The Return of Moriarty Read online

  Spear was in even greater luck when, at five past the hour of noon, the door to the private bar opened to disclose a funereal-looking, tall, thin man who was indubitably in the higher echelons of service. The landlord introduced them, and Spear, speaking in low, almost hallowed tones, asked Mr. Halling if he could have a confidential word with him. He also bought the glasses of spirits.

  Halling was obviously uncertain; there had been reporters from the newspapers around of late, and he did not wish to get involved.

  “There’s no question of you being involved, Mr. Halling.” Spear’s tone bordered on reverence. “We don’t wish to involve anybody, but there are some side issues arising from that nasty business at four twenty-seven Park Lane.”

  Halling scowled, looking down his nose as though some unsavory smell had assailed his nostrils.

  “Regrettable,” he said rather in the manner of one commenting on the loss of a florin than on the loss of a life. “A most regrettable and unwholesome business. I would rather make no comment.”

  Spear sighed. He was good at impersonating the frustrated noises of authority.

  “If you don’t wish to talk about it, Mr. Halling, it is your affair. I simply thought it might save Sir Richard or Lady Bray the discomfort of police interrogation on a matter which I am certain is of little consequence to them. You would be called in whatever, for I’m certain that Lady Bray would need your specialized knowledge and memory to provide the facts. The matter is too trivial for her to even recall, and I’m sure very little misses your eagle eye, Mr. Halling.” The damaged corner of his mouth curled in a series of small twitches.

  For a second Spear wondered if he had gone too far with this last speech, but his fears were allayed the moment he caught the look in the butler’s eye: It was a gleam of respect, as though Halling were mentally congratulating Spear for being so astute in recognizing the virtues that were so obviously his.

  “Perhaps you would like to give me some idea.” Halling actually smiled. “Some clue” he said heavily accenting the latter word, “to the circumstances.”

  “Simple.” Spear took a sip of the spirits. “It concerns a young girl who worked in the Bray household at one time. Name of Jones, a housemaid or the like, came into service with Lady Bray from the country. Warwickshire, I believe. She was dismissed about a year ago. Fanny Jones.”

  Halling nodded, pompous and solemn. He was like a jumped-up Parish Clerk, Spear thought.

  “I remember the girl.” Halling’s voice was totally filled with the accents of middle-class snobbery, stressing the word girl as though he were speaking of some useless piece of rubbish.

  Spear held himself in check. He knew Fanny Jones and liked her; after all, Paget was an old mate and she was his girl, lively, bright, always laughing, a looker too, with long legs. (He knew because he had once walked into Paget’s quarters and caught her undressed, by accident, and the sight of those legs had haunted him for weeks after.) But Spear was Moriarty’s man first, and if the Professor had cause to look into Fanny’s background, then he must remain unbiased.

  “Would you tell me about her then, Mr. Halling?”

  “In trouble again, is she?”

  Again? Spear wondered at that.

  “I’m afraid that’s a police matter. I’m not at liberty to discuss it with anybody.” He creased his brow, then turned to face the man as though coming to a decision. “But seeing it’s you, I can say we think she’s got herself mixed up with some rather fast company.”

  “Whores?”

  Halling’s head flicked toward Spear, the eyes betraying interest, while his voice suggested contempt.

  Halling, my friend, thought Spear, if Fanny is a good ’un and you had any part in seeing her out into the street, I will make it my business to see that you are undone. The butler’s look told him more in a second than he would learn in a dozen years of talk. Spear knew a regular whore’s mark when he saw one, and he would put money on the somber Mr. Halling being a constant visitor to the Haymarket or Leicester Square area—he doubted the butler would venture into Soho—but one thing was certain, he would have special fancies.

  “Something of the kind,” Spear nodded.

  “Do you know where?”

  The direct question. Perhaps Mr. Halling’s particular fancy was Fanny Jones herself.

