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- Herausgeber: Pushkin Vertigo
- Kategorie: Krimi
- Sprache: Englisch
A gripping, immersive historical murder mystery in which a wayward boy from London's East End is pulled into the hunt for a serial killer on the eve of the Crimean War London, 1854. Twenty-one-year-old Ben Canaan attracts trouble wherever he goes. His father wants him to be a good Jewish son, working for the family business on Whitechapel Road, but Ben and his friends, the 'Good-for-Nothings', just want adventure. Then the discovery of an enigmatic letter and a photograph of a beautiful woman offer an escapade more dangerous than anything he'd imagined. Suddenly Ben is thrown into a mystery that takes him all the way to Constantinople, the jewel of an empire and the centre of a world on the brink of war. His only clue is three words: 'The White Death'. Now he must find what links a string of grisly murders, following a trail through kingmaking and conspiracy, poison and high politics, bloodshed and betrayal. In a city of deadly secrets, no one is safe - and one wrong step could cost Ben his life.
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Seitenzahl: 451
Veröffentlichungsjahr: 2024
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Contents
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Not I, not any one else can travel that road for you, You must travel it for yourself.
– walt whitman, Leaves of Grass (1855)
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Prologue
As soon as she saw him, she knew that she was going to die.
She had not noticed him at first. She was too focused on getting away. It was only once she had stepped from the jetty onto the sailboat and cast off that she caught sight of his face.
He was sitting beneath the boom, wrapped in a cloak, hands gloved – staring at her in the darkness that shrouded the waterfront.
Her heart jabbed in her chest. She knew that look.
‘Go on,’ he said, in a gentle voice. ‘Don’t let me interrupt you.’
She scanned the waterfront one last time. They were alone. Moored kayiksand cutters creaked in the tide. Firelight smouldered on the skyline across the Strait, tracing the contours of rutted rooftops and towering spires. She tasted the air: burnt dust, salt, softened by a cool night-breeze.
‘How did you know?’ she asked.
He shook his head. ‘Don’t make this harder than it has to be.’
He took the tiller from her and guided the boat onto the open waters of the Bosporus. The lights of Constantinople drifted away. Now the moon was their only beacon, shining through a thin sheen of cloud-cover.
‘It’s a nice boat,’ he said, patting the deck. ‘You could have sailed far.’
‘Why don’t we sail together? We can disappear.’ 2
He raised a hand to silence her. ‘I have no choice. The decision was unanimous. You knew what you were doing when you went to Heathcote.’
He was right. The die had been cast. Tears formed in her eyes.
‘Give me a moment, please.’
She listened to the faint ticking of his pocket-watch. She took a deep breath, trying to remember every sensation: the churning waters, the crisp air, the singing of the nightjars. Then a sinking feeling – the life ahead of her that she had wanted to live, that she would never live.
‘I’m sorry,’ he finally said. ‘There’s never enough time to say goodbye.’
He donned the mask, obscuring all but his grey eyes. It suddenly struck her that she had never considered what it felt like. Was it painful? Or was it as peaceful as falling asleep? She closed her eyes and a murmured name escaped her lips—
‘Ben—’
It was the last thing she said.
1
Canaan & Sons
It was Friday night in London’s Jewish East End. Across four miles, from Cheapside to Blackwall, the bells of St Mary-le-Bow were ringing. As the city sweltered in the evening smog of high summer, the East End began to close up shop.
Young yeshiva bochers migrated to synagogue in black-clothed droves, released from rabbinical study to bring in the Sabbath. A frenzied whistle stabbed the air as the last omnibus left Whitechapel. Fruit-hawkers and florists loaded up donkey-drawn wagons with pears and peonies and the market squares gradually emptied. Meanwhile, the pubs were filling up with day-labourers, chimneysweeps and men of the docks, knocking back the first of many pints as twilight congealed in a thick haze at the window.
Teetering over Whitechapel Road – that squalid thoroughfare of jewellers, sponging houses and struggling artisans – was a narrow three-storey house. It perched precariously above a tailor’s, where a sign was hanging: Canaan & Sons.
From the outside, it looked unremarkable. Just another worse-for-wear abode belonging to some humble craftsman and his small family enterprise. But inside was a different story: a home 4bursting with the benign chaos peculiar to Jewish households on the Sabbath eve.
Tonight, one question was on everyone’s lips. A familiar question, but no less urgent: Where’s Benjy?
It echoed up and down the house. From the dusty workshop in the basement – cluttered with half-made suits, mottled mirrors, treadles and needles, bobbins and fabrics – up to the shuttered shop on the ground floor. Through the kitchen swirling with steam and the scent of chicken broth, where the matriarch Ruth was cooking up a storm. Then up the rickety stairs lined with miniature watercolours from the Bethnal Green flea market. And finally, to the very top of the house: that mysterious attic-room which nobody but the absent Benjy was permitted to enter.
Grandfather Tuvia sat in a leather armchair in the living room: his fireside throne. He was an odd-looking fellow – short and stooped, with an unusually full head of white hair. Strangest of all was the pinkish scar that ran along his chin, just under his lower lip, which was curled into a smile as he sucked on a pipe and squinted at the Jewish Chronicle through thick spectacles. Next to him was his wife of fifty years: Hesya, deftly knitting a scarf without so much as looking at her fingers.
‘That boy will be the death of us, lovie,’ she intoned mourn-fully, in Yiddish.
‘Speaking of death,’ Tuvia replied, ‘guess who’s pushing up daisies.’
‘Who?’
‘Rudolph Zemmler.’
Hesya set down her knitting. ‘Rudolph Zemmler? But he was in such good health! He swam fifty laps of the baths at Goulston Square every Sunday. How did he die?’ 5
‘Heart attack,’ Tuvia tutted. ‘Forty-ninth lap.’
‘What a brilliant man!’ Hesya sighed dreamily. ‘And a mensch to boot. He looked after himself. Not like you with your smoking.’
‘“He looked after himself”? He’s dead!’ Tuvia barked – then, in an apologetic undertone, ‘May God rest his soul.’
