Chapter 17: The Star of David

Lieutenant-Colonel Barber arrived at regimental HQ on the 30th November. I had moved back to Taunton in order to be on hand to welcome him, and once we had completed the formalities of handing over command I left for Bristol, and ultimately London.
The Duke of York was carrying out his plan of putting ‘men who had smelt powder’ in command of Militia regiments. Barber had been commissioned into the 10th Foot, and served with distinction in Egypt. I knew the Lincoln Imps would be in safe hands, which in some small measure allayed the sadness and regret when I took leave of men I had grown to admire and respect.
Casper Shufflebottom had tears in his eyes as we shook hands. He was to remain as Regimental Clerk, but would not put himself forward as a substitute when his current term of service expired. I had the notion he might seek employment in Bath. Spelky Woods was also confirmed in his post, but Colonel Barber’s son-in law, Lieutenant Kenneth Ball, replaced Otto Blackmore as Adjutant. Otto would act as Assistant Adjutant until such times his successor was fully conversant with the duty. Mr. Goodman was to return to the 1st Foot Guards early in the New Year.

From Bristol I took passage to London by barge, but not an express vessel. Now I was on half pay I would need to husband my resources, so travelled by the cheaper, but slower, standard barge. The journey took all of five days, and as the barge moved silently through the placid water of the Kennet and Avon canal I had plenty of time to contemplate my future.

The barge would moor up overnight, and I would sleep on board but have my supper, then breakfast, at the canal side tavern. Thankfully, we did not stop the night either at The Anchor at Burbage or at Hungerford, although we did stay long enough in Marlow for me to visit the Three Horseshoes tavern. I congratulated the proprietor and brewer on the fulsome flavour of his famous Old Peculiar, and bought a pin of the noble ale for consumption by the barge crew and myself during our onward journey to London.

Daft Danny Dobson; Magistrate John Bailey at Hungerford, Sigismund von Metzendorf, Silas Maddox, and Cornelius Braxton-Clark were all dead, although none of them by my hand. The demon inside me was content but not assuaged. That would only be encompassed by Eloise de La Zouche’s death.
The fact Metzendorf had been distributing wraps of Satan’s Breath in England indicated the cabal of rich, powerful, and degenerate men had acquired enough stock to enable it to be sold across Europe. The lack of evidence of production, and with no imports of the coca leaf having been discovered in Europe, suggested the powder was produced outside the continent and then shipped in – but through which port?
The coca leaf grows in the Spanish colonies of South America, and logic would indicate the powder being produced close to the growing area, and then shipped to Europe through a Spanish port. Most imports from South America entered Spain through Cadiz, and I expected Eloise de La Zouche, acting as the agent for the cabal, to be resident in the city.
Once in London I would place my hypothesis before John Stafford, and hope he would engage me to go to Cadiz to locate the evil woman.

Westminster Steps were wet and greasy from the fine spray whipped up by the fierce east wind blowing along the River Thames, and I made a careful way up them to Bridge Street. Force of habit took my feet along George Street, leading to Queen Street.
I stopped abruptly when I realised where I was headed. My bed for the night was to be at Rob Crawshay’s lodgings in Haymarket. I retraced my steps to Whitehall, and then walked towards Charing Cross, my route taking me past Scotland Yard and Horse Guards, although I refrained from visiting either as I was tired after my travels, and since it was past four of a Saturday afternoon no one would be at either venue.

Rob welcomed me warmly on my arrival at his lodgings.

“You look much better than when I saw you last. All your friends were concerned by your mental state, but I can see you are back to normal, or as normal as you ever were.” I joined him in laughing.
Rob had much news to impart. Colonel Slade had sent in his papers, and would be retiring from the army, and MI5, on the 1st of January 1822. Major Nettlefold was to take command of MI5 on Colonel Slade’s retirement. Gurney and Zinnia had decided to settle in Lincolnshire, and were buying a property near Stamford; the law firm of Mortimer, Teazle, and Grubbe were dealing with all the legal details.

“What about Bridey,” I asked Rob, “will she be accompanying them to their new home?”

