"Leman Street - what, down by the docks?"
"That's the one. I want you to take this money there and hand it to the Superintendent. Tell him it's from a donor who wants to remain anonymous. If he starts making a fuss, just ask him if he wants it or not."
"Right, Mr Goldberg. What's the notebook for? I tried to read it, but I couldn't make anything out. Must be his handwriting."
"Must be, Bill. Now look - the melamed's here. Mr Kipnis. He's waiting for you next door. Take your book - there you are - on the chair by the window."
Bill took the little cloth book Goldberg pointed out, thanked him and left the room. Goldberg relighted the cigar and settled back, feet on the table, to study the notebook.
A melamed was a teacher of Hebrew: not a learned man like a rabbi, but a poor drudge who spent his days drilling the elements of the language into the heads of naughty boys. In the case of Bill it wasn't Hebrew he was teaching, but the art of reading English, for Bill was illiterate, and as a Jew he felt that to be shameful.
He hadn't always known he was a Jew. He wasn't entirely sure who he was, or where he came from. He'd grown up among the Irish families in Lambeth and had avoided the Board Schools, running wild and learning nothing but violence and cunning. At thirteen his life had lurched in another direction: he had taken to helping out in the household of Reuben Levy, a poor tailor in Walnut Tree Walk, and had fallen in love with Rebecca, the tailor's daughter - or not so much with her, as with the richness and warmth and beauty of her family life, with its networks of ritual and remembrance. It was glamour. He wanted it. He wanted to belong.
There was no reason to suppose he wasn't Jewish. He certainly looked more Jewish than Irish. He'd heard there was a ceremony of some sort you had to go through to be a full Jew; but before it came to that, he must learn to read and write. One thing that he'd noticed about all the Jews he knew was that they were learned. Old Reuben Levy - at the drop of a hat he'd put down his work and start arguing and giving learned opinions about politics, about religion, about literature, about the law, about anything else at all; and his fellow-Jews would join in - ordinary poor working-men talking like Solomon. A man like Kid Mendel, thought Bill, was bound to study deeply; bound to be able to read. That's what made him the man he was.
He kept this desire to himself until he met Mr Goldberg. Mr Goldberg had found the broken-down old melamed, Mr Kipnis, whose nerves had gone for teaching small boys, and brought the two of them together; and now Bill toiled obsessively, learning A and B and C and scratching them on a slate, while Mr Kipnis refreshed himself with furtive sips from a flask.
And in the room next door Dan Goldberg dropped the greasy notebook into a drawer, poured himself a glass of brandy and took out his notes on this other extraordinary affair of Mr Parrish's: this lawsuit involving a woman called Lockhart.
Chapter Five
TARGET PRACTICE
Next morning Sally had three clients to see and a number of letters to write, and it wasn't until the afternoon that she managed to find time to visit the solicitor.
He seemed surprised to see her.
"There is very little new to report," he said. "The case is due to come to court, as you know, on the fourteenth of next month - surprisingly soon, but that might be, perhaps, a good thing?"
"How can it be good, Mr Adcock? It hardly gives us time to do anything!"
"What is there to do?"
He spread his hands. She could hardly contain her impatience.
"You don't mean to tell me there's nothing to be done? For goodness' sake, what on earth--"
"We claim that he is mistaken on the marriage point," said Mr Adcock. "That is what we do. I have been drafting replies to all the particulars, and if you wish we can discuss them again, point by point, though I must say I have another client to see at three--"
"Mr Adcock, I've been to look at the marriage register in Portsmouth, and it's been forged."
"I beg your pardon?"
He listened attentively as she told him what she'd found out. Then he frowned, pursing his lips, and tapped the table thoughtfully.
"The register was intact? It had not been tampered with - a page inserted or replaced - anything of that sort?"
"That was particularly what I was looking for. No, there was nothing like that. It was intact. It says that I married that man on January 3rd, 1879 - but I didn't, I swear I didn't. And we've got to find Mr Beech, the rector who filled it in, d'you see? If we can find him, and he can confirm that it never happened, then the case is over. We've won."
