Too Many Coins

A Jewish Regency Mystery Story

LIBI ASTAIRE

ASTER PRESS

First published 2013

Copyright 2013 Libi Astaire

Cover photo: Copyright Libi Astaire

All rights reserved.

This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Published by:

Aster Press

Kansas-Jerusalem

asterpressbooks@gmail.com

CONTENTS

TOO MANY COINS

THE MOON TAKER: Free Excerpt

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

TOO MANY COINS

“WE SHALL PUT Mrs. Mandelbaum next to you, Rebecca. That way, if she cannot hear, you can tell her what she has missed.” Mrs. Rose Lyon gave the dining table a satisfied look, now that the difficult task of arranging the seating of the guests invited to the evening’s dinner party had been accomplished.

Miss Rebecca Lyon, a young lady not quite at the marriageable age, would have liked to object, but she was torn between two equally strong opposing forces. The “young” part of her personality wished to loudly exclaim that she would not sit next to Mrs. Mandelbaum, who would bother her with a thousand questions about the soup and the sauces and not care a whit for what was being said at the other end of the table, where the gentlemen would be seated.

A large dinner party on an ordinary weeknight was not a common occurrence at the Lyon family’s home on Devonshire Square. However, that evening Rebecca’s father, Mr. Samuel Lyon, clockmaker to the fashionable world, would be playing host to a most important visitor from the Holy Land. This gentleman had been invited to Devonshire Square in order to tell the assembled company—some of the more esteemed members of London’s Ashkenazic Jewish community—all about life in the holy city of Safed and how the newcomers from Poland were faring in their new home. It was certain to be a most interesting discussion for any person of sensibility, and Miss Lyon prided herself upon being a young person with more sensibility than most. How could she therefore spend those precious hours engaged in conversation with Mrs. Mandelbaum, who always fussed over her food, either because she was worried about how it would affect her digestion or because she must have a copy of the recipe?

Yet Rebecca dared not protest too loudly to the matriarch of the family about the seating arrangements. Her mother might decide to send her and her good friend, Miss Harriet Franks, to the nursery to eat their dinner there with Rebecca’s younger brother and sisters—which would be a banishment too embarrassing for two young ladies to bear.

Rebecca therefore lowered her eyes and said, with her most demure and ladylike voice, “Yes, Mama.”

Mrs. Lyon gave Rebecca a queer look—she never entirely trusted the sudden docility of her usually spirited second eldest daughter—but there was too much to do and too little time to stand there conversing. Meshullam Mendel, a family servant who performed the weightiest work about the Lyon home, had brought up a large tray filled with the heavier items of polished silver, while his daughter Perl carried the chest with the silverware.

“Is the new girl working out?” asked Mrs. Lyon. They had had to borrow a servant from the household of Mr. and Mrs. Franks, who lived just a few doors away, to help out in the kitchen. And Mrs. Lyon knew that Sorel, the family’s cook and Meshullam Mendel’s wife, was most particular about who was let into her kitchen.

“Yes, Mrs. Lyon. Sorel is very satisfied,” Meshullam Mendel replied in his usual reassuring way. Rebecca did not think she could ever remember a time when the man had shown anger or dismay.

Mrs. Lyon gave the dining table one last look. She had an uneasy feeling, as though she had forgotten someone or something. She therefore went over the guest list one more time.

There would be fifteen at table. Mr. and Mrs. Lyon and Rebecca made three. Mr. and Mrs. Franks and Harriet, who were practically like family, were another three. Then there was Mrs. Mandelbaum, an elderly widow who could be relied upon to contribute generously to a worthy cause. Mr. and Mrs. Sterne, a childless couple, were also generous supporters of charitable activities. That brought the party up to nine.

Mr. Ezra Melamed would of course attend, because he was one of the communal leaders. He was also one of the wealthiest members of London’s Jewish community and, therefore, a very eligible widower. But there would be no matchmaking this evening, because Mrs. Mandelbaum, the only widow invited to the dinner party, was much too old for that gentleman.

Sitting next to Mr. Melamed would be the guest of honor—and Mrs. Lyon stopped for a moment to try to recall the young man’s name. She had known his parents, Hayyim and Esther Birnbaum, and had been shocked when they decided to leave their comfortable home in London to move to the Land of Israel. One heard of people from Poland and Russia doing such a thing, but they were used to a life of hardship and deprivation. People who had grown up in England were not, and she had said so to her husband, Mr. Lyon, when they received the sad news that both Hayyim and Esther had passed away during an epidemic. Their son, apparently, had survived because he was now in England to raise money for the Jewish community living in Safed. But what was his name?

Mrs. Lyon recalled that he had been named after one of the Tribes of Israel and she began to run down the list: Reuven, Simeon, Levi, Judah—Judah, that was it! Judah Birnbaum. She must remember that, because Mrs. Mandelbaum was sure to ask, several times.

Her count was now up to eleven. The other four guests had been selected by Mr. Melamed, presumably for both their interest in the Holy Land and their ability to help support the Jews who were living there. One of them, Mr. Lamm, was a well-to-do insurance broker who had remained a bachelor. He was a quiet man, who lived with his invalid sister, who never left their home. Mr. Popper, another wealthy gentleman, was only visiting London; he lived in Manchester, where he had a successful glass factory.

That left the Gimpels, and if it had been up to her, Mrs. Lyon would not have invited the Gimpels. She liked her dinner parties to be pleasant, and Frumet Gimpel, who always welcomed an opportunity to show off her superior taste and knowledge, usually wore a haughty look on her face that was anything but pleasant. Mrs. Lyon did try to make allowances for the woman—she thought it must be very difficult to go through life with a name like Frumet Gimpel, especially when a woman wished to appear elegant and grand—but it was much easier to make allowances when Frumet Gimpel was far away from Devonshire Square.

Since everyone was accounted for, Mrs. Lyon decided that her uneasy feeling was only the usual agitation a hostess feels the morning before a large dinner party. And when she entered the nursery and saw that her son Joshua was painting blue his sister Esther’s blond curls, that agitation was replaced by quite a different feeling: matronly shock and dismay.

“Sheep, Mr. Birnbaum. Sheep and goats. If being a shepherd was good enough for the Patriarchs Abraham, Isaac and Jacob, it should be good enough for the members of your community.” Having delivered her pronouncement about how the Jews of Safed should earn their living, Frumet Gimpel settled back into her chair with a satisfied look.

“Far be it for me to criticize the choices of our holy ancestors,” said Mr. Popper, the glass manufacturer, “but I have heard that the soil in the north would be excellent for growing grapes. I would be interested in supporting a vineyard and winery.”

“And I suppose you would be interested in supplying the glass bottles,” Mrs. Gimpel said, with asperity.

“Hardly, ma’am. The cost of sending glass bottles to the Holy Land would be prohibitive, even without factoring in the possibility of breakage, and I am not in the habit of investing my money in unprofitable ventures.”

Frumet Gimpel and Mr. Popper had taken an instant dislike to each other and they had exchanged pointed barbs throughout the first course. Those dishes had now been cleared, but the animosity had remained.

Mrs. Lyon, fearing that her dinner party would be a failure if this bickering continued, sought to obtain her husband’s attention, but at that moment he was speaking to Mr. Lamm. She therefore sent a signal of distress to Mr. Melamed.

Mr. Melamed had been disturbed by the verbal sparring, as well, because it threatened to undermine the evening’s lofty purpose. After acknowledging Mrs. Lyon’s wordless plea with a nod of the head, he commented, with a tone of authority, “The leaders of the Safed community know better than any of us how to best use the money we will raise here tonight.” He then took out a small diary and pencil. Looking in the direction of the ladies seated at the end of the table, he said, “How much do you pledge, Miss Lyon?”

Miss Lyon, who had been explaining to Mrs. Mandelbaum that there was no celery in the vegetable pie—Mrs. Mandelbaum had made it very clear during the first course, when the ragout of celery had been passed round, that she could not tolerate celery—turned toward the others with a startled look and blushed. She had not expected to be included in such an important discussion. But having been singled out to begin, she spoke from her heart and said, “Oh, all that I have, Mr. Melamed. I cannot bear to think of the Jews of Safed going hungry when we have so much.”

“Very admirably spoken, Miss Lyon, but we do not expect you to impoverish yourself.” Mr. Melamed glanced over at Mr. Lyon. “Shall we say one shilling for Miss Lyon?”

