The Last Crossing (32 page)

Occupied as I was, Simon hardly entered my thoughts. I had abandoned the make-shift studio in the house, renting premises in artistic
Chelsea, the environs of Carlyle and Rossetti. My clients appreciated the tone of the district. I seldom spent evenings at home. I was off to my club, or gadding about with friends, or escorting Elizabeth to concerts and soirees. My brother and I crossed paths less and less frequently. Once or twice a week we chewed cold toast together at breakfast, or had a brief chat before bed if I stayed in.

Then one morning when Simon was out, Mrs. Murchison came to me in a dreadful dither. Housekeeping money was missing from the locked box she kept in the pantry. She expected me to get to the bottom of it, discover the criminal in our midst. My first thought was that one of the maids had fallen under the sway of some cracksman or burglar, and had been seduced into supplying information and access to the house. But if that were true, much more would have gone missing than the insignificant sum of a pound and a few odd shillings. What’s more, Mrs. Murchison swore the box was locked, she had had to use her key to open it. I could not imagine Mary or Sarah, or even Jack, possessing a lockpick’s betty, let alone the skill to employ it.

Nevertheless, I called all the servants into the study and interrogated them sternly. There was a flood of tears from the maids, and manly, flustered indignation from Jack, leaving me in no doubt as to their innocence. Briefly, I entertained the idea Mrs. Murchison had been prey to a fit of absent-mindedness, paid some butcher’s boy when he delivered the cuts, and forgotten to record the expenditure in the accounts. But on second thought it seemed more probable the Sphinx should bark than Mrs. Murchison be negligent in her bookkeeping.

Although I had an appointment with Elizabeth that morning, I delayed leaving the house until Simon returned from his errand, intending to pass the matter off on him. The servants trusted and loved Simon. I believed him more capable of easing the distress caused by my accusations than I. When I began to explain the situation, he interrupted to say he had opened the locked box with his own key, taken the money because he had been cut short by a financial emergency.

“In that case,” I said, “replace it now. You know how Mrs. Murchison fusses over the accounts.”

My demand forced an embarrassing disclosure. “I am stony broke, Charles. If you could loan me ten pound until the end of the month when Father remits our quarterly allowance, I would be eternally grateful.”

“Broke? You spend nothing on entertainment, you have no club dues, never take a hansom. How can you be penniless?”

With this challenge, his eyes began to shift about the room. “Lend me ten pound, and let the matter drop, Charles,” he implored me.

I was glad to make him a loan. I would have parted with fifty guineas for the pleasure of learning my brother, too, had feet of clay, that we were not so very unlike, after all.

Simon’s profligacy slid out of my mind only to be resurrected a few days later. I had sent Jack to hail me a cab and was keeping watch for it when I saw Simon descending our front steps. Two figures crossed the street and accosted him. I saw Simon hand money over to them. Then all three walked away together. When they waded through a bright pool of light cast by a street lamp, I saw one of the men casually place his arm over Simon’s shoulders. Furthermore, I noted both of Simon’s companions were shabbily dressed, marking them as workmen, possibly vagrants.

Was this one of Simon’s impulsive acts of charity? Unlikely, the men appeared to be on familiar terms with him. Something about the scene I had witnessed struck me as sinister.

When I confided my tale to Elizabeth, she suggested I consult a Mr. Isidore Sash, who had been so helpful in sorting out a “sticky matter” for Pemby. She offered no details as to what had been Pemby’s problem, but by now I could hazard a guess. When I asked if Mr. Sash were a private detective, Elizabeth evaded the question by answering, “No, just an efficient, respectable man. All the best people turn to Mr. Sash when awkward questions arise. For advice as much as anything else, don’t you know?” She offered to communicate my problem to Sash and request his assistance.

“Yes,” I said to her, “that would be most helpful.”

“Very good,” she said, adopting a look of resolution which I had come to know so well, “I shall write Mr. Sash this afternoon.”

Mr. Sash found my case and my wallet sufficiently interesting to accept me as a client. His address was in Soho, favourite haunt of foreigners, but Mr. Sash was decidedly English. His quarters were threadbare and clean, very much like their occupant, a tall, lean rack of bones upon which a worn, much-brushed black suit hung like coal dust. As we conferred, he downed glass after glass of water poured from a carafe resting on his desk and made gentle, encouraging, commiserating noises as I related my problem to him. When I finished, I felt rather foolish, it all sounded so bland and unremarkable.

