fawning over Negro minstrel singers from America. It is not madness to wish to safeguard our women and ourselves!"

Barker responded calmly. "We have gotten off track. What of these killers? Will you help us, or will you side with murderers?"

Rushford looked down at the floor for a moment, debating in his head between his beliefs and his disinclination to see blood spilt.

"No, no, no, I cannot help you," he said finally. "If the blood of one Jew may stem the tide of thousands washing in, it has served a purpose. I am not acquainted with anyone whom I believe capable of doing such a deed, and I do not countenance murder, but I will not stop nature from taking its course. Do you know that the Royal Army is complaining that the average recruit is much smaller than a generation ago? Look at this little fellow here." He gestured toward me.

My cheeks burned at the insult. "Sir, I am of a very pure Welsh strain."

Barker gently took my arm. "Llewelyn, it is time for us to leave."

"Llewelyn?" My old tutor pounced on the name. "Thomas Llewelyn, is that you? Of course it is! Well, well, so this is where you finally washed up. I might have known, since no respectable employer would have you. How does it feel to be one of the hounds instead of the fox? I hope your time in jail provedЕ educational."

"More so than Burberry Asylum, apparently, Professor," I retorted. "They let you out too early. You're still as mad as a hatter."

"We were just leaving," Barker rumbled, manhandling me across the room. "Thank you for your time."

I looked over at the tall Sikh, who stood by the door glowering at us. He escorted us out and slammed the door behind us.

"Why the deuce didn't you tell me you knew the fellow?" my employer demanded at the curb.

"If you didn't insist on keeping our every destination as secret as the road to El Dorado, I would have done so. You might have realized the possibility, given that we were both at Oxford. To think I once admired the man! I had signed copies of his essays and poetry. If I had them now, I'd burn them in the dustbin!"

"Thomas, I must ask you to follow my lead," Barker insisted. "You are still untrained and can cause setbacks in my investigations. As it is, I was forced to take you out of there before I had the answers to a few more questions."

"I'm sorry, sir. I'm afraid I had a problem with Rushford. I think I can reasonably state that it won't happen again, unless we suddenly move the investigation to Oxford."

"What do you think of him as a suspect?" Barker asked, nodding in the direction of the house.

"Oh, I think he's an excellent candidate. He despises being out of the limelight, and these new theories of his are controversial enough to get him back in the newspapers and journals. He is still mad; he's just traded obsessions."

"Perhaps you are a trifle prejudiced, but I agree. We cannot rule him out as a suspect."

"He is mad," I insisted. "All these eugenicists are mad."

"No, Thomas, people are like teapots. They need to let out a little steam from time to time. The citizens of London are genuinely worried about the influx of so many aliens; they feel powerless to stop it, so of course, they complain. Complaining is the only civilized form of regress. Crucifixion, on the other hand, is a barbaric form of torture that should have been left in the first century. It is the work not of civilized people but of madmen."