Rob beamed with happiness. “No, she and I are to be married in the February of the New Year. I have resigned from MI6 to take up a position with my former troop officer, Rupert de Villiers, as a trainer of race horses in Newmarket.”
I congratulated him on his forthcoming marriage, but was concerned with the new career he had set himself.

“What do you know of race horses, Rob? I grant you know carriage horses well enough, and how to get the best from them, but thoroughbreds are a different kettle of fish – to mix metaphors.”

“Race horses are not unlike cavalry horses. Both require similar qualities to be successful, and Rupert de Villiers and I know how to get the best results from cavalry horses. Together with Bridey, who as an Irishwoman knows more about horses than most Englishmen, we will be able to pick out those horses which will respond best to our methods of training.”
I could see Rob had thought carefully before taking up a new career, but then I remembered he had been working on the design of a new style of hackney carriage.

“Will you and Stafford’s cousin, Hansom, continue co-operation on the design of your hackney carriage? Surely there is more scope of a rich livlihood in that enterprise rather than in training horses?”

“Yes, the introduction of a carriage, based on my initial design, will in time deliver a regular income. However Mister Hansom required an influx of capital to bring our design into production, and I could not raise enough. He took on a new business partner, willing to invest a large sum in the enterprise, and I agreed to sever my connections with the company. I will be rewarded for bringing my designs to Mister Hansom by receiving a tenth of all monies accrued from the sale of the new style carriage, which will be known as a ‘Hansom Cab’.”

“A tenth seems a small price for all your work in designing the carriage. Would you like my brother to look into the legal aspects, with a view of acquiring a larger percentage of the sales?”

“Hansom has made many changes to my initial design. In fact, he has improved the carriage tenfold, and has spent much time and money testing prototypes. I am satisfied with having a tenth of the sales, without chancing any of my own money.” He laughed. “Although a ‘Crawshay Carriage’ does hold more appeal to me than a ‘Hansom Cab’, but no matter.”

Rob would be vacating his lodgings in February of 1822, when he and Bridey move to Newmarket, and I would then either take over the rental of the rooms or find alternative accommodation. Although I was confident John Stafford would employ me in MI6 it might not be on a high retainer, and after paying out a year’s rent in advance for lodgings I might find myself strapped for cash.
The one diamond I had left from my share of Cleopatra’s Diamonds was probably the largest, but it was of an irregular shape and of a magenta hue. From what I knew of diamonds, not a lot I readily admit, it would take quite an amount of cutting and polishing to be marketable. The more work required on a stone the less the value, was the yardstick employed by jewellers. No matter, I determined to take the gem to Mordecai Rothstein for valuing as soon as possible, and in fact visited his premises in Hatton Street the next day.

The bell over the shop door tinged as I pushed open the door. Mordecai looked up from the gem he was polishing and smiled.

“Major Greenaway. How good to see you again.” He noted my new rank insignia. “I take it you have been promoted? My congratulations.”

“To Lieutenant-Colonel, Mister Rothstein, and thank you.” I took the diamond, wrapped in a piece of soft leather, from my pocket and laid it on the counter in front of him.
“What price could I expect for this?” I asked, unwrapping the leather from around this gem.
Rothstein’s face paled as he saw the diamond. He placed a jeweller’s loupe in his eye, muttered something, probably Yiddish, then looked at me with what could have been anger in his eyes.

“Where did you get this gem?” I sensed his animus by the sharpness of his voice.

“I acquired it with the others I sold you. Why do you ask, is the jewel on the stolen list?”

“Stolen? Oh yes indeed.” He stared up at me. “Over two thousand years ago this jewel was stolen.” He rewrapped the stone in the piece of leather and handed it back to me.
“My father must see this jewel.” He lifted up a section of the counter and went to the shop door and locked it “Please, come into a more comfortable room while I fetch my father from the synagogue – he is the Rabbi.”
I followed him behind the counter, and then through a door at the back of the shop into a room with a large table in the middle. Six straight-backed chairs were arranged around the table, and on the dark green velvet tablecloth sat a branched, nine stick, candleholder.
Rothstein paused by a door opposite the one we had entered.