The Return of Moriarty Read online

  He also saw that there were dogs about: two of them, big sloppy looking creatures, overfed and probably docile, but the cracksmen would have to be prepared.

  Once the necessary information was firmly stored in his head, Moriarty’s lieutenant carefully made his way back through the trees and over the meadow to the road, heading for a small knot of houses grouped together, at what he presumed was the furthest boundary of the estate. To his left were a farmhouse and outbuildings. Paget supposed this was also part of Sir Dudley Pinner’s property. Beeches Hall, Moriarty had told him, was the second-generation home of the Pinner family.

  The group of houses consisted of a dozen or so cottages, a public house—The Bird in the Hand—and a shop that bore the legend GENERAL STORES. Paget pushed open the shop door, a sprung bell jangling loudly at his entrance. An elderly man wearing wire spectacles, his trousers and shirt covered with a white apron, looked up from serving a pair of girls, cutting with a wire through the large crusted cheese that rested on his counter.

  The shop was small, but it bulged with provisions and goods of all kinds. Glass jars full of boiled sweets and lollipops nudged each other on the shelves, next to jams, custard powders and tinned goods; two hams hung from the ceiling; a large side of bacon offset the cheese at the other end of the counter. Paget saw that between them stood an oval plate of homemade toffee apples. The scents of the variegated foods mingled together, producing a delicious and mysterious aroma that pervaded every corner of the shop. Around the walls signs advertised Bovril, Eiffel Tower Lemonade, and the prices of tea (“of Sterling Value”), 1/4, 1/6, 1/8. Margarine was priced at four pence a pound, in big red letters beside the box, wherein nestled the greaseproofed drums of butter-colored fat.

  “And what can I do for you?”

  The man in the white apron rubbed his hands, the bell clanging once more as the girls went giggling out into the street, clutching their packet of cheese.

  Paget asked for a quarter of humbugs. It was a long time since he had sucked on a humbug and, though conscious of the seriousness of today’s mission, he still felt a sense of relief about the outing. His job was to make a serious appraisal of the proposed robbery but, as he had to do the job properly, Paget saw no reason why he should not indulge himself.

  “Nice day,” commented the shop man.

  “Nice little business you’ve got an’ all,” returned Paget.

  “I worked for it all me life,” the man grinned.

  “I tell you what”—Paget hunched himself confidentially over the counter—“do you know of any cottages for sale or to rent round here?”

  “Looking, are you?”

  Paget sighed. “Yeah. The wife is fed up with living down by the river. Damp and so bloody crowded.”

  “Well …” He scratched his head. “What’s your trade, mate?”

  Paget smiled. He had a very open and friendly smile.

  “You know. A bit of this and a bit of that.”

  “General.” The shopman grinned, nodding.

  “You might say that.”

  “If you can turn your hand to laboring, you might get something up the estate. Most of the cottages here have been in the same families for a long time, and they all belong to Sir Dudley.…”

  “Sir Dudley?”

  “Aye, Sir Dudley Pinner, baronet. The big house back there. Beeches Hall. This is all Sir Dudley’s land round about. But there’s work going—I heard one of the lads talking in The Bird last night. There could well be a cottage with it. Well-set-up man like you shouldn’t have no trouble. Why don’t you go down to The Bird and have a word with Mr. Mace—he’s the publican. Say Jack Moore sent you.” He placed the paper bag with the humbugs in it on the counter. “That’ll be a ha’penny, if you please.”

  Mace, the landlord of The Bird in the Hand, was a large, wide-shouldered fellow, bald-headed and of some forty-five summers. Paget propped himself against the bar and ordered a tankard of ale, and when Mace placed the foaming brew before him, Paget told him of his errand.

  “Yes, I had heard there was work—up at the house and at the home farm. George!” the landlord shouted to one of his other two customers, who had been drinking at a table set in the small bow window, “there’s a fellow here asking about cottages and work for Sir Dudley. George is up at the house,” he confided to Paget. “Assistant groom.”