‘You’re just jealous because he was tailoring for Cabinet ministers while you were out hawking schmutters to yidden fresh off the boats!’
Tuvia shook his head. ‘Rudolph Zemmler was like all those Viennese types: looking down his nose at us Litvaks. What’s more, he was a chancer. Like when he never showed up for my seventieth – “sick with scarlet fever” – but was sitting on his tokhes at the races the very next day!’ Tuvia puffed on his pipe in indignation, then convulsed in a fit of coughing. He was feeling a little sorry for himself. ‘Pah! Next it will be me.’
Hesya took her husband by the hand. ‘May you live to a hundred and twenty, my love,’ she said, pecking him on the lips.
‘Bobba! Zeyde! You’ll get the flu!’ A waif of a girl, no more than six, was standing in the doorway, hands on her cheeks in an expression of utter shock.
‘Nonsense, Golda,’ Tuvia said merrily. ‘Kissing is the cure!’
Golda took a few cautious steps towards her grandparents, twirling her black locks. ‘Mama’s asking if you’ve seen Benjy…’
‘Benjy, Benjy!’ Tuvia cried, ‘How could I see Benjy when I’m marinating like a pickled onion in this farshtinkener chair?’
Ruth appeared behind Golda, red-cheeked and flustered, wiping chicken fat onto her apron. ‘Papa, have you seen Benjy?’
‘Why would you send the child if you were going to ask me yourself?!’
‘Why do you always answer a question with a question?’ 6
‘I haven’t seen Benjy! Now leave me alone! Can a man not read his newspaper, Erev Shabbos, without interruption?’
Ruth retreated to the kitchen to finish dinner before her father launched into another one of his tirades. A bespectacled eleven-year-old boy was sitting at the kitchen table, sipping chicken broth as he pored over a notebook filled with numerical scribblings.
‘Max!’ she shouted, and the boy jumped out of his skin, ‘I told you to go find your brother!’
‘But Mama, I’m looking for a way to help Papa reduce his expenditure! Anyway, Benjy is always late and evidently not home.’
‘Don’t give me lip. “Evidently”! For all we know he’s already snuck in and is hiding in that den upstairs. Why don’t you make yourself useful and go check?’
Max traipsed off. Benjy causing problems again! Did they not realise that Max was cracking something infinitely more important than his delinquent older brother? Nobody dared talk openly about it, but the business was in dire straits: running at a loss, with expenses mounting and turnover dwindling. For the past week, Max had devoted himself to tallying up the costs of fabrics – cashmere, cotton and crêpe, tweed, twill and toile – and coming up with a plan to economise.
His theory went like this. Currently, his father was buying overpriced muslin and fine calico by the pound from those miserly Ganguly brothers in Spitalfields. Max calculated that it would be more efficient to buy cheaper fabric in bulk from the wholesalers up in Dalston. His father objected that this would compromise the quality of their garments.
But Max had seen the kind of business those slopsellers were attracting – the ones making enough money to leave 7Whitechapel for Kensington and Islington – and it was not because of their superior craftsmanship. It was because they had the one thing that all the retail bigshots at synagogue murmured about: scale. If his father hired junior tailors with his disposable income (plus a bank loan for short-term capital if needed), he could create more product and give the shop real volume—
‘Haven’t you heard of knocking, you nosy thing?’
Max came to his senses. His older sister Judit, with her bright crop of ginger hair, was lying on her bed, clutching a sheet of paper to her chest.
He could tell from her blush that the letter was to Jack Hauser: their father’s apprentice – a prattling langer loksh who could juggle five apples in one go and took her to the music hall most Saturday nights.
‘Is Benjy in here?’ he asked.
Judit’s cheeks were burning. ‘Hmm, let me check…’ She looked under the pillow. ‘Not here.’ She opened the drawer next to her bed. ‘Not here either.’ She peeked down her blouse. ‘And not here. I guess that means that Benjy must be elsewhere! Maybe you should check the races, the boxing club – or Newgate Prison!’
Max rolled his eyes. ‘Now, now, there’s no need to be facetious.’
Judit flared up – ‘What did you call me?!’
‘It means “to treat a serious issue with flippancy”! I read it in the dictionary.’
‘Never mind! Listen, I need you to do something for me.’ She folded the letter and offered it to Max. ‘The next time Jack Hauser comes round to run his errands, you are to give this to him. Got it?’ 8
Max’s hand was hovering over the letter. ‘Oh really? And what’s in it for me?’
‘The good fortune of not having your backside whipped!’
Max was still sceptical.
‘And a block of Mr Benady’s toffee,’ Judit added.
‘Done!’ Max snatched the letter, stuffed it in his pocket and scampered out.
No sooner was he gone than Judit let out a happy sigh and fell back on her bed. For two months now, practically from the day that Jack had loped through their front door, he and Judit had carried out a covert courtship right under her family’s nose. Normally she was indifferent to romance. In her mind, boys were half-formed men, and men were half-formed creatures – so at best boys were a fraction-formed and not a worthwhile investment.
But… Jack Hauser! ‘Hurricane Hauser’, he called himself. The fastest talker in Whitechapel, rattling off hare-brained schemes to get rich. ‘Piccadilly rich!’ he would boast – with dreams of becoming an impresario in the West End, joining the ranks of those well-to-do Sephardim in Belgravia, the pinnacle of the Jewish bourgeoisie.
Just the thought of it drove her mad with joy. She leapt out of bed and ran downstairs to join her mother and Golda, who were setting out warm plates, candlesticks and silver cups for Friday night Kiddush.
‘Mama,’ Judit entreated, ‘would it so terrible to invite that Hauser boy for Friday night sometime?’
‘Why are you so concerned all of a sudden with dinner invitations?’
‘Mama,’ Golda piped up, ‘you know he can juggle five apples in one go!’ 9
‘He’s a nice boy,’ Judit said, ‘and he works very hard for Papa. If you want my opinion, he’d make a fine match for some lucky woman.’
