A Study in Sherlock

Jackson hovered over him more closely. “Precisely. Rivers worked for you. And, although it was well hidden, that boss’s boss to whom you referred earlier was none other than Mr.

Pelachi.”

Diamond nodded. Jackson pressed harder. “And that was why you always issued Mr. Pelachi’s predictions. Rivers was merely a message boy.”

“Yes! I never denied knowing Rivers!” Diamond snapped defensively. “But the rabbi?”

Jackson betrayed a little irritation. “Have you forgotten your donation to the Reconciliation Project? Because the government hasn’t. Your name appears on the donor list on file.”

“You’re that Mr. Diamond?” exclaimed Freyda.

“All right! I knew them both! But I didn’t kill anyone!”

Jackson stared at him for so long, it became unbearable. “Perhaps. We shall see, shall we not?” Jackson turned to Freyda. “And you?”

“Me? Kill someone? I’m a vegetarian. A total vegan!”

“But you knew something was wrong. And you knew it involved …” he turned quickly to Zakaria “… our loyal custodian. A Lebanese?”

“Yes, yes, sir. But—”

“No. Not Lebanese. Egyptian. Coptic, I believe.”

Zakaria hung his head, held up his arm to reveal the small Maltese cross tattoo. “This gave me away, yes?”

“That and your accent. When we exchanged farewells, your Arabic was Egyptian. Significantly different from the Levantine dialect of Lebanon.”

Zakaria was crestfallen. “You are a very clever man. Clever enough to know it was not me who took lives, who has blood on his hands.”

“I don’t know if I am. But let us review what we know: a rabbi is murdered, his synagogue looted—but not by a regular felon. How do we know this? First, because the stolen silver has not appeared on the underworld market after nearly seventy-two hours.”

“Hmmph,” snorted Diamond. “Makes sense. The thieves could simply be waiting for it to blow over.”

“Thank you for revealing your ignorance of the ordinary criminal. Run-of-the-mill thieves are in chronic need of folding money. And they know the longer they cling to their booty, the likelier the authorities will find them. So, the rule is, get rid of it. Quickly. To a fence who can buy it for a steal—pun intended—and afford to hold on to it until the coast, as they say, is clear. And we,” he added, indicating Turner and Hamstein, “are assured the purloined items have not surfaced. Anywhere.”

He looked at them, each in turn, seeking a telltale quiver or blink the criminal might now show; but nothing. So he continued, “But this was a person with knowledge of his swag. He left the more modern, easily available Torah dressings but scooped up all the antiques, the survivors of the Holocaust, the ancient gems from tsarist Russia. Is he a collector? A dealer in stolen antiquities? Perhaps. But not a common, ignorant street thief who steals for quick money.” He paused. “From this, we can be sure he is a man who can, for now at least, live within his means.”

“That applies to everyone here, surely.” Pelachi was fidgety.

“But why kill the rabbi? An accident? Perhaps. But a man of means could wait until he was certain the synagogue was deserted.” Jackson stood still, his voice taking on gravitas. “A more likely explanation: the purpose of the criminal’s visit was the murder. The silver theft was simply a distraction.”

“But who would kill such a good man?” lamented Freyda.

“What if it was precisely because he was a good man? One whose passion was to create peace.” Then, more darkly, Jackson continued, “And perhaps that passion made him vulnerable.”

Turner could no longer contain himself. “To who?”

“Whom,” corrected the Sergeant-Major. “To someone who needed a command and control infrastructure. A very particular network. One that could move money in ways the authorities could never find. If you will, a transaction that casts no shadow.” His eyes fell on Pelachi. “Such a man would either be wealthy—” and then, turning to both Diamond and Zakaria equally “—or represent interests that were.” He paused. “But why would such a person murder the rabbi? I actually puzzled over that for some time. But the good Mr. Diamond pointed me in the right direction.”

“Me?” exclaimed the editor, nervously biting his lip. “What did I say? I’m nothing to do with this!”

“Then why so anxious, so—if I may—guilty?” The man had no answer. Jackson twitched a smile. “No worries. Yours was a passing remark. You speculated Rivers’s security came from having photographs of the grand and powerful. Which led me to wonder: what if, playing on the rabbi’s passion, our conspirator induced him to accept large donations, as anonymously as possible, to fund his vital and important work, on the understanding a significant portion would be returned secretly?”

“Money laundering!” Hamstein was beginning to enjoy it. Another quick cracking of a high-profile case. Good on the record.

“Precisely. The rabbi had a perfect end use—an organization in a very tricky part of the world, where records are sparse, and there’s a history of soaking up huge sums of money never to be seen again.”