  “Aah.” George, a sallow-faced, thin little man, nodded knowingly. “Sir Dudley’s takin’ on one new man for odd jobs. ‘T was goin’ to be two, but old Barney’s son’s goin’ laboring up at the farm and he’s to marrying Becky Collins.…”

  “Sly young devil,” the landlord laughed. “So ’twas him that swelled her.”

  George cackled, and the man sitting with him gave a snort.

  “They’re to have the cottage up at the farm, but there’s one goin’ after Easter for a married man for to chop the wood and do the outside work at the house.”

  “And help at harvest,” grunted George’s companion.

  “Aah.” George nodded again. “You’re not from these parts though, are you?”

  “Stepney.” Paget took a pull at his ale. “The missus wants to move out to the country. Who would I see about the job?”

  “Nobody as yet.” George looked at his empty tankard, and his companion tipped back the rest of his drink. They both looked at Paget, their eyes empty.

  “Will you take a guzzle with me?” Paget pushed his own tankard back toward Mace. “And you, landlord.”

  George and his friend came across the room like a pair of chickens at the sight of an axe.

  “You can see nobody as yet.” George examined the depths of his ale as though looking for fish. “Nobody, because the job ain’t goin’ till Easter. Anyways, Sir Dudley don’t do no hirin’ till after he’s been up north. Every year like clockwork, him and her ladyship. Up to that uncle of his. When he comes back, he’ll start hirin’ and grantin’ the cottage. You look strong enough though. What about your wife? She done kitchen work or anything that would help?”

  “She was in service once.”

  “Well, there you are. You could have the luck.”

  “When will Sir Dudley be back?”

  “Let’s see.” It appeared to take considerable mental effort on George’s part to recall dates. “Sometime after the twentieth, I think. Yes, I heard Mr. Beard talkin’ of it. They goes away on the fourteenth and they’re still away at the weekend. It’ll be the twenty-third or twenty-fourth they’ll be back.”

  “So if I return then?”

  “If you tell me your name, I’ll pass it on to old Reeves.”

  “Mr. Reeves manages the estate,” muttered Mace.

  Paget nodded. “Name of Jones. Philip and Fanny Jones. I’d be obliged if you’d do that, and I’ll return on the twenty-third. If Mr. Mace is agreeable, you could leave a message for me.”

  It was all playacting, but Paget was strongly pulled toward the idea of him and Fanny working out of London, living a life untainted by fear. However, his foot was already inside the door of Beeches Hall, or, if not the door, at least the stables and outhouses.

  He spent the next hour or so talking with George, Mace, and George’s friend Herbert, the ale freeing their tongues so that they spoke without restraint on matters concerning Sir Dudley and Lady Pinner, about life at Beeches Hall, of the staff and the day-to-day trivial matters.

  When Paget took his leave, his head was filled with facts of exceptional value. From the intelligence Paget could now furnish, the Professor would be able to make his own carefully calculated decision regarding an investment in Fisher, Clark and Gay’s proposed robbery.

  Paget did not hurry himself, and it was almost eight in the evening before he arrived back at Paddington. On his way to catch the train to Limehouse, he paused to purchase the latest edition of the Evening Standard, for a penny piece, from one of the urchin paperboys who was shouting, “Adair murderer dead in jail … Colonel Moran poisoned … Murderer murdered.…”

 
It was not until he was on the train to Limehouse that Paget read the report. It was lurid in parts but accurate:

  Colonel Sebastian Moran, who was arrested by Inspector Lestrade of Scotland Yard last night and committed for trial this morning for the murder of the Honourable Ronald Adair of 427 Park Lane and the attempted murder of the detective Mr. Sherlock Holmes, has been found dead in his cell at Horsemonger Lane Jail.

  The discovery was made this afternoon by one of the prison turnkeys. Moran was found on the floor of his cell, his body twisted and the face “horribly contorted,” as though he had died in great anguish. It appears that he had just eaten a portion of pie and drunk some wine which was brought to him early in the afternoon by an unidentified servant girl.