“One shilling, when a lady’s fan costs five?” said Mr. Sterne, turning to the head of the table, where Mr. Lyon was sitting. “Make it five shillings, Lyon, or we shall think that people have stopped buying your fancy clocks.”

“And how do you know about the price of ladies’ fans?” inquired Mrs. Sterne.

“The bills from your latest shopping expedition arrived this afternoon, my dear,” Mr. Sterne replied good-naturedly.

Almost everyone laughed, grateful that the acrimonious mood had been dispelled.

Mr. Lyon gave his consent to put down a five-shilling donation in his daughter’s name. He then turned to the insurance agent and said, “And you, Mr. Lamm? What shall Mr. Melamed write down for you?”

“I was wondering. Of course, I do not wish to intrude.” Mr. Lamm hesitated. Mr. Lamm always hesitated. Everyone said it was a wonder that a man with so little assurance had been so successful at selling insurance, yet he was rumored to be the possessor of a comfortable income. “But if Mr. Melamed does not mind ...”

“Not at all, Mr. Lamm, pray continue.”

Mr. Lamm removed something from the pocket of his waistcoat. “I thought that, because our topic tonight is the Holy Land, the others might be interested in seeing this coin from ancient Israel. I bought it several years ago, for rather a large sum.”

The excited murmur told Mr. Lamm that the group would be very interested in seeing the coin. Although the insurance broker thought to let Mr. Melamed inspect the coin first, Mr. Melamed deferred to his host and so it was Mr. Lyon who had the honor.

“How old is it?” asked Mr. Lyon, as he turned over the small bronze coin, which had a cluster of grapes on one side and a palm tree on the other.

“I was told it dates back to the era of the Bar Kochba revolt against Rome. About the year 100, I believe.”

“Later,” said Mr. Popper. “The revolt occurred during the years 132 to 135.”

“I would assume that Mr. Lamm knows the date of his coin,” said Frumet Gimpel.

Before a new argument could begin, Judah Birnbaum said, “Mr. Popper is correct. If the coin does indeed date to the Jewish revolt led by Bar Kochba, it must have been struck during those years.”

By then the coin had reached Mr. Birnbaum, and Mr. Lamm asked, “Have you experience with ancient coins, Mr. Birnbaum? The gentleman who sold it to me assured me that it is very rare. I should value your opinion as to my coin’s worth, if you have experience with these things.”

Mr. Birnbaum took a cursory look at the coin, and then said, “I am afraid I cannot help you.”

Frumet Gimpel had opened her mouth to speak, but she was interrupted by the sound of a loud crash that came from the direction of the sideboard. Everyone turned and looked. A mortified Perl was gazing down at a dish of roasted chicken and potatoes that had somehow slipped through her fingers and landed, along with the heavy serving platter, on the floor.

Mrs. Lyon closed her eyes and told herself, grimly, that this was all that the party had lacked. But she composed her feelings before she said, “Never mind, Perl. I am sure that no one can eat another bite.”

Mrs. Mandelbaum grumbled something about roasted chicken being her favorite dish and Frumet Gimpel said something about servants. But the others heartily agreed with Mrs. Lyon and returned their gaze to the table, so that Perl could clean up the mess without their curious eyes adding to her embarrassment.

However, just a moment later another disturbing incident occurred when Mr. Birnbaum’s wine goblet tipped over and some of the contents of the nearly full goblet spilled onto Mr. Popper while the rest made an ugly mark on the white tablecloth.

“Perhaps we should serve the dessert in the drawing room,” suggested Mr. Lyon.

After Rebecca got Mrs. Mandelbaum seated in a comfortable chair near the fire, and placed a plate of cakes and a saucer of tea beside the elderly woman, she went to join her friend, who was standing by the tea table.

“Did you see the coin, Harriet?”

When Miss Franks replied that she had not, the two young ladies went in search of Mr. Lamm. “Could we see your Bar Kochba coin, Mr. Lamm?” Rebecca asked.

“That is a most interesting request, Miss Lyon. I should be very happy to show it to you, but ...” Mr. Lamm hesitated, and looked about the room.

“It was not returned to you?” asked Miss Franks.

“No.”

Mr. Lyon, having overheard the conversation, called over to Harriet’s father, “Franks, do you have the coin? Our daughters would like to see it.”

“I never saw it,” replied Mr. Franks. “The chicken got dropped before it came my way.”

Mr. Lyon, recalling that unhappy event, also recalled that the coin had last been seen in the vicinity of Mr. Birnbaum and Mr. Popper. But one look at Mr. Popper’s wine-stained coat and unhappy face convinced him that it would not be wise to single out the glass-maker from Manchester for questioning about the coin. Instead, Mr. Lyon made an announcement to the entire gathering, saying, “Miss Franks and Miss Lyon would like to see Mr. Lamm’s coin. Does anyone have it?”

When no one stepped forward, Mr. Lamm cleared his throat. “I do hope ... Yes, I do hope the coin has not been lost.”

“It cannot be lost, sir, have no fear of that,” replied Mr. Lyon. “It is probably still sitting on the dining table. Rebecca, come with me and let us take a look.”

Before they left the drawing room, Mr. Lyon cast a reassuring look in the direction of Mrs. Lyon, who was seated beside the tea table. The gesture was wasted, however, because Mrs. Lyon was sitting with her eyes tightly closed, mumbling something under her breath.

“The tablecloth is gone,” said Rebecca, as she and her father stared at the dining table, which had already been cleared of all memory of the dinner party.

Mr. Lyon thought for a moment. “The coin must have either fallen on the floor or it is in the kitchen. I think it would be best if you approached Meshullam Mendel, while I examine the carpet.”

“Yes, Papa.”

“And, Rebecca, make it very clear that we are not accusing any of the servants of taking the coin. We are only inquiring if the coin might have been left on the table and gathered up with the dishes.”

Miss Lyon assured her father that she would be the soul of tactfulness and left the room. Mr. Lyon got down on his hands and knees and crawled under the table. While he was making his way through the fallen bits of food and occasional piece of cutlery, he heard a familiar voice call out, “Lyon? Are you in here?”

“Under the table, Mr. Melamed. Care to join me?”

“No, thank you. In my opinion, the coin is more likely to be wrapped in the tablecloth. Shall I go down to the kitchen?”

“I’ve sent Rebecca to ask the servants.” Mr. Lyon crawled out from under the table and dusted off his clothes. “Did you manage to get everyone’s pledges before the coin went missing?”

“Yes, but ...” Mr. Melamed turned toward the open door that led to the corridor. An angry woman’s voice announced a coming storm, which burst into the room a moment later.

“I have never been accused of stealing, Mr. Lyon. Never!” exclaimed Sorel, who was followed by her husband and daughter, both of whom were trying to calm down the insulted woman

“And no one is accusing you now.” Mr. Lyon then turned to his daughter, who had also entered the room, and said, “I thought I made that clear, Rebecca.”

“It is not the young lady’s fault, Mr. Lyon,” said Meshullam Mendel. “We are all feeling a bit tired and out of sorts.”

“A bit tired?” Sorel snapped. “I’ve been on my feet all day, chopping and basting and baking and stirring, and this is the thanks I get! I’ve never been treated in such a manner!”

“Mama, no one is accusing you,” said Perl. “You were nowhere near the dining room.”

“And is it any better that my husband and daughter have been accused of being lying thieves? Meshullam Mendel, we shall pack our things at once. We can go to your sister.”

“I am in no position to stop you,” said Mr. Melamed, reaching the door before Sorel could storm out of it, “but it is our opinion that the coin was hidden within the folds of the tablecloth. From there it may have dropped onto the kitchen floor and rolled under a table. We would therefore be much obliged, Sorel, if you would give us your permission to inspect your kitchen.”

Sorel, slightly mollified by Mr. Melamed’s respectful tone of voice, replied, “I am sure it is not for me to stop you, Mr. Melamed.”

They all trooped down to the kitchen, where they searched the floor, the pails where the dishes and cutlery were soaking, the serving platters, and, of course, the tablecloth. However, the coin was not there.

When Mr. Lyon, Miss Lyon and Mr. Melamed returned to the drawing room, all eyes turned toward them.

“It was your man, wasn’t it?” Frumet Gimpel said to Mr. Lyon. She then cast a knowing glance at the other ladies in the room. “The servant girls steal jewelry.”

“We have not found the coin,” said Mr. Lyon. “We have searched the dining room and the kitchen and it is not there.”