Judit should have known better. A runaway train of worries left the station in Ruth’s feverish mind. What does she mean, ‘match’? Hauser’s father was in Marshalsea for defaulting on his debts! God knows we have troubles of our own! If only she showed the same interest in Geoffrey Lovat, whose father runs the grocery shop next door – such a lovely boy…
Ruth turned to Judit decisively. ‘We can talk about Jack Hauser with your father. More importantly, where is Benjy—’
As she spoke, they heard the sound of the front door opening. Max sprinted downstairs. ‘Speak of the devil and he shall appear!’
But when he reached the entrance hallway, Max was greeted not by Benjy, but by his father: Solomon Canaan.
As ever, Solly’s face revealed next to nothing – outwardly neutral, inwardly always thinking, observing. He was dressed in his trademark grey suit: understated and businesslike. The aloof sobriety of a man forged by decades of diligent service. Whose feelings were placed second to duty. Whose pleasures were small. Who stood upright even as the burdens of life weighed on his shoulders.
Next to Solly stood his cousin Herschel, plump and dishevelled, with the air of an extraordinary gentleman fallen on hard times. His clothes were hand-me-downs: a wilting red boutonnière, a discoloured silk cravat, oversized loafers. As the resident gopher of the Canaan clan, Herschel was always playing some unspecified role in Solly’s workshop. In exchange, he had food, a bed in the back room, money for gambling and brandy, plus the security of never having to look after himself. 10
Solly picked Max up and kissed him on the cheeks. ‘Good Shabbos, young man.’
‘Papa, I have amazing news!’ Max babbled excitedly, ‘I’ve formulated a business model based on a discrepancy in the shop’s outgoings…’
‘Max,’ Solly cut him off. ‘There’s a time for business, and a time for rest. It’s Friday night… It can wait.’
Solly trudged up to the living room to find his parents-in-law seated by the fireplace. ‘Shabbat Shalom,’ he said with a respectful bow.
‘Good Shabbos,’ Tuvia croaked, ‘and if you ask me where Benjy is, I’ll bludgeon you.’
Solly’s features sank. He had sent his eldest son on a ninety-minute round trip to Chelsea to deliver three exquisite dinner suits to an esteemed client. Suits that had taken him the better part of two months to complete – a crucial sale in the doldrums of summer. But that was five hours ago…
The boy was up to something. Solly could feel it in his bones.
As Ruth emerged from the dining room, Herschel whipped a bouquet of flowers from behind his back: ‘For the most beautiful woman in Whitechapel!’
‘Where’d you get the dosh for that, you silly goat?’ Tuvia laughed.
Herschel embraced him. ‘Nicked it, old man. I had practice you know – a spell as a pickpocket in Tangiers many moons ago—’
‘Not now, Herschel!’ Solly snapped, ‘Tell your stories later!’ He let out a sigh. The whole room seemed to breathe it in. ‘We’ll have to start without Benjy.’
Before dinner, Ruth took Solly to one side, away from the prying eyes of her parents and their precocious children. ‘I 11made do with what we had,’ she said, ‘but the chicken is our last meat – there’s only one challah – I had to shave mould off the potatoes…’
‘Times are tough for everyone,’ Solly said with a wave of the hand. ‘There’s a war on.’
‘It’s not just that. You know how it is with my father and his gallstones… He’s been in such pain, but we have nothing for him aside from cheap cognac!’ Ruth broke off for a moment. ‘And, well… I spoke to Rabbi Frankel, and he said – he was very clear – that there are ways for us to get help. The programme at Bevis Marks, or a West London synagogue if you don’t want to be seen—’
Solly folded his arms across his chest and narrowed his eyes. ‘Are you suggesting that I go out and ask for relief?’
‘It’s something. We can get fresh food – oil for the lamps – medicine. This is worth more than your pride, Solly.’
But Solly was unmoved. ‘Ruth, I was not born a schnorrer and I do not appreciate you trying to turn me into one. Besides, these “programmes” don’t help poor Jews – they just help rich Jews feel better about themselves. The last thing we need is to give ammunition to those who claim that we Litvaks are a burden on the community. The belt is tight, but we will make it through. I will turn the shop around…’
‘With whose help?’ Ruth whispered. ‘Your eldest son?’
Solly darkened. He had no response.
‘Let’s eat,’ he finally said. ‘The children must be hungry.’
He smoothed his wife’s hair affectionately and walked slowly back into the living room, assuming his position at the head of a dining table where the family had assembled. The Canaans welcomed the Sabbath angels with a hearty Shalom Aleichem, 12followed by a blessing for the brave boys who had gone to fight in Crimea.
Solly put on a cheerful smile for his children’s sake. Despite these pressures, he told himself that he had much to be thankful for: his steadfast wife, his precious children, his health, his community. But behind that smile, an infuriating question was irking him:
Where the hell is that no-goodnik?
2
An Incident at Claridge’s
As the Canaan family sat down to give thanks to the Almighty and Her Majesty the Queen, three boys were striding through Mayfair, decked out in exquisite woollen suits, with tailcoats and white bowties.
On the left, Leo Pereira: the only undefeated prize-fighter at Houndsditch boxing club. He was a bruiser through and through, as broad as he was tall and bursting out of his clothes like a gorilla, with a lazy eye and a gravelly Portuguese-inflected drawl to boot. A few too many knocks to the head had left Leo slower than the average East End scamp. But where words failed him, his fists did ample talking.
On the right, ‘Hurricane’ Jack Hauser: a gangly six-footer with a shock of curly hair that bobbed up and down as he deftly shuffled a pack of cards. Jack made up for Leo’s doziness and then some, chattering at full tilt about anything and everything – from the muggins he had scammed that morning, to his latest idea for a madcap farce that would take the West End by storm.
And in the middle, one step ahead, was a boyishly handsome young man sporting a red carnation, top hat tucked under his arm, his hair slick with Macassar oil in the style of a Docklands 14gangster. He was tanned olive and clean-shaven. Yet behind his eyes simmered something darker: a pinch of mischief, a dash of melancholy, a glint of intelligence, and a generous helping of restlessness. In a word: trouble.