  Inspector Lestrade told our reporter that the matter is being treated as one of murder.

  The Adair case baffled detectives for some time, but it is understood that Inspector Lestrade discovered the truth yesterday evening when Moran was arrested in the act of trying to shoot Mr. Holmes from a house in Baker Street.

  The report went on to give further details of the Adair murder and to describe the various comings and goings at Horsemonger Lane.

  Paget smiled to himself. The Professor was certainly back with a vengeance, he thought. The man was not one to let the grass grow under his heels, and that was as well, for things had been getting out of hand for a long while.

  There were a number of people in the “waiting room” when Paget got back to the warehouse. Lee Chow and Terremant were sitting in one corner, glasses of spirits in front of them. At the other end, nearest the stairway to the Professor’s chambers, the other punishers were sprawled around, Spear and Ember with them, also two men, bound and gagged in upright chairs.

  Paget scowled, recognizing the men as Fray and Roach.

  “With the Peg?” He inquired of Spear.

  “Both of the bastards.”

  “No others?”

  “Not yet. But they’ll all go down like horse droppings before long.”

  Ember gave a chuckle.

  “Is he back yet?” Paget inclined his head toward the Professor’s quarters.

  “Any time now. He’s out shuffling things, and we’re waiting on him.”

  “Been busy enough anyway.” Paget tapped the headlines of the newspaper.

  He did not see the quick exchange of looks between Kate Wright and her husband, Bart, behind the serving counter. But something drew his eyes up toward the couple.

  “Is there some food left for me?” he asked Bart Wright. “I’m so hungry it’s dropping out of my nose.”

  “Thought you’d be well filled with country pie,” leered Ember.

  “A few gills of ale and bread and cheese’s all I’ve had, Ember. And a lot of Shanks’ pony.”

  “Fanny’s in the kitchen.” Mrs. Wright motioned toward the door behind the serving counter. “There’s plenty in there.”

  Spear gave a small laugh. “Plenty enough for our Pip in there, eh?”

  The others laughed and Pip Paget, usually good-natured when it came to being chaffed, felt a spring of annoyance rise inside him, but he knew better than to tangle with any other member of the “Praetorian Guard,” particularly in front of the punishers and prisoners. He nodded, making his way behind the serving counter and through the door that led to the kitchen.

  Fanny was sitting at the kitchen table drinking a mug of cocoa. She rose as soon as Paget entered, a blush flushing her cheeks.

  “Oh, Pip, you’re back. I’ve been so worried about you.”

  He held her in his arms and could feel her heart beating under his hand as she pressed close; like a frightened bird, he thought.

  “There was no call for you to be worried, Fan. No cause.”

  “There’s been dangerous things going on, Pip. I was afraid for you.”

  “No danger for me today, lass. None at all.”

  She looked up at him and he kissed her gently on the lips. She responded, wanting desperately to have him take her, to calm her fears and to act as a kind of reassurance.

  “I’ve had an exciting day, Pip,” she said at last. “I’ve met the Professor. Pip, he was so kind and nice to me, and I ran an errand fo him.” She dropped her voice in exaggerated breathless excitement, like a small girl.

  Paget smiled down at her. “Oh yes?”

  “I’ve been inside a prison, Pip. I took a basket of victuals to the colonel in Horsemonger Lane.”

  Paget felt his heart leap and stomach turn over at one and the same time: a sickening twist of horror.

  “To Horsemonger Lane, Fan. Christ.”

  He drew away from her, his face drained and body shaking.

  “Pip? What’s the matter? What’s wrong?”

  Paget paused for a moment, not knowing how to tell the girl. Yet she would learn soon enough if he did not speak now.

  “Sit down, Fanny,” he said, dry-mouthed.

  “But Pip,” she said, a half-smile fading on her lips, “you’re not angry, are you? You’re not cross with me?”

  “No, Fanny, but there are things you have to know.”

  She slowly seated herself, erect, hands folded in her lap, still looking up at the tall, hard-faced man, adoration in her eyes.

