Anatomy of Evil (32 page)

“Without you?”

“I don’t expect you shall be in any mortal danger.”

“I hope not. One never knows with women.”

I arrived at number 37 Cornhill Street a trifle early and reconnoitered the area as is my usual habit, but doing my best to calm the butterflies in my stomach. This could be anything or nothing, I knew, from a prospective client to a person with a clue about the killings, but I was certain it was from
Her.
She had recognized me at the Lyceum, and wished to speak to me. Was this her home? It was possible that Asher Cowen, the MP, might have some kind of abode here in his district, among his people. A moment’s thought convinced me otherwise. Certainly a woman would not invite a former suitor to her own home. Not in front of the servants. It would be indiscreet.

Not content with my stomach, my heart began to flutter as well. I could see the news in the morning’s paper: suitor found dead in front of woman’s home, alleged heart attack. No, make that “dies of a broken heart.” I pulled my watch from the pocket of my trousers by the chain, a terrible way to treat a timepiece, and checked the time. It was one minute until the hour. Not allowing myself to be early, I waited the full minute, then walked up to a glossy black door set in a prosperous-looking limestone wall and tapped upon the knocker. A few seconds later the door was opened. I held my breath.

A woman stood there holding the door, who looked too young and prosperous to be a servant. I deduced the house belonged to her. She was in her late twenties, with dark hair, olive skin, and sardonic eyes. One eyebrow was raised as she inspected me. I removed my hat.

“I suppose you had better come in,” she said.

“I am Thomas Llewelyn.”

“I know who you are. And you’re not Jewish at all? Remarkable.”

“I am part of a plainclothes squad for Scotland Yard,” I explained, which was not technically true but was the easiest way to explain it. “Pray forgive the attire.”

“When I was asked to host this little rendezvous I was dead set against it, but I was promised you would do nothing that might damage anyone’s reputation.”

“That is the last thing I should want to do.”

“You are well spoken. I shall give you that.”

Then a voice came from another room, a voice that made my heart skip a beat. “Ouida, is he here?”

The woman smiled at her friend’s impatience. “He is.”

“Bring him in, then. Do not interrogate him in the front hall.”

“Come along, Mr. Llewelyn. Your Juliet awaits.”

I followed her, hearing my footsteps inordinately loud in the hall and noticing the scuffs on the toes of my shoes. Oh, that I had appeared in the best my wardrobe could provide. The hall was well decorated with thick carpets and small paintings on the way. Palm fronds were arranged in a large pot. I entered some sort of parlor and I cannot recall anything there, because my eyes were full of her. She rose as I entered, and nodded toward her friend. We would have our privacy, within reason. There were no doors, and I knew it likely Ouida would stay within earshot.

She had become a woman now, Rebecca Mocatta Cowen. Mrs. Asher Cowen, the wife of a man of substance. Her parents must have been very proud. She had married well and in short order would produce offspring to polish the escutcheon on the family shield.

“Thomas,” she murmured.

I felt something like an electric current go right up my spine.

“Pray forgive my attire,” I said. “I am working.”

“Oh, Thomas, why did you never come to call? I could have got round Mother’s objections eventually, you know.”

“It wasn’t your mother. She was only doing what was best for her family. Rather, it was your father. He was very kind, but I understood it would break his heart for his daughter to marry outside of the faith. I could see that he cared very deeply for you.”

“Yes, I’m afraid I am his favorite. You missed all the arguments. Mother sensed you were hovering nearby and set her plans in motion. Asher began courting me within a week. There were histrionics all over the house. I refused to marry him. Mama slapped me, and I went on a hunger binge. I was going to die for love, for love of you, Thomas, if you must know. A girlish fancy. But you never called or came again. I waited and waited, and made Asher wait with me a full six months before I finally agreed to marry him. You were rather cruel, not to mention ungallant.”

“Yes,” I muttered. “I’m afraid I was.”

“I wanted to tell you that. I did nothing to warrant such treatment. Perhaps, I thought, you might explain yourself to me someday, so that I could extinguish the torch I’ve been carrying and get on with my life. Then I saw you in the theater the other day and I recognized you immediately.”