He smiled indulgently.
"I regret to remind you," he said, "but it really isn't that simple. By all means, look for this Reverend Mr Beech, if you think it worthwhile. I shall engage an inquiry agent if you wish, though that will of course be an extra expense. But he may confirm the other side's story and not yours. And I must remind you that that is only one element in the petition. There remain all the other charges: desertion, being incapable through drink, mistreating servants, the misappropriation of funds, the unfitness to have charge of a child, the living in close association with persons of doubtful morality -"
He spread his hands. As he listed the charges in his precise, melodious voice, they felt like blows to her heart: she hadn't looked at the document for a day or so, and she'd forgotten the effect it had. Someone must hate her, to attack her like that. The sensation of being hated by someone you know for a reason you can understand is bad enough; the knowledge that you're hated by someone you don't know for a reason you can't imagine is far worse. It came to Sally again in a rush, and weakened her, so that she couldn't argue with the solicitor. Instead she nodded unhappily, her eyes on the floor.
"Yes," she said finally, "I see. Well, I'd like you to engage that inquiry agent to try and find Mr Beech. The only clue is that he left under some kind of a cloud, that he might have stolen some of the church's silver, and that he might be in prison. But of course that's just rumour."
He looked alarmed.
"My dear Miss Lockhart, may I counsel you - may I beg you not to repeat those things? The law of slander, I need hardly remind you, exists precisely to prevent statements of that kind, and the last thing I want is for you to fall foul of that as well."
"Yes. Very well. But you will tell the inquiry agent?"
"I shall give him every possible clue. We might also sanction some inquiry into Mr Parrish himself, if you are agreeable. His affairs, his background, hmm? It might be useful."
Sally, encouraged to hear him actually suggesting something positive, agreed. Then she said, "Mr Adcock, if the worst came to the worst, what would happen?"
"Oh, I don't think you need think of that. Let's cross one bridge at a time."
"But I want to know. Can they take Harriet - my child can they take her away from me?"
"If the court's decision were for the petitioner, then you would be ordered to give up the child to the custody of her fa - of Mr Parrish. But let's not--"
"And if I refused?"
"Well, you'd be in contempt of court - and liable to arrest and imprisonment."
"And would they take Harriet away from me by force?"
"Miss Lockhart, it really isn't profitable to pursue this line of thinking--"
"Would they? By force?"
"Well, in the end, if all else failed, yes, that would be the outcome. But there is no point in looking to extremes. The law is for man, not man for the law. There is the spirit of compromise. . . With discussion and reason, all things can be resolved. . ."
"How can I compromise when someone I've never heard of wants to take my child away? How can you talk of compromise? What is there to compromise about? I don't understand, Mr Adcock." She held up her hand to stop him, and then stood up to leave. "All right. I'm sorry, you were only answering my question. I'll go now. Hire this inquiry agent by all means, it's a very good idea. Shall I come again soon?"
"We have just over a fortnight. Yes, we ought to meet again before the case comes up. . .
In about a week?"
Sally felt that they ought to meet every day, that he ought to spend his time on nothing else, but she nodded.
"And the barrister, Mr Coleman? When will I meet him?"
"Oh, he's a very busy man. I'm not sure that he'd want to take up time like that."
Sally, amazed, sat down again. "Do you mean that he'd come to the court to defend me without even listening to what I had to say?"
"I am your solicitor, Miss Lockhart. I listen to what you say, and I instruct him. He will have all the papers, believe me. I can ask for a meeting if you wish, but I can assure you that Mr Coleman, QC, is a most eminent and able counsel. You could not be in better hands."
"I'm glad of that. But I would certainly like to meet him, papers or no papers. Could you arrange that?"
"I shall do my best. Though, as I say, he is extremely busy."
Sally left the office, heavy-hearted. She stopped to say goodbye to Mr Bywater, the old clerk, and he beckoned her close.
"Got something for you," he said.
