second fingers, for instance—that betray the constant rub of the reins through their hands.”
The fellow tucked the visible portion of the handkerchief away and ran his fingertips over the visage of his brother. He may not have liked Holmes’s insight into his family matters, but he couldn’t deny it.
“What sort of man do you look for?” he asked.
“Of middle years, perhaps fifty. Not terribly tall but powerfully built. Dressed quietly, as a clerk, but affecting a peaked cap, to hide a lack of hair, I suspect. He would have been seeking quarters some months ago, say last summer.”
Holmes’s litany had been casual to the extreme. I admired the way he slipped past the fall’s Ripper atrocities to a time when Whitechapel had been calm and mired only in the usual thefts, riots, and odd crimes of passion. I also recognized his method of disarming me when we first met on New Year’s day of 1881 by reciting my personal history to me as if he had read the family Bible just before we met.
“I am a steward here,” the man admitted. “I do in fact recall another fellow coming in about then, but he didn’t want to rent a room, which of course we wouldn’t have done now, would we, being we are devoted to working Jewish men?”
“No, this man would not have been Jewish.”
“How is it Rabbi Barshevich allows you to noise his name about?”
“He trusts me,” Holmes said simply.
Our interrogator nodded slowly, then continued. “It was June, I think. And he was interested in an assembly room, he said. Cellar, he wanted. Said they were a religious group and grew loud in their praises of the lord.” He shrugged. “Who am I to judge ways of worship? At Passover we celebrate with the sacrifice of the lamb. Christians do not understand that, yet they worship a sacrificed man.”
“Religion is indeed a complex matter,” Holmes said. “I assume then that you did not rent the Englishman your cellar for his rites?”
“No.” He frowned for a moment. “I don’t trust those who descend beneath the earth to worship anything.”
“So where did you send him?”
The man’s eyes whipped to Holmes, as if both startled and hoping to startle in return. “Why to the nearest pub. They will take money for anything there.”
“And that is—?”
“The Briar and Thistle, one street over.”
“This Englishman you describe sounds oddly familiar,” I mention as we trudged to the next address.
“As do most of the Ripper suspects. That is the devilish bit about this business, Watson. All these various suspects are types to be seen about Whitechapel day and night.”
“So you are convinced an Englishman is the Ripper, after all?”
“I am convinced of nothing, because I have not seen all the evidence there is to gather. But Whitechapel is a global stew, and I absolve no race or religion from suspicion. Not even,” he added with a rare glint of amusement, “Irish bartenders.”
And that is exactly what we found at the Briar and Thistle, a pub crowded with the very cast of characters that make up the Ripper suspects and his victims, with an Irish bartender indeed presiding over the chaos.
“Finn’s the name,” he said. “Thanks be my friend Saul a street over recommended me. Clannish these Jews, but then I come from a clannish sort meself. How can I help you gennelmen?”
“We seek,” said Holmes, “a private meeting place. I understand that you have a cellar that might accommodate.”
“Accommodate what, is it?”
“We are a scientific brotherhood,” Holmes said. “We wish to conduct experiments in the art of electricity as it passes from one body to another. A rather esoteric pursuit, requiring privacy and sequestering.”
“Sequestering, is it? ’Tis a bit noisy up here, gents.”
“All the better. We are a bit noisy below.”
The man shook his head, which was covered in tightly curled red hair like a mop. “Then we should suit each other well.”
“It is my ardent hope. I understand
The fellow tucked the visible portion of the handkerchief away and ran his fingertips over the visage of his brother. He may not have liked Holmes’s insight into his family matters, but he couldn’t deny it.
“What sort of man do you look for?” he asked.
“Of middle years, perhaps fifty. Not terribly tall but powerfully built. Dressed quietly, as a clerk, but affecting a peaked cap, to hide a lack of hair, I suspect. He would have been seeking quarters some months ago, say last summer.”
Holmes’s litany had been casual to the extreme. I admired the way he slipped past the fall’s Ripper atrocities to a time when Whitechapel had been calm and mired only in the usual thefts, riots, and odd crimes of passion. I also recognized his method of disarming me when we first met on New Year’s day of 1881 by reciting my personal history to me as if he had read the family Bible just before we met.
“I am a steward here,” the man admitted. “I do in fact recall another fellow coming in about then, but he didn’t want to rent a room, which of course we wouldn’t have done now, would we, being we are devoted to working Jewish men?”
“No, this man would not have been Jewish.”
“How is it Rabbi Barshevich allows you to noise his name about?”
“He trusts me,” Holmes said simply.
Our interrogator nodded slowly, then continued. “It was June, I think. And he was interested in an assembly room, he said. Cellar, he wanted. Said they were a religious group and grew loud in their praises of the lord.” He shrugged. “Who am I to judge ways of worship? At Passover we celebrate with the sacrifice of the lamb. Christians do not understand that, yet they worship a sacrificed man.”
“Religion is indeed a complex matter,” Holmes said. “I assume then that you did not rent the Englishman your cellar for his rites?”
“No.” He frowned for a moment. “I don’t trust those who descend beneath the earth to worship anything.”
“So where did you send him?”
The man’s eyes whipped to Holmes, as if both startled and hoping to startle in return. “Why to the nearest pub. They will take money for anything there.”
“And that is—?”
“The Briar and Thistle, one street over.”
“This Englishman you describe sounds oddly familiar,” I mention as we trudged to the next address.
“As do most of the Ripper suspects. That is the devilish bit about this business, Watson. All these various suspects are types to be seen about Whitechapel day and night.”
“So you are convinced an Englishman is the Ripper, after all?”
“I am convinced of nothing, because I have not seen all the evidence there is to gather. But Whitechapel is a global stew, and I absolve no race or religion from suspicion. Not even,” he added with a rare glint of amusement, “Irish bartenders.”
And that is exactly what we found at the Briar and Thistle, a pub crowded with the very cast of characters that make up the Ripper suspects and his victims, with an Irish bartender indeed presiding over the chaos.
“Finn’s the name,” he said. “Thanks be my friend Saul a street over recommended me. Clannish these Jews, but then I come from a clannish sort meself. How can I help you gennelmen?”
“We seek,” said Holmes, “a private meeting place. I understand that you have a cellar that might accommodate.”
“Accommodate what, is it?”
“We are a scientific brotherhood,” Holmes said. “We wish to conduct experiments in the art of electricity as it passes from one body to another. A rather esoteric pursuit, requiring privacy and sequestering.”
“Sequestering, is it? ’Tis a bit noisy up here, gents.”
“All the better. We are a bit noisy below.”
The man shook his head, which was covered in tightly curled red hair like a mop. “Then we should suit each other well.”
“It is my ardent hope. I understand
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