Page 16

S ilas watched in despair as the police led Ezra away. He spoke to the men around him, but no one had heard any rumors of fight-fixing involving the Hebrew Hammer, or any other allegations that might have led to his arrest. The referee quickly called the next fight on the card, and men hustled to place their bets. Silas fought his way out of the crowd but by the time he got outside, the police had already left with Ezra.

The night was dismal and fetid, the smells of the day close around him. He walked home disconsolately, ignoring the importuning of prostitutes, the rush of carriages, the calls of night birds. He had not felt such despair since his father had discovered him with his pants down.

As he approached his lodgings, he spied the street for any presence of the bobbies. If they’d come for Ezra on charges of sodomy, they might come for him, too. The act of sodomy was a felony punishable by imprisonment and he thought of cases he had read about in his study of the law.

Previous cases had relied on eyewitness testimony of men engaged in sex together, or the presence of feces or spend in bedsheets. But the only place Silas and Ezra had enjoyed each other was Silas’s bed, and before he took his linens to the laundress each month, he scrubbed them himself with lye soap to remove any evidence.

Only a dozen years before, up until 1861, all penetrative homosexual acts committed by men were punishable by death. After that, hanging was replaced by life imprisonment.

He tried to think of who might have betrayed them. He had spoken of his relationship with Ezra to only his closest friends—Raoul and John, Magnus and Toby. All four were men of character, and he could not imagine a scenario in which one of them would expose Silas and Ezra.

He should never have brought Ezra to Ormond Yard, he thought. It must have been one of the other guests who had used his knowledge of Ezra to gain favor with the police himself. Any one of them could have been caught, pants down, and negotiated for release by revealing a man of greater renown.

His room, which before had been his place of refuge, held no comfort for him. What good were his colorful scarves, his fripperies, the pictures of Ezra, if they could not protect him?

He stripped down and washed away the sweat and the smell of the boxing ring, which previously would have been intoxicating. Though he climbed into bed he could not sleep.

He tried to reason with himself. What was Ezra Curiel to him, anyway? A casual bedfellow, a chance for fun. The man was married to a woman, after all. Let Rebecca worry about him.

He kept coming back to the question of why Ezra had been arrested at all. Did it have to do with boxing? Ezra had always presented himself as an honorable man. He followed the rules set out by the Marquess of Queensberry. He would never use forbidden moves, nor would he take advantage or hit a man while he was down.

If it wasn’t a failure of honor in the ring, what else could it be? He was a very sexual man, so it was possible that he had other lovers, and that he had been caught with one of them—or that one of them had betrayed him.

When dawn broke on Saturday morning, Silas gave up on any pretense of sleep. Worrying was doing him no good. He needed to beard the lion in its own den—to go to Scotland Yard and discover why Ezra had been arrested, and what the charges were against him.

He had seen Cyril go on similar errands, despatched by Barrister Pemberton, so he knew such an effort was possible. He dressed in his best clerk’s clothes and set out for Whitehall Place, where a private home which backed onto Great Scotland Yard had been converted into headquarters for the Metropolitan Police.

His nerves overtook him as he approached the two-story brick building, and he stopped at a corner, watching the traffic. In addition to uniformed bobbies, men in ordinary business clothing went in and out of the building, giving Silas hope that he would not stand out. A peddler with a horse and cart passed in front of him, and the horse paused for a moment to leave a steamy dropping on the street.

Silas wrinkled his nose and crossed the pavement to the front door, and then walked inside. He stopped at a desk much like his own, where a clerk sat in front of a large register. “I am from the office of Barrister Richard Pemberton,” Silas said, trying desperately to keep his voice from catching. “I am here to understand the charges against Mr. Ezra Curiel.”

“The Hammering Hebrew,” the clerk said. “I’ve seen him box. He has a powerful right hand.”

Silas relaxed a tiny bit, in the face of a fellow enthusiast. “Did you see him fight against that massive African?” Silas asked. “Big Mo?”

“I did indeed,” the clerk said, nodding. “He was masterful.”