  “I can say no more, Mr. Halling, but we need to know something of her true background, her time in service with Sir Richard and Lady Bray. If you are interested in the young woman’s salvation, I may well be able to give you information once I have spoken to my superiors.”

  Halling nodded knowingly, the pomposity born from generations of servility.

  “A wicked and wayward girl, I fear, sir. Those are the only words I can use to describe her: wicked and wayward.”

  “Go on.”

  “She came to Lady Bray with the best of references, straight from some small place near to Warwick—Kenilworth, I think it was. We were fully staffed, but Lady Bray took the girl out of the goodness of her heart—some friend of Sir Richard’s was involved, I believe. But there you are, sir, it’s the old story: be good to people and they repay you ill.”

  “Indeed.” Spear bobbed his head in agreement.

  “It was one of the young footmen. I brought it to Sir Richard’s attention and, characteristically, he was most lenient—had a word with the fellow—and I thought that was that. You cannot have young housemaids playing the game with footmen. Not in a household like the Brays.”

  Spear tutted, “Of course you cannot.”

  “Unhappily it was not the end.”

  “No?”

  “I discovered, quite by accident, mark you, that Jones was in the habit of absenting herself for an hour or so in the evening—with no permission—in order to be with another young man.”

  “Not of the household?”

  “Some young loiterer. A discharged army man, I understand. It is of no importance anyway. The girl was quite unashamed. I caught her one night, creeping back, having absented herself for some two hours. I went straight to Lady Bray and informed her. She told me to deal with the matter and dismiss her. I had the girl out within the hour.”

  “Out on the street? Just like that?”

  “What else does one do? She would have become an evil influence on the other girls.”

  Spear wanted to lash out at the smug and satisfied man; he wanted to see the smooth cheek laid open, the eye cut and the teeth jolted out of place. There was little doubt in his mind as to what had really happened in the comfort of the Park Lane house. But Spear had always been a man of discipline.

  “I don’t think we shall have to trouble you again. Not for some time anyway, Mr. Halling. Thank you for talking to me, it has been most pleasant. I’ll wish you good day, sir.”

  When Spear got back to the warehouse, Ember had returned, also Lee Chow, who was upstairs with Moriarty.

  Ember sat in the corner, away from the nine big men, all of whom Spear knew at least by sight. They certainly knew him and showed a healthy respect in their greetings.

  “They going to be used?” Spear asked, dropping his heavy body onto the wooden form next to Ember.

  “Tonight.” Ember glanced up from the tankard of ale. “That bastard, the Peg, has a right crowd around him, hard men, some of them known to you.…”

  “Who?” Spear asked without emotion.

  “Jonas Fray, Walter Roach—”

  “Bastards. They was always the Professor’s men.” Spear’s jagged scar twisted, transforming his face into a villainous mask.

  “Well, they’re the Peg’s now. That’s the bloody colonel for you. Wasn’t doing the job, was he?”

  Both Jonas Fray and Walter Roach had been men close to the “Praetorian Guard” in the old days; strong, cunning, intelligent men whom the Professor would almost certainly have promoted to positions of importance within the organization. Indeed, they had both been used, in the past, in operations that had required considerable responsibility.
For them to desert Moriarty and side with someone like the Peg was, to Spear and the others, an act of gross treachery.

  Spear spat on the floor, the act as violent as if he had hurled a brick through the window.

  “There are others.” Ember’s small eyes glittered with hatred. “The Professor will doubtless tell you all—and what we are to do with them.”

  “Nothing can be too bad for them, and now cannot be too soon.”

  Upstairs, Lee Chow was reciting his evidence to the Professor, who, as usual, sat with steepled fingers, behind his desk.

  There was little doubt that Tappit was the man who had burned young Ann Dobey’s face with vitriol. The case was clear cut, the evidence more than enough. If the police had been involved, Tappit would already be in jail, but that was not the usual way with those who regarded themselves as part of Professor Moriarty’s family. The police acted as a road to the law, and while the law was, as often as not, unmerciful, there were many cases that, for reasons known only to those who dealt justice, did escape the full weight of punishment. By the same token there were relatively innocent people—men, women and children—who suffered horrors far outweighing their small crimes. It was not unnatural, then, that those who lived in the ugly shadows of the time had a healthy mistrust of both the police and the law. It was better for them to dispense their own justice.