“Then you will find it in your servant’s room, probably pushed into the toe of an old boot. That is what happened to us, isn’t that so, Gimpel, when that half-crown disappeared from your desk drawer?” Mrs. Gimpel neither waited for nor expected a reply from her husband. “It has been a most interesting evening, Mrs. Lyon,” she continued, “but Mr. Gimpel and I must be going. Early to bed and early to rise has always been my Golden Rule.”

“I am sure we would all like to be on our way,” said Mr. Melamed. “But first we must return the missing coin to Mr. Lamm. I therefore suggest that we empty the contents of our pockets.”

“Surely you are not accusing one of us of stealing the coin?” Mrs. Gimpel was a tall, lean woman and she had raised herself to her full height to stare imperiously at Mr. Melamed.

“I accuse no one, ma’am, of anything but absentmindedness. I shall be the first.”

Mr. Melamed walked over to a table that was sometimes used for a game of chess or whist and proceeded to search through his coat pockets, removing a handkerchief, his diary and pencil, several English coins, and a gold pocket watch. He opened the case of that last object to show that there was nothing inside, other than the clock.

Mr. Lyon and Mr. Sterne followed his example. The contents of their pockets were similarly uninteresting.

“Shall the ladies empty their reticules, too?” asked Mrs. Sterne.

“Really, Mr. Melamed, I must protest,” said Mrs. Lyon, casting a nervous glance in the direction of Frumet Gimpel. “Surely the ladies may be excused.”

“You always were a goose,” Mrs. Gimpel said to her hostess. “Of course, we must empty our reticules. Mr. Melamed has fooled no one. We have all been accused. If we do not resolve the matter this evening, by tomorrow morning all London will be discussing which one of us stole the coin.” She walked over to the table and opened her knitted reticule, which was in the shape of a pineapple and whose amber tones matched her elegant silk dress.

“My smelling salts, Mr. Melamed,” she said, removing a small bottle from the pineapple pouch. “I seldom need them, but one never knows when one will be accused of pinching the silver.” She then removed a comb, a button, a handkerchief and a small fan. She opened and shook out the last two items to show that she had hidden nothing inside them.

Mr. Melamed thought it odd that she carried a spare button in her reticule. But then he noticed there was a button missing from her right sleeve and surmised that it had fallen off at some point during the evening.

Meanwhile, Mr. Gimpel followed the example of his wife, but wisely made no effort to outdo her dramatic performance. Mrs. Sterne, apologizing for the rather boring contents in her reticule, came next. Rebecca had to explain “the game” to Mrs. Mandelbaum, who had not understood why everyone was emptying their pockets and reticules. When she did grasp the reason for the assorted objects piled up on the table, her face turned bright red. The reason for her blushes and confusion became clear when, after removing her vial of smelling salts and comb, she took out her handkerchief, which was wrapped around an object that was revealed to be a large piece of cake taken from the tea table.

Mrs. Lyon cut short the elderly lady’s embarrassed stammering by assuring Mrs. Mandelbaum, “I also sometimes like a sweet and cup of tea before I retire for the night. Take home as much cake as you like.”

Since neither Rebecca nor Harriet Franks had a reticule with them, they were excused from the proceedings. Mrs. Lyon was excused on similar grounds. Mr. and Mrs. Franks did not have the coin amongst their belongings.

Mr. Melamed did not like to subject the guest of honor to the search, but there was no way to avoid it. “Mr. Birnbaum?”

The young gentleman stepped up to the table. “My Book of Psalms,” he said, removing a small leather-bound volume from his coat pocket. Some English coins and a snuff box followed. “Should I empty the box?” he asked.

“I do not see a need,” said Mr. Melamed. “If the coin had fallen into the snuff, the powder would have left a mark on your coat.”

“Still, we do all want to be sure,” said Mr. Lamm, speaking for the first time since the exercise began.

A piece of clean writing paper was brought to the table, and Mr. Birnbaum emptied upon it the contents of the box. There was only snuff.

The snuff was returned to the box, which was returned to Mr. Birnbaum’s pocket. The young gentleman was about to move away from the table, when Mr. Lamm said, “And your other waistcoat pocket, sir?”

Mr. Birnbaum hesitated. An uneasy anticipation swept across the room. Miss Lyon silently hoped that it was not he who had taken the coin. She had enjoyed listening to him talk about life in the Holy Land. He seemed to be a gentle soul, someone in whom the virtues of intelligence and kindness and modesty kept amiable company. She therefore held her breath as the young man reached into his waistcoat pocket and removed a small object.

It was not the coin. Instead, it was a small silver object that was shaped like a fish. “This is rather valuable,” he explained, as he placed the silver fish on the table. “I believe it dates back to the 1500s, the time when the famous kabbalist Rabbi Isaac Luria was living in Safed.”

Everyone gathered closer around the table, to inspect the object.

“What exactly is it?” asked Mr. Sterne.

“A kamea. In English, I believe it is called an amulet. It protects a person from danger and the Evil Eye.”

“Eastern superstition,” Frumet Gimpel snorted, turning away from the table.

“May I see it?” asked Mr. Lamm, taking the place that Mrs. Gimpel had vacated. He reached out to take the silver object, but Mr. Birnbaum stopped him.

“I will open it, if you please. The catch is a bit tricky.”

After Mr. Birnbaum opened the locket, he showed it to the others. Sitting inside the fish was a small piece of parchment, upon which had been written, in tiny Hebrew letters, a short prayer. When everyone had had a chance to see the parchment, he asked Mr. Melamed, “May I return this to my pocket? As I said, it is rather valuable.”

“I have no objection,” Mr. Melamed replied.

Mr. Melamed then turned to Mr. Popper. But instead of emptying his pockets the glass manufacturer pointed to a dark spot on the table. “I believe Mr. Lamm’s coin has been found.”

The company dispersed quickly after that startling revelation.  Only Mr. Melamed remained, and he was then sitting with the Lyon family in the drawing room, drinking a glass of spiced wine.

“At least Mr. Lamm got back his coin,” said Mr. Lyon.

“But who took it?” asked Rebecca.

“I should be very sorry if it was Mr. Birnbaum, for his mother’s sake, may she rest in peace,” said Mrs. Lyon.

“That is the problem, isn’t it?” said Mr. Melamed. “As long as we do not know for certain what happened to the coin, we will all continue to be suspected.”

“Not all of us, Mr. Melamed,” said Mr. Lyon.

“I would prefer it to be Mr. Popper,” said Mrs. Lyon. “We do not know Mr. Popper, really, and he will be returning to Manchester soon.”

Their conversation was interrupted by the ringing of the front door’s bell. Since Mr. Lyon had insisted that the servants retire for the night, he went to answer the door. A few minutes later, he returned with Mr. Lamm.

“Mrs. Lyon, beg your pardon, ma’am, for this intrusion. Oh, Mr. Melamed, you are here too? It is just as well. I am at a loss ... so upsetting ... if my dear sister had not noticed ... I do not know what can be done, but she insisted ...”

He gazed blankly at the others, who stared just as blankly back at him.

“Is something wrong, Mr. Lamm?” asked Mr. Lyon, after showing the visitor to a seat. “Your coin has not disappeared a second time, I hope?”

“That is just it. Or, rather, it is something like. You see ...” Mr. Lamm pulled out his handkerchief from his coat pocket and opened the folds so that a small, circular bronze object was revealed. “I have been duped. This is not my coin.”

This announcement was greeted with astonishment by the others, who all crowded around Mr. Lamm to see the coin that sat in the palm of his hand.

“If you recall, Mr. Lyon, the cluster of grapes on my coin was very clear and fine. This cluster looks nothing like it.”

“Why would someone switch the coins?” asked Mrs. Lyon.

“That is the question I have been asking myself since my sister made the discovery. I do not like to accuse ... and certainly not a guest ... but my sister ...”

“What exactly did Miss Lamm say?” asked Mr. Melamed.

“To put it bluntly, Mr. Melamed, she suspects that this coin is worthless.” Mr. Lamm gazed around at them sadly. “If only I had paid more attention. You see, I paid quite a bit of money for my coin. The person I bought it from assured me it is most rare. And I never dreamed ... a thief ... in such a respectable house ...”

Rebecca glanced over at her father, who was shifting uneasily in his chair. Mrs. Lyon once again had her eyes tightly closed.

Mrs. Levy’s respectable boarding house on King Street was already tightly shuttered for the night when Mr. Melamed’s carriage pulled to a stop before its front door. However, glimpses of light could be seen in a few of the windows, showing that the house’s inhabitants had not all retired.