This was ‘Benjy’. But only his family called him that. Out here, he was Ben Canaan. And together, these three were the ‘Good-for-Nothings’.
The East End was their stomping ground. Tonight, however, they were shot of the ghetto and deep in enemy territory. This was a world of gentlemen’s clubs, grand red-brick apartments and leafy squares, where a dress worn by an heiress cost more than five years’ income for the most successful Whitechapel businessman. The only Jews who could afford to live here were prominent banking families from the Continent: Rothschilds, Spielmans, Sassoons. Not quite Ben’s crowd – but, thanks to the outfits so assiduously crafted by his father, he and the Good-for-Nothings blended right in.
Their destination was Claridge’s – formerly Mivart’s, lately come under new ownership and catering exclusively to the upper crust. An invitation ball was being held for its wealthy clientele: a perfect opportunity for the Good-for-Nothings to snag a free meal, flirt with a few birds and filch a few bob.
The trio huddled in a circle beneath a gaslight on the corner of Brook Street and Davies Street, opposite the façade of Claridge’s.
‘Right, lads,’ Ben said. ‘Technically, we’re not invited. But breaking in is always more fun!’
‘What’s happenin’?’ Leo asked.
‘I’m playing the bigwig, so I’ll behave like a right knob. Jack: you’re the good guy – so keep it nice and friendly.’ 15
‘Easy-peasy,’ Jack scoffed. ‘Bit of the old Hurricane Hauser charm and they’ll be eating out my hand.’
‘And if things go south,’ Ben turned to Leo, ‘I’ll need you to do your thing.’
‘Smash their ’eads in,’ Leo grunted, cracking his knuckles.
‘When we’re done, we take the staff door through the kitchens. Out the south wing onto Brooks Mews, down Avery Row, and hotfoot it back to Whitechapel before the bobbies get wise. And just in case…’
Ben reached into his pocket and pulled out a polished silver revolver.
‘Webley Longspur,’ Ben whispered. ‘Best five-shot on the market.’
‘What a beauty!’ Jack reached for it. ‘Bet I could sell her at a fine—’
‘Hands off!’ Ben snatched it away. ‘It’s not mine. It belongs to Lennie Glass.’
‘The opium smuggler?’ Jack gulped. ‘So you do know him!’
‘Lennie and I do the odd bit of business together. He’s asked me to look after this unlicensed firearm. Hand-over’s next week in the Docklands. Meantime, it’s ours. If we get rumbled, I’ll fire off a warning shot – create a little disturbance so we can make a break for it.’
‘Are you mad?’ Jack exclaimed. ‘That’ll get us a year in the nick!’
Leo was grinning fiendishly. ‘Chuffin’ hell! Lennie’s gonna kill you.’
‘Long as nobody gets hurt, he’ll be none the wiser,’ Ben said. ‘Now let’s go. No time like the present.’
They marched up to the door of Claridge’s. Ben donned the 16top hat and slotted a rimless monocle over his right eye – Pallow’s signature look, word had it.
As they entered the grand hotel, a doorman stepped in their way. ‘Invitations, gentlemen.’
Ben straightened up and put on his finest Etonian sneer. ‘I am late enough as it is. Out of my way.’
But the doorman did not budge. ‘Sir, I will have to take your name.’
‘For God’s sake, my dear fellow – keep your voice down!’
Jack stepped in with a charming smile. ‘You must not have recognised my friend – an innocent mistake, I’m sure! This is Sebastian Pallow: son of the Earl of Northbridge.’
‘Tell the whole world, why don’t you?!’ Ben fumed, whipping out a calling card, ‘Yes, it’s true. I am Pallow, and Pallow is I. And I’ve come here specifically from my father’s country house in Hampstead, to indulge in some revelry!’
‘And these gentlemen?’ The doorman gestured to Jack and Leo.
‘Reginald Arthur Penrose-Forsyth Esquire,’ Jack said, producing his own card.
Leo said nothing. He simply squared up to the doorman and puffed out his chest.
‘Protection,’ Ben said. ‘Where I go, he goes. Now let’s be done with this dithering! My company is waiting for me, and if you embarrass me any further, my papa the earl shall have your guts for garters.’
The doorman gave a resigned shrug. It was only when the Good-for-Nothings had crossed the marble lobby and were proceeding down a carpeted corridor to the ballroom that Ben dropped the act. 17
‘Slick job, lads. When does the actual Pallow get here?’
‘My guy on the inside told me nine-thirty,’ Jack replied.
‘Can we trust that estimate?’
‘He’s a hand in Pallow’s stable – they know when the carriages come and go.’
‘Alright then,’ Ben said, ‘two hours. Let’s make hay.’
They followed the sound of music to a ballroom, where the pampered progeny of lords and ladies were gliding to a waltz that swelled from a small orchestra. Tables were laden with roast hog and decanters of wine. Older aristocrats rubbernecked from their seats, eyes peeled for the latest debutante swanning in.
Jack schmoozed his way into the circle of a recently ennobled shipping merchant and finagled a steady supply of port. Leo, like a shark trailing blood, sniffed out partygoers too wrapped up in caviar and canoodling to mind their wallets. Cash, jewellery, watches, family heirlooms – nothing was safe from his nimble fingers.
Ben, meanwhile, had his eye on something different. From the moment he walked in, his interest had been aroused by an entourage in a corner of the ballroom, seated before a red velvet arras. A group of military men: decrepit generals with wine-flushed cheeks, medallions and signet rings – products of Sandhurst and a lifetime of venal office. And hovering at the margins, like lovely flowers on a stagnant pond, were three arrestingly beautiful young ladies.
The clothes told Ben everything he needed to know. Their ruby brooches, spotless-white kidskin opera gloves and gowns with low bertha necklines screamed money. But not just any kind of money. There was something antiquated about them: lace ribbon engageantes, pleats round the shoulders that he 18would have expected from a ballgown made half a decade ago. And none of London’s latest crazes: no crinolines, flounces, passementerie trims or broderies anglaises.