I nodded. I didn’t trust my voice.

“We were together five minutes, perhaps ten. You did not kiss me or pledge your troth, yet I dream about our conversation every day.”

“As do I,” I managed to say. My throat was dry.

Her dark eyes widened. “You do? This is not in jest?”

“I felt as strongly as you, and still feel the same way. Probably, I always shall.”

“Five minutes,” she said.

“Five minutes.”

It was during my first case as Cyrus Barker’s assistant. He was trying to introduce me to Jewish culture in order to instill in me the need to protect the Chosen People, and so he hired me as a
shabbes goy
for the Rabbi Mocatta, lighting the candles and fires forbidden to a Jew on the sabbath. No one had expected a spark to ignite between Rebecca and me. She stole down from her room and we had talked. Five minutes, no more. But that is all it takes, I suppose.

“I was warned off,” I explained. “Not by your mother or father, but by my employer. My occupation pays very well, but there are inherent risks in this profession. A day or two after our encounter I was in hospital. I’ve been there three times since. I’ve been injured a dozen times. Shot, stabbed, beaten. I was blown off a bridge once. This is no occupation for a married man, Rebecca.”

“Then why didn’t you just change positions?” she asked, just like that, with all her feminine logic behind it. So sensible.

“I don’t know if I can explain it. Working for the Guv, for Mr. Barker. It’s not just a situation, it is more like a crusade. He only takes cases that genuinely matter. He—we—protected the Jews from a pogrom last time. It’s very possible we may do so again over this Ripper business.”

“Is it really as dangerous as all that?” she asked.

“The last fellow who had my position died. Murdered, floating in the Thames.”

“But surely some other fellow could do the work. My father has connections in the City. I’m sure he could find a suitable position for you, clerking in an office somewhere.”

I shook my head. “You don’t really know me, Rebecca. I am a widower. That is, I was when you met me. I did eight months in Oxford Prison for theft. I needed to buy her medicine. You’re wasting your time and concern on someone who is unworthy of it. Perhaps it would be best if you just forgot about me. It would be better for everyone all around.”

Then she came forward, and before I could do anything, she took my hand in hers. They were warm and soothing like the balm of Gilead.

“That I will never do, Thomas. You cannot tell a heart to do anything, don’t you know that by now? Mother has tried. Father has tried. Goodness knows, Asher has tried. He heard about my secret heartache. He has tried his best to make me forget you.”

We sat down side by side, and I took both her hands in mine.

“Is he a good husband?” I asked. “Is he attentive? Does he love you?”

She squeezed her eyes together and looked away. When she looked back, her jaw was set.

“My marriage is a masquerade,” she said. “He acquired me the way one purchases a vase from Japan and puts it high on a shelf to admire. Asher keeps a mistress in Islington and occasionally visits a house for low women. One can smell cheap perfume on his clothes when he returns. He … he has an illness our physician is treating him for and we cannot start a family until he is well again. Of course, I stand by his side when he makes speeches and attends dinners. Frankly, they are a bit of a bore, but I must tolerate them so he can rise to whatever position he has set his eye on next. He hopes to be prime minister one day, the first openly Jewish one, he says, since Disraeli was baptized as an Anglican.”

“I’m so sorry,” I finally said.

“It sounds so terrible, but it’s not as bad as that. I’m alone much of the time, with the servants. Sometimes Mama comes to see me, or my sister, or Ouida, who is my closest friend since Amy died. You knew Amy Levy, did you not?”

“Yes. I’m friends with Israel Zangwill, if you recall.”

“Oh, that’s right. He mentioned your name to me.”

I leaned forward and looked at her in earnest. “See here,” I said. “If you are in an intolerable situation, you have but to say the word and Barker and I will help you leave. We can put you in the Carlton Hotel for a couple of days, until you decide what you want to do from there.”

She laughed. I’d have liked to hear her laughing but not that way. There was a trace of bitterness in it.

“I cannot say I love him, but he is my husband and I should try to make him a proper wife. I don’t know what to say, Thomas, save that between us, we’ve made a horrible mess of things. If somehow it were miraculously repaired, what then? I presume you will not leave your position, nor will you marry me while you work for Mr. Barker.”