He took a slip of paper from his waistcoat pocket.
"I had a word with a feller I know, used to be clerk to these solicitors your man's with. Asked my pal to sniff around. Well, of course, he can't be privy to the day-to-day business of the firm any more, out of the question, but he did recall the name of Parrish. Seems that three or four years ago, there was a case brought against a man in Blackmoor Street--"
"That's where Parrish's office is!"
"Wait," he said severely. "I'm coming to that. The defendant, Belcovitch, was accused of some kind of malpractice, some complicated commercial business, look it up if you like, it's all there somewhere. Point is, he lost, and lost again on appeal. That's the surface point. The real point is, he hadn't done it, but that didn't come out till much later, and then only in the course of another case altogether. Too late then. Belcovitch had drowned himself. Now then, the plaintiff - the man who brought the case against him - was called Lee. Some time later, when the business was on the market, Lee bought it, and set up your man Parrish as manager. Changed the name. All perfectly legal, no hanky-panky. Point of this is, Parrish isn't the boss. Lee is. Don't know anything about Lee. All my pal recalls is that an address in Spitalfields came into it somewhere. Kind of a French name, he thought, but he couldn't recall it exactly. F-something Square. Here you are."
He handed Sally the slip of paper with the address written on it in precise copperplate.
"No number," he added.
"Is this Mr Lee's address? Or wasn't your friend sure?"
"That's what he can't recall. Something to do with the case of Lee v. Belcovitch, that's all he remembered."
"Belcovitch. . . Was he Jewish, this man who lost the case?"
"Don't know. I dare say, but I don't suppose we'll know for certain. Is that important?"
"No. Probably not. It's just something that crossed my mind. Thank you very much, Mr Bywater. Thank your friend for me. Will you tell Mr Adcock about this?"
"If you'd like me to, miss. Can't do any harm."
His tone said clearly that he didn't think it would do much good either. She thanked him, said goodbye and left.
A couple of words on a slip of paper, and only the most distant connection to her case; it didn't seem worth going there now. The afternoon was drawing in, and she didn't want to be late home. As she wandered up Middle Temple Lane towards Fleet Street, she felt herself yawning again and again, a huge weariness settling over her. What she wanted to do was sleep, but she couldn't, because all around her someone was setting traps, laying nets, putting poison down. She must be vigilant and energetic, she must throw off this ridiculous business like someone brushing away cobwebs. It was no more substantial, after all. The man must be mad.
She drew herself upright and held her head high, opening her eyes wide, trying to dispel this tempting sleepiness. She hadn't realized how tired you got when you were worried.
As she turned into Fleet Street, she stopped at a newsstand and bought the latest Illustrated London News and a Jewish Chronicle. She was curious, now she thought about it, to read more about the Russian persecutions. The arms manufacturer, Axel Bellmann, who'd been responsible for Frederick's death, had been backed by Russian money, and she'd taken an interest in that country's affairs ever since.
Frederick. . .
Sometimes, when she least expected it, she had the overpowering sensation that he was beside her, and all she had to do was turn her head and she'd see him. It was a sense of utter conviction. She wasn't imagining it or daydreaming; he was there.
She had that sense now, as she moved away from the newsstand, and it was so vivid that she gasped and turned half-round with eager happiness, and her lips had formed the start of Fred. . .
Nothing there. A dim grey afternoon, a curious passerby in a black coat, the crowded traffic of Fleet Street. No Frederick.
But the sense of his presence didn't vanish at once. That instant flash of total happiness and certainty still illuminated things, as one of Webster's magnesium flares left a drifting image of itself in your eyes for a long time after it had burnt up and died.
She tucked the papers under her arm and set off for the station and home.
That evening, Sarah-Jane Russell went out to spend the evening with her married sister in Twickenham. Sally was alone, and for no reason she could name, set about tidying up the breakfast room.