He looked down at his register, paging backwards one sheet. “Mr. Curiel was brought in last night on the charge of murder.”

Silas could not hold back a gasp. “Someone he fought against?”

The clerk shook his head. “The charge is that he committed murder against the person of Mr. Nathan Walpert. I don’t recognize that name, do you?”

“I don’t. What an odd name for a boxer.”

“A reporter was here late last night from the Times ,” the clerk said. “There may be more in the paper this morning.”

“Thank you,” Silas said.

“Are you here to register Barrister Pemberton as Mr. Curiel’s counsel?”

Silas had to think quickly. He didn’t have that authority. “Mr. Pemberton wanted to understand the charges before undertaking a defense,” he said. He turned and hurried back out to the street.

It was still early on Saturday morning, but more people were out and about. Maids hurrying to their jobs, workmen in overalls that were mostly clean but would be filthy soon, a boy on a bicycle making a delivery.

Silas spotted a nearby coffee shop called Farr’s, and he retreated there to think about his next move over a pint of coffee and two thick slices of bread with butter. He spotted a copy of the Times abandoned on a neighboring table, and picked it up. He paged through it until he found a brief announcement of arrests the previous evening. There was nothing more than Ezra’s name and that of his victim.

He had been to Barrister Pemberton’s home once before, delivering papers that were necessary for an early morning case, so he knew where his boss lived, in an apartment block on Tilney Street adjacent to Hyde Park. He could not bear to think of Ezra in gaol, so he knew he could not wait until Monday morning to ask for Pemberton’s help.

The decision, and the strong coffee, gave him renewed strength, and he strode confidently down Pall Mall and through St. James Park. Early morning riders were exercising their mounts, and peddlers and other workers were out about their business in the faint sunlight.

Ladies and gentlemen were already strolling along the park’s many walkways, nodding to each other with stiff necks and imperious looks, though they ignored Silas. They could tell from the cut of his coat alone that he was merely a clerk, and not worth their notice.

His courage faltered when he reached Hyde Park and the entrance to Tilney Street. Ahead of him, he saw the impressive white marble of the building where Pemberton lived. Would Pemberton remonstrate him for disturbing his Saturday morning? Could he even be let go for his impertinence?

But then he recalled that part of Cyril’s job had been to seek out clients for Pemberton and recommend them. He knew that Ezra had money to pay for his defense, and he could think of no reason why Pemberton should decline to represent him.

He walked slowly up to the building, and was glad to see the porter outside, sweeping the sidewalk. “I work for Barrister Pemberton,” Silas said. “I am here to see him.”

The porter looked him up and down, then nodded. “He’s on the second floor on the right.”

“I know. I have been here before. Thank you.”

Silas climbed the round staircase and paused in front of Pemberton’s door. What if the man had an overnight guest? Silas was aware of his disposition, but realized he knew little of Pemberton’s life. He might even have a lover.

He had come this far. He could not fail Ezra. He lifted the lion’s head door-knocker and let it ring against the wood.

A few moments later, Pemberton opened the door, wearing a long cotton robe. “Silas. What’s the matter?”

Silas opened his mouth, but no words would come.

“You’d better come inside,” Pemberton said.

Pemberton led him to the kitchen, which had a small table suitable for two. Pemberton put the kettle on and then poured Silas a cup of tea, and then one for himself. “Now then, my boy, what is the matter?”

“It’s Ezra Curiel, sir,” Silas said. “He’s been arrested for murder.”

“The boxer,” Pemberton said. “How did you hear about this?”

“I was at the fights last night when the bobbies came for him,” Silas said. “I went to Scotland Yard this morning and discovered the charge against him, which is also in the Times this morning. Can you represent him, please? I know he’s innocent.”

“How can you know that?” Pemberton asked.

“Because he’s my lover.”

Pemberton took that news in stride. “Well, you can certainly testify to me of his character, or your experience of his character. Sir William Garrow coined the phrase ‘presumed innocent until proven guilty,’ which is something I have long believed. But we would have to know a great deal more about the charge against him before we establish that as concrete in this case.”