Mr. Melamed tugged at the bell, which echoed noisily down the deserted street, and within a few moments Mrs. Levy appeared at the door.

“Mr. Melamed?” she inquired, surprised by both the identity of the visitor and the lateness of the visit. “I hope no stranger is just arrived and wanting a room. Thank God, I have none to spare.”

“I would like to speak with Mr. Birnbaum. Would you be so good as to tell him I am here?”

“Certainly,” said the proprietress, opening the door wide so that Mr. Melamed could enter. “Shall I make up the fire in the downstairs sitting room?”

“I would prefer to speak with Mr. Birnbaum in his own room.”

Mrs. Levy, a middle-aged widow, was both relieved that she would not have to make up the fire at that late hour and disappointed that she would not have an opportunity to overhear what she was certain was going to be an interesting conversation. For better or for worse, the doors in her boarding house were solidly built, and so when Mr. Melamed entered Mr. Birnbaum’s room, shutting the door behind him, she knew there was no reason for her to linger in the hallway.

Mr. Birnbaum, who had been reading by the fire in his private sitting room, did not look surprised at the sight of his visitor. On the contrary, he said, “I was expecting you would call, sir.”

“What do you know about this coin business, Mr. Birnbaum?”

“I did not like to say this in front of Mr. Lamm and the others. But I know that whoever sold that coin to Mr. Lamm was no honest dealer, if Mr. Lamm did, indeed, pay a great deal of money for it.”

“The coin was not valuable?”

Mr. Birnbaum went over to his portmanteau and took out a small pouch, whose contents he emptied onto a table. “These coins,” he said, referring to the dozen or so small bronze coins, “are valuable in the sense that they are historical artifacts from the Land of Israel and our people’s history. They are also valuable in the sense that their price would be beyond the reach of the average person. But this particular Bar Kochba coin is not terribly rare. There are plenty of tomb robbers who make it their business to find and sell all sorts of ancient artifacts, including coins such as these.”

“Would you say, then, that there is no coin from the Bar Kochba revolt that is valuable?”

“Not at all. If Mr. Lamm’s coin had been made from silver and had on one side a depiction of the Holy Temple in Jerusalem, he would have had a coin that was extremely valuable. That coin is very rare, probably because over the years most of them were melted down for their silver.”

Mr. Melamed picked up a few of the bronze coins and examined them. One of them had the distinctly molded cluster of grapes that resembled the coin that Mr. Lamm had passed around the table. “Did you have any of these coins in your pocket this evening, Mr. Birnbaum?”

“No, I did not. I had thought to give you one of them at the end of my visit, as an expression of gratitude for all you have done to help me. But my intention was to present it to you in private, and not at a dinner party.”

“And the other coins?”

“I will be traveling through several more cities before my journey is done and, God willing, meeting several more benefactors.”

Mr. Melamed returned the coins to the table. “It was not you, then, who placed the coin on the table in the drawing room?”

“No. I was as surprised as anyone by the reappearance of Mr. Lamm’s coin.”

“You are certain that you did not see who did it?”

Mr. Birnbaum shook his head. “At the time I was showing the others the silver fish amulet, if you recall.”

Mr. Melamed did recall, but he also recalled that Mr. Birnbaum was the last one who was seen handling the lost coin. He therefore asked, “When we were still seated in the dining room, do you recall what you did with the coin? Did you hand it to Mr. Popper or place it on the table?”

The young man shook his head a second time. “I cannot expect you to believe me, Mr. Melamed. You know nothing about me, really. But I am telling the truth when I say that I do not recall what I did with the coin. I only remember hearing a crash and then seeing the silver platter on the floor and watching as one of the potatoes rolled under the sideboard. You might inform Mrs. Lyon about that potato. The servants might not think to clean there.”

“I shall inform Mrs. Lyon about the missing potato.”

There was a short but uncomfortable silence, before Mr. Birnbaum said, “Is not the important thing that Mr. Lamm got back his coin? Does it matter so much who took it, if the coin was returned?”

Mr. Melamed recalled that it was said about the kabbalist Rabbi Isaac Luria that he could look at a man’s forehead and know if the man was speaking the truth or had committed any sins. Mr. Melamed dearly wished that he, too, possessed that talent at that moment and could read what was going on in the young man’s mind. But, alas, he was an ordinary person, with no special spiritual powers.

“May I still have one of these coins?”

“Yes, of course, Mr. Melamed.”

“Is there a great difference between any of them?”

“The lettering is different on some of them, but do not ask me what that means. I am no expert in ancient Hebrew script.”

“Is there anything else that might affect their value?”

“The depiction of the cluster of grapes is different. Again, I cannot say why this is so. My guess would be that they were struck in different years. But the man who sold me these coins made no distinction between them. Of course, he might not have been knowledgeable. Would you like to have a few of them evaluated by someone here in London?”

“Yes, I would,” said Mr. Melamed, selecting two coins, one of which had a distinct cluster of grapes.

Mr. Melamed was acquainted with the older couple that was hosting Mr. Popper, a Mr. and Mrs. Hurst, who supplemented their moderate income by renting out a room in their comfortable home to well-to-do visitors to London. Since Mr. Hurst was a sociable man who was interested in most topics, Mr. Melamed rightly guessed that he would still be seated before his hearth, engaged in conversation with the visitor from Manchester. However, Mr. Hurst promptly found a reason to excuse himself when Mr. Melamed was shown into the drawing room, so that the other two men could talk in private.

“Unfortunate business, what happened tonight,” said Mr. Popper. “But I have learned to never trust those emissaries from the Holy Land. Poverty—and most of them are blessed with an abundance of that!—can distort a person’s values.”

“You believe it was Mr. Birnbaum who took the coin?”

“He was the last one to have it, wasn’t he?”

“Mr. Birnbaum did not give the coin to you, before the platter fell?”

“No.”

“Perhaps you took it by accident when the wine was spilled? It would be a perfectly natural thing to do, while you reached for a serviette, if the coin had been placed on the table between you and Mr. Birnbaum, considering that it was a moment of confusion.”

“Much obliged for giving me a graceful way to admit I am a thief, but I did not take it, not then, and not at any time after.”

“Yet it was you who placed the coin on the table in the drawing room.”

Mr. Popper studied the other man’s face before replying. “You sound very sure of yourself, sir. Have you proof to back up your statement?”

Mr. Melamed could also play the staring game, which he did. When Mr. Popper did not turn away his eyes, Mr. Melamed said, “A coin was taken. A different coin was returned. I should like to know why the switch was made and what has happened to Mr. Lamm’s coin.”

Mr. Popper continued to stare at Mr. Melamed, but now there was a look of surprise in his eyes. “I was certain that no one was looking,” he said, finally, with a shake of his head. “How did you know that I substituted my own Bar Kochba coin for the lost coin of Mr. Lamm?”

“It was Mr. Lamm who drew it to my attention,” replied Mr. Melamed, trying hard to conceal his own surprise at the other man’s admission. In truth, he had only guessed that it was Mr. Popper who had placed the second coin on the table; the glass manufacturer had been in an excellent position to do so, being on the same side of the table as the coin and yet not too close to Mr. Birnbaum and the silver fish, where the eyes of all the others had been fixed. “The coins were similar but not exactly alike. May I ask where you obtained your coin?”

“My brother gave it to me. He was a seaman in the Royal Navy. He fought under William Sidney Smith when Napoleon tried to capture Acre. That was back in 1799. My brother brought back a few souvenirs from the Holy Land, including the coin. He died a few years later.”

“You astonish me, Mr. Popper. Why were you willing to give up your coin, a memento from your deceased brother, to a man you hardly know?”

“I was not willing to do it, sir. But you forced my hand. It was my turn next to empty my pockets. If I removed the coin then, who would believe my story? What would happen to my good name, once the incident became known in my own city?”

Mr. Popper’s face had become quite red with indignation. He removed his handkerchief and proceeded to wipe his brow. Then he stuffed the handkerchief back into his pocket and said, “I want my coin back. You have admitted that it is not the coin that Mr. Lamm lost. I shall expect it to be returned to me by tomorrow evening.”

Mr. Melamed did not need to worry if the inhabitants of his next stop would still be awake. The Earl of Gravel Lane, a young Jewish man who was the commander of a band of even younger petty thieves, never retired until all his boys had returned safely to Gravel Lane after their night’s work. When Mr. Melamed entered the dismal dwelling that the Earl called home, the Earl was supping on a dinner of stale bread and a cooked egg, which he shared with his second in command, General Well’ngone.