It was the centre of the home, the place where they sat in the evening and worked and read and talked, and where they ate, except on the (very few) formal occasions when they used the dining room. It was the biggest room in the house, and it opened through French windows on to the veranda overlooking the lawn. It was part studio, part sitting room, part library. The one thing it wasn't was laboratory. Webster Garland was fond of conducting chemical experiments, and the old kitchen at Burton Street in Bloomsbury, which had served as their sitting room when they lived there, was often pungent with fumes or smoke; but Sally had banished activities like that from the breakfast room at Orchard House.
She turned the gas-lamps up and cleared the great table first, putting away the atlas in which she'd been following Webster and Jim's South American trip, and tidying all her work papers into the little walnut bureau by the window. There was a vase of flowers on the table too, which Margaret had brought her; she put it on the mantelpiece, next to the wooden clock they'd brought from Switzerland the year before. Then the books, two neat piles of them. There were books everywhere in the room, but she'd kept these two piles as Webster and Jim had left them: in one a textbook of physics, an account of someone or other's travels to Bolivia, in German, and a German dictionary, with a feather in one, a scrap of litmus paper in the other to serve as bookmarks. She put them on the little revolving bookcase by Webster's chair. Jim's books were Penny Dreadfuls for the most part, lurid shockers with titles like Skeleton Gulch or Wildfire Ned. She smiled as she picked them up, thinking of his pride when one of his stories was published for the first time. There was a copy of Great Expectations too, and Redgauntlet. She put them all on the bookshelf that ran the length of the wall, and then took up the painting on the easel by the door.
Webster had bought it not long before he left, and hadn't yet had it framed. It was a little oil sketch by Camille Pissarro, one of the Impressionists: sunlight on a suburban road on a spring morning, and such freshness and vigour in the light that you could almost feel the breeze on your face that was making those little dabs of flake white scud along the blue. Webster had bought the Impressionists from the time of their first exhibition five or six years before, recognizing in their experiments with light some of his own concerns with recording the passage of time through photography.
Well, this Pissarro would have to wait till his return before it was framed. Sally had said she'd arrange it, but this wasn't the time. She took the little picture upstairs to his study, and then folded the easel and put it away.
The stereoscope on its little mahogany st
and on the sideboard, and the box of pictures. . .
That had been the start of Garland and Lockhart. She had persuaded Frederick to take a series of comic pictures to view through stereoscopes, those parlour optical toys which gave a magical impression of three dimensions, and they'd sold so well that they were able to go on and produce many more series, and start their business properly. And here they all were: the Scenes from Shakespeare; the Castles of Great Britain; the Corners of Old London. . . And the very first ones: Jim as the boy David, with a monstrous papier-mache head of Goliath; Sally herself as a kitchen-maid, discovering a swarm of goose-sized black beetles in the cupboard; the little girl Adelaide, whom they'd rescued from a dismal lodging-house in Wapping, sitting on the knee of Frederick's assistant, Trembler Molloy, to illustrate a sentimental song. . . Adelaide had vanished. She must be somewhere in London now, but they'd never found her. The City had swallowed her up in a moment.
These stereographs brought that time back so sharply that she found herself blinking back tears. She put them back in their box, shut the lid and put them and the stereoscope away in the cupboard.
Harriet's toys. . . No matter how hard they looked, there was bound to be something behind a cushion or under a chair. Sally cast about and found one of her bricks down the back of the sofa. She'd take it upstairs later on.
And she'd take up Frederick's portrait too. It stood in a silver frame on the piano: a full-length photograph showing him not dressed up stiffly as for a formal portrait, but in his everyday wear, as she remembered him, his hair disordered, his eyes laughing. It was the only picture of him she had. It had been taken by Charles Bertram, Webster's partner in his photographic experiments, who was now in South America with them. Charles was a good man; he was kindly and gentle, and the year before he'd asked her to marry him, and she'd been anxious not to hurt him as she said no.
A thought came to her. Suppose she'd agreed to marry Charles: would Parrish have sprung the trap then? He'd laid it long before, after all. And would he have challenged the wedding before it took place or waited till afterwards, so that she'd seem to be committing bigamy?