in pencil.
“When did it arrive?” he asked.
“Just after three o’clock, sir.”
He lifted it from the salver, weighed it in his hand, then took up his Italian dagger from his desk and slit the envelope open along the flap. He shook the contents onto the desk rather than put his fingers inside the envelope. It was a grayish piece of foolscap. He picked it up, opened it carefully, and began to read.
“Is it a ransom note?” I asked.
He held up a finger and read through the letter again. Then he tossed it down dismissively into the salver and went to his smoking cabinet for a pipe and tobacco. I pounced on the letter. As it turned out, it wasn’t a letter at all. It was a poem.
Old Push was seen down in Bethnal Green,
A-smoking on his ivory pipe.
But what he found, ’neath the mouldering ground,
Had grown most decidedly ripe.
Go home, Old Cy, to your garden wall high,
Don’t be such a nosy Parker,
Or you’ll rue the day that you came my way,
Yours truly,
Mr. Miacca.
“He’s watching us,” was my first comment. “He saw you with your pipe and he knows about your garden.”
“Yes,” Barker said, getting another of his pipes going, this one carved in the likeness of the late General Gordon. “We are starting at a disadvantage in that our quarry knows our identity but we do not know his. He’s been watching us. Quite possibly, he’s been following us about all day.”
I got a creeping feeling in the small of my back that such a loathsome person should know our business and who we were. Barker did not seem as concerned, more curious, but then he is over six foot, weighs fifteen stone, and has faced things I’ll never see.
“Miacca,” he said. “It sounds Jewish or possibly Italian.”
“I believe it is English, sir,” I told him. “I think it’s a fairy tale character.” Suddenly it all fell into place. “Good Lord,” I muttered.
“What?” Barker insisted. “What is it, lad?”
“I remember. Mr. Miacca was a cannibal, sir. He ate children.”
6
“C AN YOU INFER ANYTHING FROM THE NOTE?” Barker asked.
“The envelope is grubby and of rather poor quality, like the notepaper itself, but the writing is legible enough and it follows the general form of a poem. It reminds me somewhat of Edward Lear.”
“Lear? I am not familiar with him.”
“He writes nonsense rhymes, limericks and such, mostly for children.”
Barker sank back into his swiveling chair and blew smoke toward the ceiling. There was a pause while he made up his mind. “I want you to go to the British Museum,” he said. “Track down this Miacca legend for me and Lear as well.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’ll pay a visit to Scotland Yard and see if I can talk Swanson into letting me look at those files in his possession.”
I seized my bowler and stick and stepped out the door into Craig’s Court just as Big Ben boomed four times. Research was my favorite part of the investigative process, the hunting of pertinent facts culled from thousands of others in libraries or public record offices. As I raised my stick to hail a cab, however, I thought about how the killer had possibly been watching us today as we walked about Bethnal Green. It made me stop and survey the street and the dozens of anonymous windows that faced me. It is unnerving to know that someone might be scrutinizing you and meaning you harm.
The study area of the Reading Room in the British Museum is formed roughly in the shape of a wheel. The hub is a warren of desks and cabinets for the use of members of staff, and shooting off from it are spokes made up of adjoining desks and chairs for patrons, all in blue-green leather, one of which I had come to think of as my own, P16. I had been coming here since I was sponsored for membership by the patron of my youth, Lord Glendenning, before the unfounded charge of theft leveled upon me by my university nemesis, Palmister Clay. After my personal disgrace and imprisonment, his lordship had seen fit to
“When did it arrive?” he asked.
“Just after three o’clock, sir.”
He lifted it from the salver, weighed it in his hand, then took up his Italian dagger from his desk and slit the envelope open along the flap. He shook the contents onto the desk rather than put his fingers inside the envelope. It was a grayish piece of foolscap. He picked it up, opened it carefully, and began to read.
“Is it a ransom note?” I asked.
He held up a finger and read through the letter again. Then he tossed it down dismissively into the salver and went to his smoking cabinet for a pipe and tobacco. I pounced on the letter. As it turned out, it wasn’t a letter at all. It was a poem.
Old Push was seen down in Bethnal Green,
A-smoking on his ivory pipe.
But what he found, ’neath the mouldering ground,
Had grown most decidedly ripe.
Go home, Old Cy, to your garden wall high,
Don’t be such a nosy Parker,
Or you’ll rue the day that you came my way,
Yours truly,
Mr. Miacca.
“He’s watching us,” was my first comment. “He saw you with your pipe and he knows about your garden.”
“Yes,” Barker said, getting another of his pipes going, this one carved in the likeness of the late General Gordon. “We are starting at a disadvantage in that our quarry knows our identity but we do not know his. He’s been watching us. Quite possibly, he’s been following us about all day.”
I got a creeping feeling in the small of my back that such a loathsome person should know our business and who we were. Barker did not seem as concerned, more curious, but then he is over six foot, weighs fifteen stone, and has faced things I’ll never see.
“Miacca,” he said. “It sounds Jewish or possibly Italian.”
“I believe it is English, sir,” I told him. “I think it’s a fairy tale character.” Suddenly it all fell into place. “Good Lord,” I muttered.
“What?” Barker insisted. “What is it, lad?”
“I remember. Mr. Miacca was a cannibal, sir. He ate children.”
6
“C AN YOU INFER ANYTHING FROM THE NOTE?” Barker asked.
“The envelope is grubby and of rather poor quality, like the notepaper itself, but the writing is legible enough and it follows the general form of a poem. It reminds me somewhat of Edward Lear.”
“Lear? I am not familiar with him.”
“He writes nonsense rhymes, limericks and such, mostly for children.”
Barker sank back into his swiveling chair and blew smoke toward the ceiling. There was a pause while he made up his mind. “I want you to go to the British Museum,” he said. “Track down this Miacca legend for me and Lear as well.”
“Yes, sir.”
“I’ll pay a visit to Scotland Yard and see if I can talk Swanson into letting me look at those files in his possession.”
I seized my bowler and stick and stepped out the door into Craig’s Court just as Big Ben boomed four times. Research was my favorite part of the investigative process, the hunting of pertinent facts culled from thousands of others in libraries or public record offices. As I raised my stick to hail a cab, however, I thought about how the killer had possibly been watching us today as we walked about Bethnal Green. It made me stop and survey the street and the dozens of anonymous windows that faced me. It is unnerving to know that someone might be scrutinizing you and meaning you harm.
The study area of the Reading Room in the British Museum is formed roughly in the shape of a wheel. The hub is a warren of desks and cabinets for the use of members of staff, and shooting off from it are spokes made up of adjoining desks and chairs for patrons, all in blue-green leather, one of which I had come to think of as my own, P16. I had been coming here since I was sponsored for membership by the patron of my youth, Lord Glendenning, before the unfounded charge of theft leveled upon me by my university nemesis, Palmister Clay. After my personal disgrace and imprisonment, his lordship had seen fit to
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