  Quietly he told her, explaining that the Professor demanded favors from all those who worked and acted for him. Sometimes those who were asked did not even understand what the favor meant or what repercussions it might have, but that the Professor always looked after his own people. He then, gently, told her about Colonel Moran.

  It took a few moments for the truth to sink in. Then … “Oh God, Pip, I’m a murderess. I killed him.”

  “No, Fan. You only delivered the basket, and if it had not been you, it would have been someone else. We who serve the Professor ask no questions. Remember that.”

  There were tears running down Fanny’s face.

  “Does it always have to be so, Pip? Always?”

  “Always is for long, Fanny. He made a home for me and I’ve served him well. I cannot give up now, and neither can you, Fanny. It is serious, and you’d be a dead woman within the week if you left—that or in the ’Steel.”

  She nodded quietly, her face gray with fear, and was about to speak when there was an increase in sound from the “waiting room,” a shuffling and louder murmurs.

  “He’s back, Fanny. Go to our chambers and I will be with you as quickly as I can. Oh, and take me some cold meats and bread, then I’ll tell you how it’s been today.”

  * * *

  Moriarty stood looking down at the bound Roach and Fray.

  “Scum,” he mouthed. “Evil, treacherous scum. “You’re only fit for a vegetable breakfast—an artichoke and caper sauce with the hangman.”

  Paget came through from the kitchen and joined them, Moriarty acknowledging his appearance with a curt nod.

  “What are we to do with them, Professor?” asked Spear.

  “Do with them? Put ’em on the everlasting staircase, that’s the way. But I am a merciful man.”

  He turned to face Roach and Fray, squarely. Their eyes were wide with fear, for, it must be recalled, they had believed Moriarty to be long dead.

  “A merciful man.” The Professor laughed. “I’m willing to let the pair of you live out the remainder of your natural lives, but only in return for information. You will tell the good Spear all that you know of the vermin Michael Green and his scabrous friend the Butler—details of their haunts, their associates, their plans. If you tell the truth, then I will see you are placed somewhere safe.” He turned to Spear. “And if they prove difficult, use Lee Chow. Our Chinese friend has ways of extracting truth which he claims will make the dumb talk.”

  Moriarty turned and began to mount the stairs. Halfway up he stopped, twisting his head down toward the assembled company.

  “Lee Chow, I’ll talk with you. Then Paget. After that Mrs. Wright can make things ready in my chamber. I am expecting company.”

  Moriarty was please
d with the way in which Lee Chow had handled John Tappit.

  “He no throw acid anymore.” The Chinese grinned.

  “You have done well, Lee Chow, and you will be rewarded. Go now and help Spear, and you may send Paget to me.”

  Paget recited the information gleaned at Harrow. Moriarty, still in the guise of his dead brother, sat listening attentively.

  When he had finished, the Professor said, “Then you think it is a safe crack?”

  “I think it looks good.”

  “Mmm.” Moriarty nodded. “Would you be prepared to go in with them? They are three, they want a fourth.”

  “I’d rather not, having already been seen there and talked to people who work at Beeches Hall. I think that would be dangerous.”

  “But…?”

  “But if you insisted, then I would go.”

  “We shall see. I’ll take it on and we shall see.” He raised his head and smiled thinly. “I have used your woman, Fanny Jones.”

  “I know, sir.”

  “Ah, and does she yet know what it is about?”

  “She knows Moran is dead and that she was an instrument.”

  “And?”

  “She was upset, but I have explained the necessities of such things.”

  “Good man, Paget. She’s a downy piece all right.”

  “I’ve done my balls on her, Professor.”

  Moriarty raised quizzical eyebrows.

  “I had no idea you were such a romantic. But these things happen. Is it to be marriage?”

  “I would like it so.”

  “And her?”

  “I have yet to ask.”

  “Well, ask, and if it is to be, then I will give the breakfast, Paget. She must understand, though, that you will both go on in my service.”

  “She understands.”

  “And the high position you hold with me?”

  “She knows that I respect you, sir; that you gave me my first real home.”