“You are right. We have made a hash of it. But we do have one tool we can use.”

She looked up into my eyes. I could sit beside her and stare into those dark, lusterful orbs for the rest of my life.

“And that is?”

“Cyrus Barker himself. He’s awfully good at advice. He’s the wisest person I know. He prays over things and thinks them over before reaching a conclusion, which is generally the right one.”

“You understand,” Rebecca said, “that I cannot leave Asher. He needs me to support him and his career. Whether he is an ideal husband to me, I shall certainly try to be an ideal wife to him.”

I took her hand again.

“I would not have it any other way,” I said.

Just then, Ouida returned with a tray of tea. It was another example of how the beverage was used in England, to smooth over awkward situations. She sat down across from us, one part friend and three parts chaperone, and began to pour.

“You have a lovely house,” I said to my hostess.

“Thank you. Mrs. Cowen tells me you are some kind of detective.”

“Private enquiry agent, actually.”

“And how does one become a private enquiry agent?”

“Oh, the usual way, you know. I began at university.”

“Which one?” she asked. She was sharp, but not disposed to hate me. Not yet, anyway.

“Oxford. Magdalen.”

“Did you know Oscar Wilde?”

“He was a senior boy while I was in my first year. We met once or twice. I’m not sure if he’d remember my name.”

We talked of this and that, while she probed me the way a surgeon probes, with a sharp scalpel. The patient found it painless enough; anything to sit beside Rebecca for a few more minutes. Finally, she said the words I dreaded to hear.

“It was so nice to have you come.”

I stood and bowed gravely. “Thank you for inviting me. One so rarely gets a glimpse into these old houses of the City. Whenever I pass by, I shall remember this afternoon and these beautiful rooms.”

I turned and took Rebecca’s hand. I could feel it trembling.

“Mrs. Cowen, I am delighted to make your acquaintance again. I shall look forward to speaking with you at a later date. I must be away now. I am sorely busy. It was charming to take tea and renew old acquaintances. Good afternoon, ladies!”

I turned and left the room. Finding my hat in a seat by the front door, I stepped out and resisted the urge to lean against the frame and breathe like a fish that had been thrown onto dry land. What a mess. What a bloody mess.

Had I done something, anything, when Rebecca and I had first met, it might have changed the outcome somehow. But I did nothing, leaving her to struggle along against the machinations of her parents and the odious Mr. Cowen. Very well, he wasn’t odious. I didn’t know that for a fact. But he was an idiot. A mistress, when the loveliest girl in the world was at his beck and call? Could such a man appreciate her? No, a thousand times, no. The real me, the natural me, the one I had been when I first met Rebecca, might have stolen her away without blinking an eye. However, I had been changed by working with Cyrus Barker. As much as I loved her, she was Cowen’s, and I had no right to take her, even if he did not appreciate her. If he beat her or mistreated her outright, certainly, but there seemed limited evidence of it. She had grounds for adultery, but not everyone will make such a claim against their husband, and thereby ruin her own good name. I must give it some thought. Much thought, in fact. That, and I should consult Cyrus Barker about the matter.

Which would be the ideal time? That evening, when we walked Whitechapel together. Provided the Ripper didn’t strike again, we would have the entire evening for a full airing of events, past and present, concerning Rebecca Cowen, n
é
e Mocatta. If I had the courage.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

When we returned to Scotland Yard, we learned that Robert Anderson was back from his enforced holiday and was in the building. Knowing that he would have a good amount of work to do, including being brought up to speed by Commissioner Warren himself, Barker thought it prudent to wait until we were called in to see him

“What are you going to say to him?” I asked.

“I haven’t decided. I’ll see what he has to say to me first.”

“And if he doesn’t say anything regarding Munro, what then?”

“Then we’ll know he has a reason for hiding it, and shall need to uncover it.”

“Why not just ask him outright?”

“What?” the Guv asked. “Club him over the head while he reads his mail? We’ve been friends for several years. I should think he deserves better treatment than that.”

“Have it your way, then.”