Of course: this was old money. Out-of-towners – heiresses down from the family seat somewhere up north where the vogues took longer to reach. Provincial scions of a bygone Tudor dynasty, drawn to the big city and the allure of the bourgeoisie like moths to a flame.
They were sisters. The eldest in her late twenties, already taken – arm in arm with a strapping squire twice Ben’s size. The youngest in her teens, barely fifteen.
And lastly, the middle one: a warm, trusting face – bright locks tumbling in corkscrew curls – looking around expectantly for a dashing beau to sweep her off her feet.
But the old military men were protecting the fort. Ben would have to pick his moment wisely. And so, for fifteen minutes, he lingered by the dancefloor, sipping champagne and waiting for an opening.
‘Ben Canaan?’
A voice just to his left. Ben flinched and pretended not to hear. If someone had indeed recognised him, he would need to hold his bluff.
‘Ben! I know it’s you! I’d recognise that mug anywhere!’ Ben felt an index finger gently prod him in the ribs.
There was no getting out of it now. He turned to face a young moustachioed gent in a fine black dress-coat, wearing white gloves and a gold pince-nez. He had a strong, confident profile and his eyes glowed earnestly.
‘Sandy Rosen!’ Ben cried, shaking the young man’s hand. ‘What are you doing here?’ 19
‘I should be asking you the same thing on a Friday night,’ Sandy replied with a wink. ‘I thought your old man was a stickler for tradition.’
‘Not like the Rosens these days, so I’ve heard.’
Sandy seemed embarrassed. ‘Well, since my father sold the business and we moved to Mayfair, we’ve reformed our ways. He goes to the opera on Shabbat, can you believe!’
Ben’s smile faltered and he let go of Sandy’s hand. The last time he had seen Sandy, the young man was a weedy thing routinely pelted with apple cores by roaming schoolboys from the nearby Catholic school. Now he seemed effortlessly upper-class and debonair – easy enough to mistake for the very man that Ben was impersonating.
‘But in all seriousness, what are you doing here?’ Sandy said.
Ben hesitated and waved away Sandy’s question. ‘Oh… We do the suits for Mr Claridge.’
‘Still in the family business, then! Good for you.’ Sandy gave a self-satisfied smile. ‘As for me, I was called to the Bar last week by Inner Temple. I know: me, of all people!’
Ben said nothing. His free hand clenched in his pocket.
‘And do you know the funniest thing?’ Sandy said, coming in close and linking his arm with Ben’s. ‘As I fitted on my wig and gown, I was thinking about you. The old days at the Jewish Free School. How we were joined at the hip, sneaking into the British Museum to read books that our parents would never have let us read – Hume, Descartes, those dodgy Schopenhauer translations, remember?! They were good times.’
‘They were,’ Ben said wistfully.
‘I was heartbroken when my father packed me off to St Paul’s. It worked out for me in the end – the virtues of a bona 20fide education, I suppose! But my heart broke even more for you, Benjy. Taken out at fifteen… Headmaster Berman, I heard, begged and pleaded with your father not to do it. Is that true?’
Sandy was right. Ben could remember the conversation as if it were yesterday. The headmaster’s musty office giving onto the courtyard at JFS where his classmates were playing hopscotch. The piquant smell of Berman’s cologne and the bowl of candied lemons on the mantelpiece. His father’s hand heavy on his shoulder, Berman behind the desk, silhouetted by shafts of light from the noonday sun. The testy exchange between father and mentor: the battle between aspiration and duty, talent and obedience. That slow, sinking feeling in Ben’s chest, as the realisation dawned that the dream which gave him solace had already slipped away.
‘Yes. It’s true.’
Sandy tutted in disappointment. ‘For the dolts it’s one thing. But you were the brightest star by a country mile and then some. I was in awe of you, Benjy. You were so much smarter than me. You had an utterly forensic eye. In the time it took me to read one book and clumsily parrot its meaning, you could read five and have a catalogue of insuperable arguments at your disposal. Those are the skills they teach at Oxford and half the students can’t even begin to master it. But you had it. Like breathing.’
Ben looked away. Sandy was well-intentioned. But his slightly gloating tone made Ben’s stomach tighten.
‘I should get going, Sandy,’ Ben said. ‘There are a couple of people I need to talk to before the night’s out.’
‘Wait, one moment, please,’ Sandy said. ‘Everything happens for a reason. To think that after not seeing you for six years, I might find you just one week after my call, in Claridge’s of all 21places! Here’s what I propose: come work for me. I’m building a practice and I’ll need a legal assistant. Someone with a big brain who knows their way around a library.’
‘But… Sandy, I don’t even have a degree…’
‘Oh, please,’ Sandy chuckled. ‘Your education can be the field. There are a few Silks who I’m sure will vouch for you once they see your mettle. I won’t mince my words: it’s relentless work and the pay is non-existent for the first few years. But…’ He pinched Ben’s cheek. ‘Who knows where it might lead? You always wanted to be a barrister. And when I was called to the Bar, I knew in my heart that you should have been there with me. So, how about it, Benjy? I can have a word with your old man if need be.’
Ben looked at Sandy with momentary affection. But the longer they stood there, and the longer the music went on, the more Ben felt the passage of time. The untraversable road between now and then.
His gaze flitted back to the girls. That middle one was still waiting expectantly for someone just like him – or, at least, the man he was pretending to be.
‘Thanks, Sandy,’ Ben said, shaking his hand. ‘Let me have a think about it.’
‘Of course,’ Sandy replied, sliding his card into Ben’s pocket. ‘But don’t stand around thinking for too long! I’ll need to fill the post sooner or later. Write to me.’
Ben drifted across the dancefloor. By the time he had crossed the parquet and was in the eyeline of the middle sister, he had already decided that he would not be writing to Sandy.