“You are out late tonight, Mr. Melamed,” said the Earl, wiping the crumbs from his lips with a stained serviette. Although the Earl and his boys subsisted on a beggarly income, he liked to preserve at least a semblance of the niceties of civilized living. “Has your carriage broken down? Shall the General escort you home, if you are afraid to wander about these dark and dangerous streets alone?”

Mr. Melamed was not overly fond of the Earl of Gravel Lane. He disliked the young man’s insolence, just as he despised the Earl’s penchant for a life of crime. More than once Mr. Melamed had tried to convince the Earl to use his talents in a more honest occupation, and each time he had been rebuffed. Even the specter of the gallows did not deter the Earl from the path he had chosen.

But the Earl, whose underworld connections were many and whose knowledge was usually both plentiful and accurate, had been useful more than once in the solving of a crime affecting the Jewish community, and so once again Mr. Melamed set aside his personal feelings. “I need an errand performed. My carriage is waiting outside. It is at the service of General Well’ngone, if he is afraid to walk through the streets alone at this hour.”

“What is the errand?” asked the Earl, stabbing lazily at the last bit of egg on his plate.

Mr. Melamed took out the two coins he had received from Mr. Birnbaum and pushed them toward the Earl. “I should like to know how much each coin is worth.”

“You do not need to disturb the General’s supper for that. I shall give you the address of Jeptha Teller, the pawnbroker. He will know.”

“He will also know me, which may affect the price he names. I want the true value.”

“And are they valuable?” asked the Earl. He picked up one of the coins and inspected it by the light of the only candle that burned in the room.

“That coin you are holding is from the Holy Land. It is more than a thousand years old.”

The Earl’s eyebrows shot up. He gave the first coin to General Well’ngone, who inspected it in turn, and took up the second one. “This is also from the Land of Israel?”

“Yes, and it is also very old.”

“You mean to say there really is such a place?” asked the General.

“Of course, there is,” replied Mr. Melamed. “Perhaps one day you will see it. But tonight I want you to take these coins to Mr. Teller and ask how much they are worth.”

Mr. Melamed did not need to worry that the General would abscond with the coins, or try to replace them with something less valuable. Just as many groups have one code of behavior for its members and one for outsiders, when the Earl and the General were on a job for Mr. Melamed, they considered that gentleman to be one of their own. Mr. Melamed could therefore expect to be treated honestly. Even his handkerchief was secure from wandering hands, which was no small thing in that part of London.

When the General did return, it was with a look of triumph. “It is the genuine article,” he said, placing one of the coins on the table. “Mr. Teller sends his compliments to the owner and an offer of one pound.” He then added, with a wink, “That means the coin is worth four pounds, at least.”

Mr. Melamed noted that it was the coin with the indistinct cluster of grapes that was worth one pound, according to the pawnbroker. He expected to hear a much larger sum named for the second coin, which was similar to the one Mr. Lamm had lost. But when he asked about that other coin, he was surprised by the General’s answer.

“Mr. Teller will take both of them off your hands for three pounds, Mr. Melamed. You could buy yourself a new watch with three pounds, and if you like I can show you our private collection.”

“No, thank you,” replied Mr. Melamed, having no interest in seeing the gang’s cache of stolen goods. Instead, he took back his ancient coins and, after giving the Earl and the General a few English coins in their place, returned to his carriage.

After Mr. Melamed had left, the Earl dropped his pose of disdainful nobleman and held his fingers next to the flame of the candle, looking at them intently.

“Is something wrong, Earl?” asked General Well’ngone.

“Tonight, General, we have touched something from the Holy Land. Does your hand feel different?”

General Welln’gone looked down at his hands. “No. Do yours?”

The Earl continued to look at the fingers that had held the coins for a few more moments. Then he shook his head.

Mr. Melamed sank back into the seat of his carriage, while the horses plodded onward, towards Bury Street and his home. He supposed that Mr. Lamm’s coin might be worth up to ten pounds, which was not a small sum, but it was one that he could easily afford to pay, if Mr. Lamm’s coin was never found.

But where could the coin be? Mr. Melamed could see no reason why Mr. Birnbaum would have pocketed Mr. Lamm’s coin, if he had a dozen others similar to it sitting in his room. It was much more logical to assume that Mr. Birnbaum was telling the truth. But if the young man’s innocence could not be established absolutely, the tale of the missing coin would dog Mr. Birnbaum’s steps for the rest of his journey, because few hostesses would willingly invite a suspected thief into their homes. Thus, he would be unable to fulfill his mission of raising funds for his community in Safed.

Yet Mr. Melamed’s instincts told him that Mr. Popper’s story was also true. If Mr. Popper had known that the two coins were different, he would not have been embarrassed to show his own. He therefore must have never had a chance to closely inspect Mr. Lamm’s coin. In addition, it made no sense for him to switch the coins, because the difference in value was not so very great. But if this was so, who took the coin?

The hour was getting late and he was beginning to feel tired, but Mr. Melamed forced himself to go back over the evening’s events. At the time, he had not paid too much attention to the coin’s partial journey around the dining table. He vaguely recalled that it had gone first to Mr. Lyon, then on to himself, and next to Mr. Birnbaum. Apparently, it had not reached Mr. Popper. The coin had not reached the ladies, either. Nor did it reach the gentlemen sitting on the other side of the table, Mr. Sterne, Mr. Franks and Mr. Gimple. There was no reason to suspect Perl or Meshullam Mendel, who had been loyal servants of the Lyon family for many years. The only possibility, it seemed, was that the coin had inadvertently been left on the table, after the party had repaired to the drawing room, and then ...

And then what? Had someone gone back into the dining room at some point in the evening and taken the coin? If so, it would have had to have been taken before the servants cleared the table, which meant that at least one of the servants was still in the room.

Mr. Melamed had a strong desire to tell his coachman to return to Devonshire Square, so that he could question Meshullam Mendel and Perl a second time. However, the striking of a clock somewhere in the distance informed him that to rouse the servants at such an hour, and after such a distressing evening, would be unkind. The next step in his inquiry would therefore have to wait until the morning, and he allowed himself to sink drowsily into the carriage’s upholstered seat.

A moment later, though, he was wide awake.

“‘When a pearl of great worth is lost, we search after it with a candle that costs but the smallest coin,’ he murmured, recalling a statement of the ancient Sages from the era of the Talmud. He did not yet know the significance of those words or where they would lead him, but for the first time since Mr. Lamm’s coin was lost, he felt he could see a glimmer of light.

If Mr. Melamed thought his work was through for the night, he was mistaken. When he arrived at his home on Bury Street, his butler mournfully informed him that visitors were waiting for him in the drawing room.

“Well, Mr. Melamed, I will not presume to ask where you have been,” said a strident female voice, which belonged to Frumet Gimpel. “This is your house, after all. And at least your manservant knows how to brew a decent pot of tea.”

“I am happy to hear that your wait has not been entirely unpleasant,” said Mr. Melamed, noting that his servants, always dependable, had prepared an excellent tea board for the unexpected visitors. “May I ask why you have troubled yourself to pay me a visit at such a late hour?”

Mr. Melamed had directed his question to Mrs. Gimpel, knowing that it was she and not Mr. Gimpel who would do the talking. And, indeed, Mr. Gimpel was happily absorbed with his plate of cold meat, seemingly uninterested in his wife’s conversation, because he knew from long years of marriage that he would not be invited to take part in it.

Mrs. Gimpel opened her pineapple reticule and extracted the button that she had shown earlier in the evening. Their eyes met, and in that instant Mr. Melamed remembered that while the party was in the drawing room, having dessert, Frumet Gimpel had left the room for a few minutes.

“I thank you, Mr. Melamed, for not inquiring about this button before the others. But then you are a gentleman, and so one really would not expect less.”

Mr. Melamed bowed, in acknowledgment of the compliment. He knew that compliments did not drop often or easily from that lady’s lips. “You returned to the dining room to retrieve it?”

“Mrs. Mandelbaum alerted me to the fact that it had gone missing. I had no idea where I had lost the thing, and so I thought I might as well try the dining room.”

“Let us come to the point, Mrs. Gimpel. Was Mr. Lamm’s coin on the table?”

“I did not notice it. You understand, I was looking for my button and not his coin.”

“Did anyone help you search for it?”

“There was no one in the room when I entered.”

“Where were the servants?”