Mr. Sash did not treat it as such. He lifted an eyebrow and murmured, “You and your brother are close?”

The inquiry startled me. I hardly knew how to answer. Things had undergone such a change between us. “No,” I said at last. “Not close.”

“You entertain no supposition as to who the men were who approached him in the street?”

“No, not in the least.”

He gulped some more water; it seemed painful for him to proceed. “And you and your brother have been acquainted with Mr. Stall for long?”

“My brother is not acquainted with Mr. Stall. They have never met. It is I who am a friend to Mr. and Mrs. Stall.”

Mr. Sash looked disappointed. “I see,” he said, reflecting. “You are certain Mr. Stall and your brother are not acquainted?”

I found this line of questioning most irksome. “I would stake my life on it that they are not acquainted,” I said.

“Very well then. I shall make inquiries. Under the circumstances, it would not be wise for me to come to your home. If you would be so good to come to me here, at the same hour, in two week’s time – unless you hear from me earlier.”

At our next appointment I received Mr. Sash’s report, which he delivered with great thoroughness, frequently consulting shorthand notes as he soothed himself with water.

“I have followed your brother for a fortnight,” he began. “He keeps to the house by day but each night attends a meeting in rooms
over a draper’s shop in Holborn. Two men frequently accompany him there.” Mr. Sash referred to his notes. “Thomas Beckton, a carter, and William Tailor, a costermonger. They customarily meet your brother outside your house before proceeding to the meeting. In all likelihood, they are the same men you saw him with several weeks past.”

“My brother has said nothing of any meetings.”

“They are of a religious nature. Your brother attends a Nonconformist chapel called the Church of Christian Israel.”

“Church of Christian Israel. I’ve never heard of it.”

“Ah, sir,” Mr. Sash said, “the body of Christ is most lamentably fractured in the present age. Christian Science, Mormons, Primitive Methodists …” He left the long list of heresies hanging uncompleted, as if to enumerate them all would take him an eternity. “The Church of Christian Israel holds nightly services Mondays, Wednesdays, Fridays, and Saturdays. These are open to the public and all are welcomed. The size of the congregation fluctuated,” he glanced at his notes. “Between as little as thirty-five to as many as sixty. The church’s adherents are drawn largely from the labouring classes. They appear sober and respectable. The women sit apart from the men as the Welsh do in their chapels and the Jews in their synagogues.”

I had a hunger for more meat and fewer details. “Go on, man,” I urged. “And what of my brother? Anything amiss there?”

“Undoubtedly your brother’s attendance at these meetings explains his financial embarrassment. I regret to inform you that the Christian Israelites are communards.” He amended his statement with a qualification. “Let us say they practise socialism tempered with Christianity. A collection or love offering is made without fail every evening. Each member of the congregation is expected to contribute what ready money they have. A double tithe is taken from the collection to support missionary activity. What remains is distributed in equal portions to all the Christian Israelites. Since your brother is by far the most prosperous congregant, this system means he gives a great deal and receives back very little. Simple mathematics, sir. He will never gain, only lose.”

“If there is such a distribution, and Beckton and Tailor are members of the church, why would he be handing out money to them before service?”

“To fail to make a contribution is a matter of great shame to the Christian Israelites,” explained Mr. Sash. “One woman who had nothing for the collection plate was greeted with derisory cries of, ‘The Widow’s Mite! The Widow’s Mite!’ I may only speculate, but I assume your brother was shielding his friends from a similar humiliation.”

“I see,” I said. “Well, keep your own contributions to an acceptable minimum, Mr. Sash. I would not be pleased to find I was supporting these poor, deluded souls too generously when I review your expenses.”

Mr. Sash proved himself not only the soul of discretion but also of honesty. Very primly he said, “Visitors are expressly forbidden from participating in the love offering. Only those who have been baptized in the Water of the New World are permitted to take part.”

“Water of the New World. What do you mean?”

“Water transported from North America is required for the baptism of adherents. The doctrine of the Church of Christian Israel holds that the Red Indians are descended from the Lost Tribes of Israel. They consider North America a Hidden Holy Land and its waters sacred. It is also their belief that the conversion of the Indian Jews will bring about Christ’s return. It is why they double tithe, to fund missionary work in America and hasten that day.”