As the dancers struck up a lively gavotte, he gave the girl a chivalrous bow: ‘My lady. Might I tempt you to a dance?’ 22
She opened her mouth to speak but was cut short by a bark from one of the geriatric generals: ‘And who might you be?’
Ben gave him a quick once-over. He was eighty if he was a day, with medals from another era and no wedding band. A sozzled uncle, no doubt – there to ‘chaperone’.
‘Sebastian Pallow,’ Ben said confidently. ‘Son of Earl Northbridge.’
‘Earl Northbridge! Goodness! You don’t look a bit like him. I heard he was pursuing a venture in…’ he narrowed his eyes at Ben, ‘Ceylon.’
‘Madagascar,’ Ben corrected him. ‘It proved profitable. I cannot say more.’
The old dodderer seemed satisfied with Ben’s response and splayed a palm to the young lady, as if to say: you may continue. The young lady accepted Ben’s offer without a moment’s hesitation.
‘My name,’ she said, ‘is Catherine Arbuthnot. Who was that you were talking to?’
‘Oh, my legal counsel. Jewish, you know. They’re very bright – if somewhat loquacious.’
He took Catherine’s hand and led her to the dancefloor. A first dance became a second, then a third. Soon an hour had passed and, as the clock struck eight-thirty, Ben and Catherine nestled into an alcove for champagne and ices.
Ben regaled her with tales of his illustrious family history: how his father had risen through the ranks of the East India Company and bought large tracts of land in Tasmania. ‘Papa hates fanfare,’ he said, adjusting his carnation.
‘But surely,’ Catherine said, ‘those who are aware of his immense wealth are clamouring for your attention?’ 23
‘If only you knew, my dear,’ Ben said. ‘I am quite alone. And there comes a time when a man craves nothing more than a companion. Someone to love and cherish every day.’
‘I think I should very much like to be that someone.’
‘Then I propose, Catherine, that you and I share one more dance. This tempo is decidedly more intimate.’
Catherine leant in close. For a moment, their noses brushed. ‘That sounds scrummy.’
As they waltzed chest to chest, Ben spoke of his plans to emigrate to Tasmania. ‘My only worry,’ he said, ‘is the wombats.’
‘Wombats?’
‘Oh, yes. Vicious creatures. They can tear one limb from limb. But I shall brave them. Family duty comes before all. Then again… Who said I must travel alone?’
Catherine laughed and fell into his arms. ‘You are so silly, Sebastian!’
‘You’re right,’ Ben said, chiding himself. ‘To hell with tomorrow! Let’s live for the moment – it’s all one has to call one’s own!’
She turned her face longingly to meet his. Ben considered going in for the kiss, right then and there.
But he never got the chance. He felt a hand grip his shoulder and he was unceremoniously spun round – coming face to face with a plump, snub-nosed, double-chinned fellow wearing an identical monocle and top hat, who snarled: ‘Dastardly mongrel!’
Two footmen swooped in and pinned Ben’s arms behind his back.
‘Gentlemen!’ Ben barked. ‘What is the meaning of this? Who are you?’
‘I’m Sebastian Pallow,’ the homunculus spat, ‘and this is a gift from the House of Northbridge!’ 24
Pallow decked Ben and sent him sprawling. For a pint-sized toff, it was a surprisingly powerful punch.
‘Fools!’ Catherine shrieked. ‘Don’t you know his father owns half of Tasmania?!’
Pallow went to kick Ben in the gut. But Ben caught his leg and rolled, dragging Pallow to the floor where the two scuffled and writhed about. The music broke off, the other dancers retreated and the footmen leapt in to separate the pair.
As Ben was being hauled off the dancefloor, Pallow turned to Catherine: ‘My lady, I fear you have been duped. I am the real Sebastian Pallow. That boy is but an imposter – an actor.’
Catherine went pale: betrayal turned to shock, then shock to fury. She dashed over to Ben and slapped him square in the face: ‘Monstrous cad!’
But Ben was more concerned with finding his crew. ‘LADS!’ he yelled. ‘A hand please?’
Leo burst from the throng and barrelled into the footmen, unleashing a cyclone of hooks and uppercuts. Ben was sent sliding across the dancefloor. The Webley Longspur flew from his jacket pocket, bounced across the varnished parquet, and went off with a deafening bang!
Pallow jumped up and down with a porcine squeal, clutching his left leg as blood ran down to drench his dress shoes. ‘God in heaven! I’ve been shot!’ he cried, before promptly fainting.
Claridge’s descended into chaos. Guests flooded out of the ballroom. The orchestra scattered, holding their violins aloft in the crush. An unconscious Pallow was dragged to safety by his footmen. Ben scooped up the revolver before it was lost in the stampede of pumps and Derbies. 25
Jack appeared at his side, pointing to the service door. ‘Time to get the pistons firing, mate.’
Ben did not need to be told twice. He caught a final glimpse of Catherine as she was bundled away by her chaperone, and he waved his top hat to her, shouting over the melee: ‘See you in Tasmania, Ms Arbuthnot!’
And with that, the Good-for-Nothings scarpered.
Claridge’s was in such a state that they were able to slip out unnoticed via the service door, through the kitchens, and out onto Brooks Mews. As Oxford Circus filled with the screech of bobbies’ whistles, they darted off, keeping to the back-alleys of Mayfair en route to the East End.
‘Nine-thirty?’ Ben shouted to Jack as they ran.
‘That’s what I was told! So what?! I’m not a nanny for these inbred toffs.’
It took a full hour and a half to get back to Whitechapel. The streets were mostly empty now – just a gaggle of fleet-footed pickpockets loitering by the Aldgate Pump and a few dishevelled drunkards slumped on the kerb.
They took refuge at the Hoop & Grapes. The place was packed to the rafters and bobbies would not venture here tonight. At a corner table, shielded from prying eyes, they totted up their winnings in a haze of tobacco-smoke. Some banknotes and loose change – a signet ring – a glass eye – an ivory snuff box – and a penknife with a mother-of-pearl handle.
‘Not bad for an evening’s work!’ Ben grinned.