  Ann Mary Dobey was a pleasant, pretty girl, who, as Moriarty would have been the first to admit, could have made a considerable living had she chosen to put herself in the hands of a woman like Sal Hodges. But Ann was a rarity, a girl who worked hard and arranged her own personal life, a situation made possible only by the fact that her father worked exclusively for the Professor.

  As a barmaid at the Star and Garter, Ann Mary mixed freely with the cross section of humanity who patronized the house. Her wages were poor, but in the circumstances she could at least choose her men, something she did with such skill that she was never branded as a whore. Indeed, the men who were the recipients of her favors usually regarded themselves as victors even though they parted with hard cash. Ann Mary knew how to make men feel that her body was a reward, the natural result of their own charm and personality, that her gift—which was not a gift—was given out of mutual desire, having nothing to do with the more sordid business that took place with those women who plied the streets for trade or lived in the commercial hives of the night houses and brothels.

  John Tappit had apparently long been an admirer of Ann Dobey—an admirer she did not encourage. Lee Chow had done his work in a thorough and speedy fashion. There were plenty of men and women who would swear to the way in which Tappit had constantly pestered the girl, who held him well at arm’s length with a pleasant good humor not shared, it seemed, by Tappit. There were full descriptions of three ugly scenes in the public bar of the Star and Garter, the last of these having resulted in the landlord’s forbidding Tappit entry to his house.

  “Ann Maly nice girl,” Lee Chow told Moriarty. “When landlord say he no come back in bar, Ann Maly take pity on Tappit and say she meet him that night a’ eleven o’clock, but not able to because of many customers in bar. Tappit velly angy. Fight into bar and scream a’ her: say ‘I get you, you stuck-up bitch. I finish you game.’ Have plenty witness of that. Then, next night, Ann Maly leaving Star an’ Garter when Tappit run across road and shout a’ her, then throw acid in face. Have names of three men—all good men—who see it happen. They know I come from you an’ all say they try to catch him but he run ver’ fast. They say you run fast an’ catch him.”

  Moriarty did not have to question Lee Chow. The Chinese was impeccable in matters of this nature.

  “Do you know where Tappit is living?” he asked.

  “I find out plenty chop-chop.”

  Moriarty nodded.

  “Find him then. After that …”

  He gave Lee Chow his orders in a quiet, calm and inflexible voice, sent him downstairs to get on with things and asked him to tell Spear to come up if he had returned.

  Fanny Jones was twenty years of age, tall, slender and neat in appearance with an oval face framed by dark hair; she had large brown eyes, slightly flared nostrils and a mouth that suggested, even to the well-worn senses of a man like Moriarty, a paradoxical mixture of kisses as cool and sweet as cucumbers and sensuous as a honey pot.

  Fanny knew that her face showed the nerves that fluttered within her. She had been more than lucky and was most aware of it, especially in the months since she had met Pip Paget. Had she not been on the verge of going on the streets when he had found her? There were plenty of other servant girls, dismissed for one reason or another, who had ended up on the streets, in the houses, or even worse, in the prisons of London.

  For the last three days, since she had known that the Professor—an awesome figure to her—was back in his rightful place, Fanny Jones had been nervous about meeting him, but even that thought had been quietened by the knowledge that Pip Paget would be with her when the moment came. But Pip was away for the day, and she had been thrown into a turmoil of confusion when Bert Spear came down into the kitchen, as she helped Kate roll out the pastry for fresh pies, and told her that the Professor insisted on seeing her now.

  She looked frightened, Moriarty thought, as well she might, poor child. Spear had given him the facts, briefly and clearly.

  “You know where to find this Halling if we need him again?” he asked.