“Astounding,” I said. “Very peculiar. But if it amuses Simon, I suppose there is really no harm in it. I don’t approve, but he can spend his allowance as he chooses.”

“There is more,” said Mr. Sash, tapping his fingers on the table.

“Go on.”

“The clergyman who leads this flock – Reverend Obadiah Witherspoon is how he styles himself – is a very dodgy character.” Mr. Sash’s eyebrows went up. “I have friends on the Metropolitan Police force for whom I sometimes perform small favours, and they, in return, afford me timely kindnesses. Someone whom I cannot
name, but who occupies a position of great responsibility in the constabulary, informs me that the Reverend Obadiah Witherspoon served a sentence in Coldbath House of Correction for fraud. He was a prater, sir. A bogus clergyman stumping the streets, preaching extempore, fleecing the gullible with claims he was a missionary in the wilds of America. His chief confederate was a dusky-hued Jew raised in the stalls of Houndsditch Exchange. Witherspoon dressed him in feathers and paint and exhibited him as a Red Indian convert to Christianity. When Witherspoon gathered a substantial crowd by his preaching, the Jew would then be introduced, kiss the Bible, and fervently bawl, ‘Jesus good! Jesus good!’ Sometimes as much as ten or twelve pounds was collected from the unsuspecting. I do not doubt it, having heard Witherspoon speak. His sermons are most rousing.” Mr. Sash cleared his throat. “I suspect Witherspoon is preparing to shear your brother’s fleece, and it will cost a good deal more than ten or twelve pounds, Mr. Gaunt.”

That gave me pause. “You have done very good work, Mr. Sash, and have earned my heartfelt gratitude and respect.” He was very gratified by the compliment and we shook hands. Then Mr. Sash presented his fee with many little groans of solicitude and tiny bobs of the head which verged on genuflection. I paid him and immediately repaired to my studio in Chelsea, where I sat thinking of how to announce to Simon that he was the victim of a confidence man.

I debated at length how I would handle this matter, knowing how reluctant Simon was to believe anything bad of anyone. Then one night, when I returned to Grosvenor Square, I found Simon seated in the drawing room with a stranger. One glimpse of his guest and somehow I knew who he was. How fortuitous, I thought, that the scoundrel should be so conveniently delivered into my hands to be exposed before my brother’s very eyes.

Seated there in my favourite chair, sipping my port, the Reverend Witherspoon cut an imposing figure. Powerfully built, he had the chest of a coal-heaver. His abundant mane of salt-and-pepper hair was swept back from his forehead, and this, along with a broad, flat
nose and piercing eyes, lent him a distinctly leonine appearance. I asked my twin to introduce his guest. Resistance formed in Simon’s face as he did the honours, and he announced by his expression that if I had any sense I would not impose myself upon them for long.

I went to the sideboard, poured myself a glass of port, and inquired whether the good Reverend had a London parish or a country living. I was playing the innocent, enjoying the fact that unknown to him, my knowledge gave me the upper hand. Witherspoon answered that he was not a clergyman of the Church of England, that Erastian sore in the sight of God, but a minister of the Church of Christian Israel. I remarked I had not heard of his creed. What were its principal tenets? He gave me a cunning grin; he had an inkling of what was afoot.

“If you are so interested in our faith, Mr. Gaunt, why not attend services with Simon?”

“But I have you here, Reverend Witherspoon, in my drawing room, drinking my port. I thought you would not wish to miss this opportunity to enlighten me.”

“The chief work of our church is the conversion of the Red Indians,” was all he offered as explanation.

“I have heard you are an old hand at that. It earned you a good dunking in Coldbath prison.”

“Charles!” cried Simon furiously. The Reverend Witherspoon turned his penetrating gaze to my twin and settled him. He smiled at me, toyed with his cuffs. They were none too clean. “My unfortunate past is known to Simon and every member of my congregation,” he stated. “I have confessed my failings to them many times. Suffering was my due. I earned it with my sins. But from suffering comes wisdom. When you have walked Coldbath’s apparatus of penitence, the treadmill, hour after hour – then, sir, you have had a taste of the torments of hell. In the darkness of Coldbath the light broke upon me, and there God’s purpose was revealed to me.”