“I suppose that clumsy girl had taken some of the dishes down to the kitchen.”

“And Meshullam Mendel?”

“He, apparently, had gone out into the hall with Mr. Lamm. Mr. Lamm had left his digestive tablets in the pocket of his greatcoat and wished to fetch them. I personally do not believe in digestive tablets. In my opinion it is much better to eat sensibly so you do not need them.”

“Did Meshullam Mendel offer to help you search for your button?”

“It was quite unnecessary, because Mr. Lamm insisted upon being of service.”

“Who found the coin?”

“The button, Mr. Melamed.”

“Beg your pardon, Mrs. Gimpel. Who found your button?”

“I did. It had become lodged in my chair, a most natural place for it to be.” Frumet Gimpel paused and gave Mr. Melamed a knowing look. “I was nowhere near the other side of the table, where the coin was last seen, no matter what anyone may tell you.”

The next morning, Mr. Melamed returned to Devonshire Square. While he waited in the dining room for Meshullam Mendel and Perl to appear, he discussed the previous night’s events with Mr. Lyon.

“It does look like Frumet Gimpel had an opportunity to take the coin, if it was still in the dining room. But why would she do it?” asked Mr. Lyon.

“It is hard to know,” replied Mr. Melamed. “Perhaps she wanted to embarrass someone.”

“Such as Mr. Popper?”

Mr. Lyon looked skeptical, and Mr. Melamed had to agree that even Frumet Gimpel would not act in such a mean and petty manner.

“Perhaps she is one of those people who cannot help themselves and steal on the sly,” Mr. Lyon offered. “I have heard of such cases, though I have not encountered it myself.”

“It is a possibility,” Mr. Melamed conceded.

“I am glad to know, though, that the coin is not as valuable as we thought.”

“Yes, but how will we convince Mr. Lamm of that?”

Their discussion was interrupted by the appearance of Perl, who gave a curtsy and looked sullenly down at the floor.

“Did you and your mother have another look around the kitchen?” asked Mr. Lyon.

“And my father, too, Mr. Lyon. And we none of us can see what all the fuss is about, seeing how it was such a little thing, and not a diamond or some other jewel, if you’ll pardon me for expressing an opinion.”

“The coin had a value for one of Mr. Lyon’s guests,” said Mr. Melamed. “Perl, did anyone come into the dining room while you and your father were clearing the table?”

“Not that I recall, sir.”

“Did you happen to notice a lady’s button anywhere in the room?”

A slight groan escaped from the girl’s lips. “Will we need to tear apart the house for that, too, sir?”

“No, that was found. I was only wondering if you saw it.”

“No, sir.”

After Perl left, Meshullam Mendel entered the room. He confirmed that Perl had already left when Mr. Lamm entered the dining room. He also confirmed that that gentleman had inquired after his digestive tablets.

“Did Mr. Lamm know where they were?” asked Mr. Melamed.

“He thought they might either be near his seat or in his greatcoat pocket, sir.”

“And were they near his seat?”

“I should say they were not, because a few minutes later he followed me into the front hall. The tablets were in his coat, and I gave them to him and returned to the dining room.”

Meshullam Mendel then related that Frumet Gimpel was discovered in the dining room, searching for a lost button. The lady had not accepted his offer of assistance, and so he had gone about his business.

“Meshullam Mendel, did you see anything lying on the table that might have been the coin? I ask you to think carefully. It might have looked like a spot of gravy, or a small bit of beef.”

The servant did his best to do as Mr. Melamed had asked, but he could recall no such thing. “You see, Mr. Melamed, Perl and I were busy with the silver. A spot on the tablecloth would be dealt with after.”

Meshullam Mendel was allowed to return to his work.

“I never realized how much excitement there is at dinner parties,” said Mr. Lyon. “A lost coin, a lost button. Though I will say it again, thank heavens the coin was not valuable. If it had been a diamond ...”

“Or a pearl,” Mr. Melamed interjected.

Mr. Lyon looked at his companion curiously, for Mr. Melamed had begun to smile. “You know who took the coin?”

“I think I do.”

It was too early in the day for Baer’s Coffee House to be crowded. But that venerable kosher establishment located in the City, and near the Stock Exchange, was not totally empty. Mr. Melamed therefore abjured his usual seat at the back of the room and took a place at a table where a few stock brokers were conversing over their coffee and newspapers. These gentlemen knew Mr. Melamed and were happy to give him the information he wished to know. Then they folded their newspapers, paid their bill and went on to their places of business.

Mr. Melamed remained at the table, debating whether he should wait at the Coffee House or return to Devonshire Square. His dilemma was solved for him by the arrival of the very person he wished to speak with.

Mr. Lamm hesitated at the door, as was his wont, before approaching Mr. Melamed. “May I join you?” he asked.

“Please do.”

“We seem to be the only ones here,” said the insurance broker, glancing around the empty room. “It makes it easier to speak.”

Mr. Melamed motioned for the man to go on.

First, though, Mr. Lamm glanced a second time about the room. “I do not like to seem ... well ... it is my sister, really ... and I suppose she does have a point.”

“Which is, Mr. Lamm? If there is a point, please come to it.”

“That coin of mine ... you see I paid a great deal of money for it. I would not mind the loss, even though it is so very rare ... but there is my sister to consider. She is an invalid, as you know, and good servants are expensive.”

“The point, Mr. Lamm?”

“I do not say that it was Mr. Lyon or a member of his household that took my coin. But the unfortunate affair did happen in his house. If Mr. Lyon were to pay me one hundred pounds, I should be satisfied, Mr. Melamed.”

“I can do better than that, Mr. Lamm,” said Mr. Melamed, reaching into his waistcoat pocket.

“You can?” Mr. Lamm’s eyes were alight with excitement.

Mr. Melamed placed one of Mr. Birnbaum’s coins on the table, the one with the finely molded cluster of grapes.

Mr. Lamm was too astonished to speak.

“You may have this coin, Mr. Lamm. First, though, please give me the coin belonging to Mr. Popper.”

“Mr. Popper?”

“I believe you will find it in your box of digestive tablets, along with your own coin.”

Mr. Lamm looked at first as though he might speak. Instead, he brushed all hesitation aside and rushed out of the room.

“Do you wish to prosecute, Mr. Popper? Mr. Lamm has vanished momentarily, according to his sister—who by the way says she knew nothing about the coin, neither its value nor the fact that it supposedly went missing. I assume that Mr. Lamm will reappear eventually, and so you could sue him in a Jewish court of law, if he does not return to you your coin.”

The glass manufacturer stared moodily into the fire. “I do not wish to bring a suit against Mr. Lamm. I shall consider the loss of my coin as payment for my speaking against Mr. Birnbaum. I had no real proof. I should not have accused him of taking Mr. Lamm’s coin.”

Mr. Melamed’s next stop was Devonshire Square, where he explained the story again, this time to the Lyon family.

“Mr. Lamm had invested his money in the Stock Exchange several years ago,” said Mr. Melamed. “At first he did very well.”

“Which explains his comfortable income,” said Mr. Lyon. “We all knew it could not come from his sales of insurance. He hadn’t the personality for that profession.”

“Recently, though, he lost almost everything in a bad investment, according to his stock broker.”

“But what does all this have to do with the coin?” asked Mrs. Lyon.

“I am afraid that Mr. Lamm saw an opportunity at your dinner party to make back at least a little of his lost money. In the confusion, Mr. Birnbaum apparently left the coin sitting on the table. While everyone was in the drawing room, Mr. Lamm devised his excuse to return to the dining room and retrieve his coin. He did it when he sent Meshullam Mendel out into the hall to look in his greatcoat for his box of digestive tablets.”

“But why?” Mrs. Lyon persisted. “What could he hope to gain by pretending to lose his coin?”

“One hundred pounds is the sum he mentioned. I assume if he could not get the money from you and Mr. Lyon, he was going to try to get it from me.”

“He must have been astonished when the second coin appeared on the table,” said Mr. Lyon.

“I imagine he was. Fortunately for him, his coin and Mr. Popper’s were not exactly alike, and so he could continue with his attempt to extort money from you. Unfortunately for him, Mr. Birnbaum had a dozen of those coins and so I was able to ascertain their true value. I am certain it never occurred to Mr. Lamm that there could be so many Bar Kochba coins in London. I know I never should have thought it possible.”

Mr. Lyon nodded and then he shifted uneasily in his chair. “What is your opinion, Mr. Melamed? Should I bring a claim against Mr. Lamm for what he has done? I do not like lawsuits, but I do not like the idea of a man trying to extort money from innocent people either.”