  “I’ll know where to find him, Professor, and if it is as I think, then I’d like your permission to deal with the bastard myself.”

  “With pleasure. If Halling was the main cause, I do not think we should involve Paget, so you can teach Halling the lesson he deserves. But, we shall see. Get the girl up here.”

  So it was that Fanny Jones was shown into the Professor’s private chambers.

  Moriarty smiled at her, holding her eyes in his, an effort to make her at ease.

  “I’ve heard a lot about you, Fanny. Come over here and sit down,” he said, indicating the chair. “There’s nothing to fear.”

  His eyes slid quickly up to Spear, the message inherent in his look telling Spear to leave them alone.

  When Spear had closed the door behind him, Moriarty leaned back.

  “Please be at your ease, my dear. I only discovered last night that you were living under my roof. Paget has been in my employ for a long time and I wish you to know that anyone close to him is close to me also. Everyone who lives under my roof has my protection, and, as Paget has probably already told you, those who have my protection have to give certain allegiance to me.”

  The words were old to Moriarty, the pattern unchanged with the passing of the years; he had used them when still a child at school and among the Liverpool streets of his youth.

  I pay you. You have allegiance to me.

  You promised. You have an allegiance to me.

  I saw you. So did my friends. You have a certain allegiance to me now.

  You want the master to know about it? No, I think not. So you have allegiance to me.

  “You understand what that means, Fanny?” he asked.

  “Yes, Professor.”

  She understood because Pip had already told her.

  “Good. We shall get along famously, Fanny, and today you can help me. But first, I have not had time to ask Paget about you. Will you answer some questions for me? Answer them truthfully?”

  “I will always answer you truthfully, Professor.”

  There was a strange sinking sensation in her stomach.

  “You are a truthful girl, Fanny?”

  “I think so. Yes. Certainly with people I respect.”

  “Good. Before Paget found you and brought you here you worked for Sir Richard and Lady Bray, is that correct?”

  “Yes, sir, as a housemaid.”

  “Then you know a Mr. Halling?”

  He watched the color drain even further from her cheeks, forming a chalky patina, while her hands began to move, a ceaseless twisting of the fing
ers.

  “Mr. Halling is butler to the Brays, is he not?”

  She nodded quickly, little jerks of the head.

  “Yes,” she said in a tiny voice.

  “You fear him, Fanny?”

  Again the nodding.

  “Was he, perhaps, responsible for your dismissal?”

  Her eyes avoided his face.

  “There is nothing for you to fear, Fanny, I have already told you that. If there is something you have not even told Paget, it will be safe with me. Was Mr. Halling responsible for your dismissal?”

  She sat, still and stubborn. Moriarty could easily have counted up to twenty before she made any move. When she did, it was like a great gathering of strength, as though she were reaching out and drawing in invisible brigades of courage.

  “Yes,” she said at last, her voice trembling only slightly. “Mr. Halling was completely responsible. He tried to …”

  Moriarty’s head, which had been slowly oscillating, became still.

  “Seduce you?”

  “Almost from the moment I entered the Bray household. He was always trying to paw at me. I found him repellent, but I was afraid. He threatened …”

  “Then he did have his way?”

  “Once.” Her eyes were cast down. “Only once.”

  Her face had its color again, a deep scarlet.

  “He was … it …”

  “I understand.”

  “But he kept on trying. All the time. First there were little favors. Presents. Then threats. I could not be with him again, Professor, not again.”

  “And the threats?”

  “That if I did not …”

  “He would see you out in the street.”

  “Yes.”

  “Which is exactly where you ended up.”

  The nod again, this time slow, bitter, her eyes showing the need for vengeance.

  “You must not hate him too much,” purred Moriarty. “If it was not for him, you would not have found Paget. But you can be certain Mr. Halling will get his gruel.”

  She frowned, uncertain.

  “Common parlance for his punishment.”

  “Oh, yes. To he who waits comes nemesis.”