‘What was it you said,’ Jack teased, ‘about nobody getting shot?!’
Ben waved his hand dismissively: ‘So he won’t play polo for a few weeks! Bring out the violins.’ 26
‘It’s not Pallow I’m worried about, Ben. Lennie Glass puts men face-down in the Thames for a lot less.’
‘How we splittin’ this?’ Leo grunted.
Ben divvied up the cash three ways and each boy took a piece of jewellery. ‘Who said there was no honour among thieves?’ He slipped the penknife into his back pocket. ‘Plus a little bonus for me – seeing as I laid on the threads. Fair’s fair.’
Ben bought another round and they went their separate ways. ‘I need those suits back by Monday!’ he called out as Jack headed north to his digs in Spitalfields. ‘Dry-cleaned! Or I’m a dead man!’
Ben strolled down the high street, back to Whitechapel. The first drops of summer rain pattered the cobblestones – a chorus of whispers guiding him home. He breathed in the dewy aroma and lifted his face to the night sky to let the rain cool his flushed cheeks.
For a moment, as the adrenaline subsided, Ben felt free. He forgot where he was and what was waiting for him around the corner. He was simply alive – thanks to nothing but his quick feet and his even quicker wit. Nobody was telling him what to do or how to be: he was his own man.
Then the downpour got going, just as the lights of the Canaan family home came into view, studding the muggy black like nuggets of gold in the dirt. All at once his happiness drained away. No matter how far he ran, he was always reeled back here, like a fish with a hook in its cheek: to the ramshackle buildings hemming him in, to the stench of carbolic soap and white onions, to the smog and miasma of human filth wafting from the Thames.
Ben’s smile faded and he trudged homewards. 27
He climbed over the fence and let himself in through the back door, into Solly’s office behind the shop. He glimpsed the clock on the wall: nearly eleven. The house upstairs was silent. Friday night dinner had long since finished and the little ones were likely in bed.
Ben crept upstairs, onto the landing. From the living room on the other side of the thin wall, he could hear voices: his father, Herschel and his grandparents chatting. Judit and Ruth were in the kitchen, stacking plates and wringing water from hand towels into a wash-bucket.
He tiptoed to the stairwell leading to the upper floors. If he could get to his bedroom without being detected, he could change clothes and concoct a hasty alibi—
‘Benjy?’
Standing at the top of the stairs was Golda, in her pyjamas, staring at him in wide-eyed wonder. He put his finger to his lips, but it was too late. The conversation in the living room ground to a halt. Slow, measured footsteps creaked across the landing below him – and Ben turned to see his father, one hand resting on the banister.
‘Good evening, Benjamin.’
Ben knew that look and tone: disappointment, tinged with relief. It was an expression that put the lid on all feeling, yet it still made his blood boil. He tramped down, avoiding Solly’s gaze. Solly stopped him with a firm hand to the chest, the other turning Ben’s cheek to the flickering lamplight: ‘Are you alright?’ Solly said. ‘You’re not hurt?’
‘Just a shiner. Adds character, I think!’ Ben said – then, under his breath, ‘It’s my business anyway.’
Solly took in Ben’s attire. The torn collar. The stains on the lapels. The cuffs dappled with cigarette ash. The sodden top 28hat. His expression soured as he joined the dots. ‘Why don’t we have a chat in the living room, Benjamin?’
Ben pushed past his father without a word, gearing up for the hiding of a lifetime. He slouched into the living room to find Herschel and Tuvia swirling their habitual after-dinner cognacs. Hesya was fast asleep, passed out in her rocking chair.
‘Shalom, Benjeleh,’ Herschel said. ‘Nice of you to join us. It’s a wonder you didn’t come crashing through the roof.’
‘You look like you’ve been in a brawl,’ Tuvia croaked.
Ben could not contain a mischievous grin. ‘You should see the other guys!’
Ruth burst in from the kitchen and examined Ben fretfully. ‘What happened now, Benjy? Where were you? What have you done? Have you eaten?! I saved some food for you – I kept it warm especially…’
She bustled Ben into his seat at the dinner table and heaped food onto his plate: challah smeared with chicken schmaltz, a drumstick with roasted potatoes, along with a bowl of hot broth and a Kiddush cup which she filled with the last of the sweet wine. Solly pulled up a chair and studied the enigma that was his eldest son. As Ben inhaled his food, Solly folded and re-folded a napkin.
‘Where are the other suits?’ Solly said quietly.
Ben took a bite of his drumstick. ‘Is that all you care about? The suits?’
‘You know that’s not true.’
‘The suits will be fine and dandy. Come Monday.’
‘That’s not the point, Benjy. The suits should have been with Mr Golowitz in Chelsea this afternoon. He paid me good money to—’ 29
Ben snorted. Solly bristled.
‘He paid me,’ Solly continued, ‘to provide a service. And part of that service was delivering the suits by a particular date and time. I shouldn’t have to explain that to you at the age of twenty-one.’
‘Just tell him that you found a way to bring the trousers in even better than before and that you needed the weekend. He can’t tell the difference either way.’
Solly shook his head in disbelief. ‘I’ve lost count of the number of times you’ve acted out, and yet still you manage to leave me speechless.’
‘If you’re speechless,’ Ben said, ‘why are you still talking?’
Ruth opened her mouth to reason with Ben – to persuade him to show some contrition. But Solly got there first.
‘There are two more suits missing. Who did you go out with tonight?’
Ben polished off the last of his potatoes. ‘Nice try. I’m no rat!’
‘But you are a rat. You’re a gangster, a thug, a good-for-nothing. I’ve heard the rumours – that you’re running around Limehouse and the Isle of Dogs with those racketeers that give us Jews a bad name. Where does this end, Benjy? Prison? The gallows?’
‘And where does this end, exactly?’ Ben said, spreading his arms wide in a gesture of frustration and futility. ‘How is this any less of a prison?’
