Some Danger Involved

19

Arriving at one of London's premiere theaters in a top hat and evening kit was a novel experience, but my day had been full of them. In the last twenty-four hours, I had been shot at, had a knife thrown at me, and been nudged by a wild beast. I'd faced down an old tutor and watched a man defeated who may have tried to assassinate me. Still, none of these events had prepared me for a night at the theater, or the sight of my employer in an opera cape.

I suppose I had once aspired to come here and walk among these beautiful, elegant people as one of their own, but that had been long ago, before all my dreams had been dashed like porcelain on paving stones. Now that I was finally here, I felt all the more like a Welsh collier's brat, as if I were still twelve, nose running, and starting to outgrow my brother's cast-offs. I was in the right place at the wrong time. Such was the refrain of my life.

"Cheer up, Thomas, old man," I told myself, looking down at the crowd from one of the immense stairways. I would try to enjoy the evening out for its own sake. Heaven only knew if I would ever be in such a situation again.

The Pavilion was as long in the tooth as an old dowager, but a fresh coat of paint covered a multitude of sins. The plush was wearing thin on the seatbacks, and plaster showed here and there beneath the gilt of the cherubs and ribbons, but all in all she was still handsome. The marble flooring and stairs had reached that luster of beauty which nothing save time and millions of pairs of shoes could create. Barker and I were admirably situated mid-distance between the orchestra pit and the stalls, close enough to hear all of the dialogue, yet far enough away to have the illusion unspoiled by heavy-handed makeup and garish sets. I must state as well that I am a classicist, and much prefer Shakespeare over the latest patter-operas of Messrs. Gilbert and Sullivan.

The performance was a tragedy in every sense. The actor playing Antonio was stoic and noble, and Bassanio was justly aggrieved at his kinsman's predicament; Portia was just as I imagined her, and in the portrayal of the Jewess Jessica there was nothing of which Sir Moses could disapprove; but in the casting of Shylock the sponsors of the play had made a dreadful mistake. The Merchant of Venice is a play which must be done subtly if one is to get the full benefit of the tragedy therein, and the character of Shylock should be portrayed realistically, so that we feel his alienation as a Jew. Instead, the actor, Frederick Rosewood, portrayed him as a cold, calculating villain, whose only desire is to destroy every Gentile he gets in his clutches. Such a performance might have caused little concern to the Board of Deputies had the audience been merely members of the upper class, but the shilling stalls were filled with East Enders who booed and hissed whenever Shylock appeared. They seemed very likely to vent their emotions from the play in the streets afterward.

"No wonder Sir Moses is concerned," Barker murmured, as we gathered our things. "I had the good fortune to attend Irving's interpretation at the Lyceum in 'eighty-one. Now that was a performance."

"Rosewood was heavy-handed," I admitted. "He's turned Shakespeare into a cheap melodrama."

Barker and I had fallen in with the crowd making their way out to the staircases, when he turned to me. "There's something I'd like you to do, Thomas. I've got a mind to have a word with Rosewood, and it might be useful if you would mill about and see if you recognize anyone from the investigation."

"Certainly, sir."

"Good, lad. Off with you, then."

I reached the top of the stairwell and leaned against the rail nonchalantly, all the while scanning every face for a connection to the Jews. I did indeed see some faces I recognized, but only from their illustrations in the popular press. The Pavilion may not have been the grandest theater in London, but it still had the ability to bring in the fashionable crowd. One could count the dresses, the suits, and the jewels in the tens of thousands of pounds. I was looking down on this pageant as it passed below me, when I found myself staring into a familiar pair of cool brown eyes.

It was the beautiful young Jewess from Pokrzywa's funeral, moving slowly and gracefully down the stair. She wore a gown in a deep forest green, with a matching mantle over her bare shoulders. She had noticed me again and was giving me the same scrutiny that she had in the cemetery. For some reason, I remembered the scene in Eliot's Deronda, when Gwendolen first meets Daniel's gaze. I expected her to look away demurely, but she did not, not immediately, anyway. My heart began fluttering in a way it hadn't in a year; I had thought it cold and dead since my wife's passing. I determined to find out who she was.

She turned her head and spoke to a woman at her side. I wondered if she was speaking of me, but the other woman did not look up. Surely, it must have been some commonplace remark. Her companion was a stern, harsh-looking woman some twenty years her senior, whom I concluded was her mother. I was quite content, therefore, not to be the subject of their conversation. The girl gave me a final glance with those velvety eyes of hers and frowned when I dared offer her a reserved smile. I summoned my pluck and made my way down the staircase after her, but when I reached the lobby, she was gone.

I loitered with intent in the theater as it slowly emptied, but I saw no one else involved in the case. I half expected to see Nightwine or Rushford; this was their type of crowd. Within ten minutes, the time it took Barker to return, the ushers and I had the lobby to ourselves.

"Are you ready, lad?"

"Yes, sir."

"Did you see anyone connected with the case?"

I told him about the girl I'd seen at the funeral. "Have you any idea who she might be?" I asked.

We stepped outside. Barker raised his cane and we hailed a cab. "A Jewess that pretty and still unmarried is rare enough to be remarked upon. I believe she is Rebecca Mocatta, the rabbi's daughter. I've asked her father for a private interview with her, since she was a close friend of Pokrzywa's. So far, the rabbi has not responded. I wish I had been here myself."

"Sorry, sir. I would have gladly stopped her had I known you wanted to speak to her."

"I have no doubt you would, you rascal," he chuckled. "So, the Mocattas went to the theater tonight, did they? I'm sure they enjoyed it about as little as did we. And you saw no one else here tonight you recognized, Jew or Gentile?"

"No, sir. How was your interview?"

My employer snorted. "That egotistical little windbag. To hear him tell it, his fame has been long overdue. He's going to ride this hobbyhorse as far as it will go. He's talking of playing Fagin next in a version of Oliver Twist."

"Is there anything to connect him to the case?"

"I doubt it was his plan to kill Pokrzywa as some sort of publicity stunt for his play. I cannot see Rosewood as some diabolical leader of the Anti-Semite League, not unless he's a much better actor than I give him credit. Frankly, he doesn't seem intelligent enough to orchestrate such an operation."

"Another dead end," I complained.

Barker turned his head my way. "Would you rather I fasten blame on someone without proof or sufficient evidence?"

"No, sir!" I said, realizing he'd taken my remark as a criticism. "I didn't mean it like that."

"Patience, lad. Remember? Every suspect you eliminate brings you closer to a solution. It's still early days yet, and we're coming along. You've discovered something very important."

"What's that, sir?"

"The stunner with the pretty eyes is Rabbi Mocatta's daughter," Barker said, giving me another of his little nudges in the ribs. It galled me to think that he had complained about my sense of humor.