“Does that mean you’ll take on his defense?” Silas said. “He has money to pay, I know. He has ever been generous with me, and he maintains a household in Hackney. He told me that he purchased the house for cash.”

“It is what I do,” Pemberton said. “I believe that every man deserves a defense against charges. But you know that I cannot engage with Mr. Curiel myself; the job must come through a solicitor. Why don’t you present your case to Mr. Wigton and see if he will agree to represent Mr. Curiel?”

“But it’s Saturday,” Silas nearly wailed. “I won’t be able to go to Wigton’s chambers until Monday morning.”

“You know where he lives,” Pemberton said. “And you know the law does not keep regular hours when a man is in jeopardy.”

Silas remembered that when Wigton spent a year in Pemberton’s office, he’d had reason to deliver papers to him at his apartment—not far from Bryanston Mews. “I recall where he lives,” he said.

“Go to see him, tell him that you and I have spoken, and ask him if his firm will represent Mr. Curiel.”

He pursed his lips. “It may be necessary at some point for you to reveal the nature of your relationship with Mr. Curiel to Wigton, but for now I suggest you maintain that you are an aficionado of the fights and particularly of the Hebrew Hammer, and recognize that this might be a lucrative opportunity for both of us.”

“I will do that, sir. And thank you.”

“You are my senior clerk now, Silas. You must get accustomed to this role. This is the very thing you are meant to do. Now hurry, before Wigton goes off to enjoy his Saturday.”

The sun was well up by that time, and the London streets were crowded as Silas hurried to Wigton’s apartment. He shared a suite of rooms with two other young solicitors in a much nicer building than Silas’s own, though several steps down from Pemberton’s.

He rang the buzzer, and the door opened. He walked into a foyer tiled in black and white, and a staircase like the one at Pemberton’s before him. He climbed to the third floor and found a door ajar. He knocked, and a young man he did not know came to the door, in a pair of trousers and a white shirt, with suspenders that had not yet been fastened.

“Yes?” the man asked.

“I’m here to see Mr. Wigton, if he’s available.”

“Antony!” the man called back into the apartment. “A boy for you.”

Silas swallowed a comment. He was hardly a boy; he was the same age as the man before him. But he was a clerk, and the man was a solicitor, so he was a boy, and he’d remain so until he died.

The man with the suspenders walked away, and Silas hovered on the doorstep until Wigton appeared. He looked much younger without his suit on, and it was clear that he had not shaved that morning, and his blond hair was quite tousled. “Silas,” he said with surprise. “What brings you out on a Saturday morning?”

“It’s a case, sir. Barrister Pemberton thought you might be willing to take it on, and that he would arrange the defense.”

“Well, then, come inside and tell me the details.”

The lounge was quite disheveled—several pieces of male attire, and a woman’s brassiere, were scattered over the furniture. Several empty wine bottles and dirty glasses were on the coffee table.

Wigton said, “Excuse the mess. My flatmates had a bit of a party last night.” He gathered the clothing and tossed it into a pile in the corner, and motioned Silas to a seat. “Tell me about the case.”

Silas recited what he knew, from Ezra’s arrest the night before to his visit to Scotland Yard and to Pemberton’s home. He said only that he was an acquaintance of Ezra’s, as well as a fan of the fights.

Wigton rubbed his hands together in glee. “This sounds like an excellent case, and one that could bring us some notoriety,” he said. “Good work, Silas. I’m very glad you brought this to my attention.”

Wigton promised to visit Ezra at Scotland Yard and glean what he could about the case, and then would come to Pemberton’s office on Monday morning to discuss the terms. Fortunately Silas had memorized much of the calendar, and he was able to schedule a time right then.

Wigton stood, and Silas followed suit. “Leave it to me, Silas,” Wigton said. “We’ll get the wheels moving.”

He left Wigton’s apartment with a bad taste in his mouth. The solicitor was too eager to take on a murder case for the benefits it might bring him. Would he treat Ezra as a valued client, or merely as a source of funds?

Silas knew there had to be more he could do, and as he stood in the street and a pair of gentlemen in top hats passed him, he knew where he had to go next.