“You must get rabbinical advice for how to proceed. I am not knowledgeable in such matters.”

“I still do not understand how you realized it was Mr. Lamm,” said Mrs. Lyon. “It was very clever of you.”

“I am not the clever one. I received a hint from the Talmud.” Mr. Melamed turned to Mr. Lyon. “Do you recognize this quote? ‘When a pearl of great worth is lost, we search after it with a candle that costs but the smallest coin.’”

“No, I cannot say I do.”

“I looked up the source this morning. It is from Shir Hashirim Rabbah, the first chapter. The Talmud means to say that a small and insignificant parable can shed light upon the great teachings of the Torah. But when those words came into my mind last night, they made me think of Mr. Lamm’s small coin and I wondered if he had recently lost some ‘pearl of great worth.’ Once I discovered that he had lost his money, the rest fell into place.”

“I am so happy that Mr. Birnbaum was not involved in any of this,” said Miss Lyon, who had been sitting quietly at her work table, where she was painting a copy of a scene from the Holy Land onto a porcelain dish.

That young lady’s mother gave her daughter a worried look. Although Rebecca was not yet at the marriageable age, she was at an age when a handsome young man from a foreign place could make a strong impression on a girl’s thoughts. Mrs. Lyon therefore said, “I am sure we all very happy that Mr. Birnbaum was not involved, Rebecca. Now he can return to the Holy Land, where a young lady must do without a new dress every year and new ribbons for her hair.”

Miss Lyon rose from her chair with a start, nearly upsetting a bottle of paint. “Papa, did you already give my five shillings to Mr. Birnbaum?”

“Not yet. With all the excitement ... Where are you going, Rebecca?”

“To get my box of hair ribbons,” said Rebecca. “You must give him that, too, for the young ladies of Safed!”

Mr. Melamed had one last visit to make, before he could consider the incident of the missing Bar Kochba coin closed.

Frumet Gimpel was reading a political pamphlet when he entered her drawing room. She did not look pleased to see him.

“If you are here about that coin, Mr. Melamed, I told you everything I know last night.”

“Not quite everything, ma’am. You did not tell me that you are Miss Lamm’s financial advisor.”

“I cannot see what that has to do with the coin.”

“It has nothing to do with it, and everything,” replied Mr. Melamed. “Mr. Lamm has invested his money unwisely and lost most of it.” He then explained the ruse of the missing coin and the attempt to extort money from Mr. Lyon.

“I knew it,” said Frumet Gimpel. “I knew that man was not to be trusted. That is why I told Miss Lamm to keep her money invested in the funds, and not let her brother invest her money in those wild schemes of his. I am happy to say that she listened to my advice and so she, at least, has lost nothing.”

“I congratulate you on your sagacious counsel. But how did you know Mr. Lamm was not to be trusted?”

“Last night was not the first time I have sat at the same dinner table with him. And I always say that a man who must rely upon digestive tablets has more wrong with him than a sensitive stomach. It is much more likely that an uneasy conscience is at the root of his digestive troubles. If I have said it once, I have said it a hundred times—never trust a man who takes digestive tablets after dinner. You may ask Mr. Gimpel, if you do not believe me.”

Frumet Gimpel turned to Mr. Gimpel and waited.

Mr. Gimpel was almost too staggered by this unexpected opportunity to speak to say a word. Finally, he managed to say, “More than a hundred times, my dear, many more.”

THE END

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And enjoy this free excerpt from The Moon Taker, a full-length Jewish Regency Mystery

THE MOON TAKER

CHAPTER I

DON’T BLAME ME for what follows. Simon, one of the orphanage’s boys, insists there are twenty-six letters in the English alphabet. But when me and the other boys in the Earl of Gravel Lane’s gang put our heads together, we could come up with only nineteen of them—and I still say that some of them sound more like they came across the Channel on the same boat as Yiddish than belonging properly to the King’s English.

Simon, when he heard our list, says we went wrong by mixing together the letters “k” and “q,” and by insisting there is a letter “ch,” as well as forgetting a few whose names I still don’t remember. Why anyone needs so many letters, when so few people say much that is worth hearing, is beyond me. But for now, the point is this: If you are looking for a tale filled with “Milord this” and “Milady that” and every word spelled as neat and crisp as one of Beau Brummell’s cravats, you had better move on, because this is not that kind of tale.

This is a hanging kind of tale, and the only reason why I am telling it is because I want to be sure that the person who gets hanged is not me. Or the Earl of Gravel Lane. Maybe you don’t think that London would be any the worse if there were no Earl of Gravel Lane or General Well’ngone in it, but we rather like being alive.

This is all I have to say for my story’s pre-amble. If it had been up to me, I would not have wasted ink on copying out any of it. Simon, though, says that any book that wants to consider itself a proper book has to have a pre-amble, which, he says, is a sort of ambling around the book’s subject before the story begins. Simon has read a book, so I suppose he should know. I would rather get straight to the telling, and that is what I am going to do now.

The Earl and I were having our morning tea in our rooms in Gravel Lane, minding our own business, when there was a knock on the door.

I may as well tell you that I already have to stop because the boys are laughing their heads off. It is very difficult to write a book—even when you are just telling it and someone like Simon is doing the hard work and spelling all the words—when a dozen ne’er-do-wells, who should be at work at this hour, are looking over your shoulder and guffawing at every word, as if they were editors at The Gentleman’s Magazine, instead of being usefully employed in the streets of London picking gentlemen’s pockets. I will therefore explain. The Earl is not an Earl. The tea is not tea. And as for minding our own business ...

Not that it is any of your business, but our situation is this: We are all orphans. Jewish orphans. Since there are more Jewish orphans in London than there are beds in the Jewish orphanage, most of us live on the streets, which in our case is a street in the easterly part of London called Gravel Lane.

I have been told that most people would not choose to live in Gravel Lane. It is the sort of place you fall into when you are so down on your luck that sleeping at the bottom of the River Thames looks like a step up. I don’t mind it, because I cannot recall ever living anywhere else. But some people who come from the other side of Houndsditch will wave about their handkerchiefs and put on airs, as though the dirt and the smell is too much for their fancy clothes and delicate noses.

The Earl says that he was born on the other side of Houndsditch, but thank goodness he is not a snob. He is not a real Earl, either, of course. Everyone knows that a Jew cannot be a member of the gentry. But he is like royalty in our part of town. I always say that he could be called the King of Gravel Lane and it would be the truth. The Earl is modest, though, and has said more than once he has no wish to overreach.

But, getting back to my story:

The Earl and I were having our morning gin ...

Well, what did you think we were drinking, when everyone knows how much a tin of tea costs and that only the gentry can afford to drink it? If you’re one of those types who is always jabbering on about the evils of drink, next time you come round to Gravel Lane you can leave a tin of tea or coffee on our doorstep instead of one of your cheap, tasteless pamphlets.

But I see I shall never get to the end of my story if I keep interrupting it. I am therefore going to go open the door, without any more pre-ambles or explanations.

CHAPTER II

STANDING ON THE doorstep was an acquaintance of ours called Mr. Hamburg. I doubt that is his real name, because he once let slip that his family came from a town in Bohemia, while everyone in the smuggling business knows that Hamburg is a port town in the north of Europe. Since we are not too particular about names in Gravel Lane, we let the slip pass.

Mr. Hamburg was looking particularly amiable, even jolly. He even let out a chuckle as I led him down the hallway and into our drawing room. We never call it a sitting room, since there are rarely more than three unbroken chairs in the room to sit on and we like to be precise with our words. With a drawing room, a person is forced to draw his own conclusions as to what he will find inside and it is not our fault if a person’s conclusions are, invariably, wrong.

“Well, Earl, I hope it is not too early in the morning for you to do a little business,” said Mr. Hamburg.

The Earl waved his hand, a vague gesture that implied he was neither interested nor uninterested, but his visitor may as well take a seat, since he was already there.

While Mr. Hamburg decided which of the two available water-stained chairs would do the least harm to his greatcoat—it had been an unusually cold and snowy winter, and more than a little of that cold and water had found its way inside our humble abode—I took down from the mantelpiece the teacup that is reserved for guests and poured in it a generous amount of gin. The Earl is very particular about providing hospitality to our guests, as befitting his grand station in life.

“Thank you, General Well’ngone,” said Mr. Hamburg. He then raised his glass and said, “To your good health, gentlemen.”