Anger flared in Solly’s eyes. ‘This life that you so clearly disdain is an honest one – clean-cut – reputable. It’s a family business that you, as my eldest son, have a responsibility to take on.’ 30
‘It’s a sinking ship in a stinking ghetto!’ Ben bubbled over. ‘And I can’t stand it. Stale challah, cheap oil, windows that rattle in the wind, debt, destitution, the unbearable smell… I could have been anything, Papa. I could have gone to university like I dreamed of doing – become a learned, well-to-do man – used my mind – made something of myself! But you took that from me. You just couldn’t stand the idea of me spreading my wings wider than you ever could, so you clipped them and shoved me in a basement where I spend my days squinting at hemlines and stitches, slowly becoming a half-blind consumptive just like you—’
That final insult pushed Solly over the edge. He slammed the table, sending Ben’s Kiddush cup toppling over. ‘Enough!’ he seethed. ‘You resent me for trusting you with my life’s work? For giving you a structure that you never could have built yourself? How dare you belittle what I’ve done for you, after the sacrifices your mother and I have made!’
‘You’re an idiot,’ Ben shot back. ‘I was your way out of this hellhole! If you had trusted me to be my own man instead of some knock-off schmutter merchant, I could have fixed your problems, we could have left Whitechapel like Sandy Rosen and his old man—’
‘Maybe I don’t want to leave!’ Solly said for all to hear. He paused for a moment, breathing hard, and straightened his tie. ‘Maybe I don’t want to abandon my faith and my people like every other Jew seems all too eager to do these days! How do you think Sandy got into Oxford? They had him baptised! And when was the last time the Rosens wrote to us since they made a bit of money and started hobnobbing with gentiles? I’ll give you a clue: NOT. BLOODY. ONCE. Is that what you want? To trade in your family and community for a fantasy?’ 31
‘You never gave me the choice!’ Ben roared. ‘You call me a good-for-nothing, but you destroyed the one thing I was good for! And you expect me to be grateful?’
‘I expect you to be a man and face up to your responsibilities—’
They were cut short by the shrill iron doorbell. Ben froze. No Jew would ring the doorbell at this hour on a Friday night. And who else would be roaming around Whitechapel after dark? It could only be a bobby – or, worse still, had Lennie Glass already found out about Ben’s exploits and sent a man to take care of him?
Solly headed downstairs to the front door. Ben remained seated, looking nervously between his mother and Tuvia, who was quietly observing from his armchair by the embers.
Solly opened up to find a diminutive courier standing before him, in a uniform and patrol cap wet from the summer shower.
‘Is this,’ the courier squeaked, ‘the home of Solomon Canaan, tailor?’
Solly looked perplexed. Another one of Ben’s hijinks? ‘This is he.’
The courier produced a letter from his breast pocket.
‘Pardon the late hour, sir, I got lost! Letter for you. More than my life’s worth if you don’t read it tonight. Have a good evening.’
Solly took the letter. The courier leapt onto a post chariot and bolted off at speed. Solly returned to the dining room table, opened the envelope and scanned the contents.
‘It’s from the Home Department,’ he murmured, holding up the letter. Sure enough, printed at the top of the letter was the seal of the United Kingdom, along with the insignia of the Home Office.
‘But what does it say?!’ Herschel exclaimed. 32
‘Are we in some kind of trouble?’ Ruth asked.
‘Wait!’ Solly adjusted his spectacles and read the letter aloud: ‘Dear Mr Canaan. We are writing to you from the office of Viscount Palmerston, Home Secretary of the United Kingdom. The Home Secretary is in urgent need of a bespoke suit. However, our regular tailor, Mr Rudolph Zemmler, has latterly become indisposed. A conversation with your client Sir David Salomons has brought your work to the Home Secretary’s attention. On Sir David’s recommendation, the Home Secretary requests your presence for a first fitting at his residence at Cambridge House, 94 Piccadilly, on Monday morning at the hour of ten o’clock. Anticipating a response in the affirmative, a carriage has been arranged to transport you directly to Cambridge House. Yours et cetera…’
Solly’s fingers trembled over the bottom of the page, where Palmerston’s spidery signature was scrawled. Ben expected him to start jumping for joy – to bustle downstairs to his workshop to set up his tools well in advance – to wave the letter in his son’s face as if to say, ‘You see? You see?’
But Solly did nothing of the sort. The reality of the letter was almost too much to comprehend. He seemed oddly cowed by the magnitude of the opportunity. He let the paper drop to the tabletop and removed his spectacles to rub his eyes.
‘Change your clothes, boychik,’ he whispered. ‘We need… I need to…’
There was something about Solly that made Ben swallow his anger. As he slunk upstairs, he caught sight of Tuvia on his fireside throne. His grandfather raised his cognac in the air:
‘Rest in peace, Rudolph Zemmler!’
And he knocked it back with a show of great reverence.
3
Two Daguerreotypes
Ben rose at dawn on Monday morning. Jack Hauser was waiting for him in the back-alley behind the White Hart in Mile End. ‘Good as new!’ Jack said proudly, producing the suits from Friday’s shenanigans, now pressed and dry-cleaned. ‘How are you going to explain this?’
Ben shrugged him off. ‘Leave it with me.’
He went straight back home and ambled down to the basement workshop where his father was kitting out a large canvas tool-bag for their session with the Home Secretary. He placed the suits on a rack: ‘Et voilà.’
Ben made to leave just as quickly as he arrived. But before he had one foot out the door, Solly cleared his throat: ‘How did you get them back?’
‘How doesn’t matter. I got them back, like I said I would.’
Again, Ben tried to escape. But again, Solly interrupted him – this time with the scrape of his chair as he got to his feet.
‘Look at me, boychik.’
Ben bit his lip. He was anticipating another lecture: more of the finger-wagging and scathing disapproval to which he 34had become so accustomed. Against his better judgement, he turned around. Solly was supporting himself with one hand on the worktable – he looked weary, even a little frail. But he spoke with calm resolution: the fixity of a man who believed deep down that he knew best.
‘I am not going to feed the conflict between us, Benjy. Certainly not on a day like today. Do you understand?’ Ben nodded.
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