Although he swallowed down the gin in one gulp, I did not refill the glass and Mr. Hamburg did not ask for a second drink. Hospitality is one thing, business is another, and it was understood by all that we had now moved on to the latter.

“I have come across a very interesting item. A very interesting item.”

Mr. Hamburg reached into his greatcoat to extract the “very interesting item.” As you may well imagine, no one shows up at our doorstep with an item that is not interesting. It would be like the apple seller yelling “Come buy my mealy, wormy apples!” and who has ever heard an apple seller say that?

By then a handkerchief had been removed from the greatcoat and Mr. Hamburg was busy unfolding its folds. At last, he picked up the item and showed it to us.

It was a snuff box, decorated with what some people call an eye miniature, but which the pawnbrokers call a “Lover’s Eye.” The snuff box itself was of a goodish quality, but I could never understand what the gentry saw in this one-eyed affair. To paint two eyes along with the rest of a person’s head on the top of a snuff box is fine, but to paint just one eye—and only that one eye, without the rest of the head—is, in my opinion, more than a little unnerving. It is as though the whole person is squeezed into that small oval and the eye is watching you, watching you.

“You bought that object from Mr. Teller, if I am not mistaken,” said the Earl. He did not take the thing into his hand. He did not like a “Lover’s Eye” either. He said it reminded him of the Evil Eye—pooh, pooh, pooh—and that next time it would be better to leave such a thing in a gentleman’s pocket than bring it into our home and allow it to do us harm.

Mr. Hamburg raised his bushy eyebrows. “You were the one who sold it to Teller?”

The Earl gave his guest a weary smile.

I am not sure how old the Earl is—I do not think he knows for certain either—but let us say he is about eighteen. Mr. Hamburg is on the wintry side of life; let us say he is at least fifty. Even so, with most encounters of this type, it is the Earl who has worldly wisdom on his side. Many people wonder how the Earl can be so wise when he very seldom leaves Gravel Lane. What they do not understand is that if he remains at home, everyone must come to him—and they do.

Yet Mr. Hamburg did not appear to be disturbed by this piece of news concerning the snuff box. Indeed, if anything, he was in higher spirits than before.

“You think you are smart, Earl,” he said, stretching the tips of his muddy boots toward the hearth.

He did so out of habit, I suppose, since a fire was never lit in the drawing room so early in the day, no matter how cold it was outside. The Earl, as the leader of our little band, said he did not like to sit in a heated room while we, the troops, were out on the freezing streets earning our daily bread. The only reason why I was still in the drawing room, instead of being outside with my boys, was because that morning I had been engaged in business with one of our associates in the secondhand linen trade, which had kept me at home.

“Yes, you think you are smart,” Mr. Hamburg continued, “but can you do this? I have heard ... yes, I have heard ...” He glanced over his shoulder, as though a Lover’s Ear was listening in one of the room’s corners. Then, satisfied that we were alone, he hunched forward and said, in a hushed whisper, “What if I were to tell you there is a break-in planned. Can you tell me when, where, and who plans to do it?”

“Break-ins occur every day,” replied the Earl.

“Not like this one. This one is tip-top. If you had kept this snuff box in your possession, your share of the booty would have left you well equipt for the rest of your life. No more relying on the contents of a gentleman’s pocket to fill your stomach. No more dealing in watch fobs and secondhand linen and clothes. Set for life, you’d be, in a proper home. A proper home, I tell you.”

“I congratulate you on your luck.

“It weren’t luck. You’re not the only one who has brains. This time it is me, Hamburg, who has got the goods.”

Our visitor stood up to go. But like many people who stand up to go, it is only a pre-amble to their actual leaving, because they still have something to say about the matter. “I doubt I shall see either of you again,” he said, looking more happy than sad, even though we never did him any harm and were always generous with our gin. “Once I am situated in my new home, I do not think I shall have much cause to visit Gravel Lane.”

He nodded his head in our direction, by way of saying farewell, and then he departed. I closed the front door after him and locked it; a person can never be too careful in Gravel Lane. When I returned to the drawing room, I was surprised to see that the Earl was looking perturbed.

“That man is a fool,” snapped the Earl.

I thought the Earl was acting peevish because he had been bested by Mr. Hamburg. Usually, we have at least a whiff of anything foul afoot in the city. I therefore tried to console the Earl by saying, “There is no conversation in weather like this. No one lingers in the cold air to speak. Why, even the River Thames has stopped its murmuring and frozen over.”

“Apparently the cold has addled your brains as well, General, since you mistake my meaning.”

I might have been stung by the Earl’s remark, but I knew him too well to take offense. When he hurled an insult my way, it was because I had failed to grasp in a quarter-hour something that he had seen in an instant. That he thought so highly of my intellectual faculties and expected me to be as quick as he was actually a compliment. Such is the world; it is all upside down and things are almost never what they seem.

“Mark my words,” the Earl continued, still looking uncommonly stern. “If Mr. Hamburg escapes from this misadventure with his life, he should consider himself lucky.”

I did not bother to question the Earl or even try to look as if I now understood. The Earl had sunk into one of his moods, and when he does that he does not notice much about him. Instead, I got busy sorting some of the linen that had come our way. Contrary to what many members of the press and pulpit say, we child thieves are not lazy, shiftless creatures. We are remarkably quick about getting and getting rid of our stolen goods.

It was already dark when there was another knock on the door, this one with a frantic pounding sound. I opened it and Saulty and some of the other boys tumbled inside. They were all nearly frozen and the younger ones raced to the drawing room, where the coal fire had been lit. Saulty, whom I consider to be my lieutenant in the field, remained behind.

I do not like remaining in the frosty front hallway, not when there is a warm fire burning away somewhere inside, and so I said, rather sharply, “Well, what is it?”

“A Runner is coming to get the Earl,” he stammered, as much from fear as from the cold. Saulty is a hard worker, but he does tend to be overly dramatic. I do not exaggerate when I say he has seen more ghosts than Kemble’s Hamlet. (A Covent Garden theatre is a warm place to sneak into on a cold night.)

“Why should a Bow Street Runner be after the Earl?” I asked, assuming an air of indifference. I could think of at least five reasons why the Law might choose to pick a quarrel with the Earl on this particular night, but none of them were serious enough to warrant the sort of fees that a Runner would request from the aggrieved party.

“It’s because of Hamburg.”

Saulty’s lips were shaking, and a chill went through me, too.

“Well, what about Mr. Hamburg?”

“He’s dead.”

I closed my eyes. I think better when I do. This time, though, all I could see was that “Lover’s Eye” staring back at me, so I quickly opened them—both of them. “What does that have to do with us?” I said, hoping my shivers didn’t show.

“They say someone saw Hamburg come into this house.”

“So?”

“No one saw him come out.”

I gave an inward sigh of relief. Such reasoning was typical of your average Bow Street Runner. I pulled myself up to my full height and said, rather grandly, “If his body was found elsewhere, he had to have left this house. Mr. Hamburg’s demise, although unfortunate, has nothing to do with us.”

I turned to go back to the drawing room, once again confident that my first impression had been the right one: Saulty was just being his usual over-reacting self. If writing was not such a chore and I could spell without Simon’s help, I might have decided to write a pamphlet of my own, this one about the dangers of letting our impressionable youth spend too much time in the theatres.

Saulty, though, had not yet grasped that the little drama had reached its final scene. He grabbed my coat by the sleeve and turned me around. Although he is younger than me, he is taller and stronger and so he can do that—even though I have told him more than once that a real lieutenant, one in Wellington’s army, could get hanged for acting so disrespectfully towards his commanding officer.

“Well?” I said, once again drawing myself up as high as I could, although the top of my bicorne hat still only reached the bottom of his chin.

“Leave, yes,” he said, his eyes open wide like two unchipped saucers. “But not alive.”

This is the end of your free excerpt.

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ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Libi Astaire is an award-winning author who often writes about Jewish history. In addition to her Jewish Regency Mystery Series featuring Ezra Melamed, General Well’ngone and the Earl of Gravel Lane, she is the author of Terra Incognita, a novel about modern-day descendants of Spain’s crypto-Jews, The Banished Heart, a novel about Shakespeare’s writing of The Merchant of Venice, and several volumes of Chassidic tales. She lives in Jerusalem, Israel.

For updates about future books in her Jewish Regency Mystery Series, join her Mailing List or visit her website.

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TOO MANY COINS

THE MOON TAKER: Free Excerpt

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

THE MOON TAKER