The Return of Moriarty Read online

  “That you are my most trusted?”

  “I am not certain of that myself, Professor.”

  “And why not?” The head oscillated dangerously.

  “I was sent to Harrow today, and you expressly told me that you planned to meet Fanny tomorrow—that you were too busy today. I return to find that you have used her on a mission of great personal danger, of murder. Naturally I wonder if I am to be trusted.”

  “It was expedient, Paget, not planned. You are my most trusted. Now go and ask the wench to be your bride; it is not often the Moriarty family has a wedding.”

  When Paget was gone, the Professor changed, taking off the trappings of his disguise. He washed and donned a long dressing gown of dark blue silk, exotically patterned with military frogging on the cuffs and fastenings. By the time he walked back from the bedroom into his main chamber, Mrs. Wright had arranged a table with a cold collation—tongue and ham with various salads, plenty of celery and cheese and a bottle of Wachter’s Royal Charter champagne.

  Downstairs, as it neared eleven, the punishers, Lee Chow, Ember and Spear, removed Roach and Fray into one of the many side chambers that were cunningly built into the secret framework of the warehouse.

  In their chamber at the back of the building, Paget clasped Fanny Jones tightly to him in their small bed.

  “Then will you marry me, Fanny, my love? Will you be my bride?”

  She smiled, her eyes glistening.

  “It’s a bit late to be talking of brides, Pip Paget, but yes, I love you, rogue that you are. I’ll marry you, though I shouldn’t doubt we’ll both end up dangling from Jack Ketch’s apple tree one fine morning.”

  Mary McNiel arrived on the dot of eleven and was escorted up to the Professor’s chamber by Mrs. Wright. Moriarty smiled as he heard their footsteps on the stairs and looked at the gold pocket watch that had once been worn by the other Moriarty.

  Mary looked as beautiful as she had on the previous day, and when the door was closed behind her and the Professor had removed her cloak, she allowed him to run his fingers gently through her hair. Reaching up, she took out the pins and let the tresses tumble down, shaking them out as she did so.

  “You would like to sup, Mary, my dear?” he asked.

  She gave him a coy smile.

  “We can sup when you wish, sir. I want to sample the delights I have heard you can so readily supply for it is considered an honor among Sal’s girls to be called to service here.”

  Moriarty threw back his head, laughing loudly.

  “By God, Mary, you’re the girl for me. Come then and I’ll take Nebuchadnezzar out to grass with you.”

  Angus McCready Crow was forty-one years of age and had spent twenty-two of those years with the Metropolitan Police Force. In that time he had followed a varied and interesting career. In the late 1870’s he was a constable in B Division, which at that period covered the Westminster area. And, like so many of his colleagues, he had been shocked by the events (known now as the de Goncourt case*) that shattered the small detective force of the time, sending three of its number to prison and causing a somewhat drastic reorganization.

  By the 1880’s the large, craggy Scot had himself become a member of the detective force, working as a sergeant, close to the famous Inspector Abberline, who goes down most unfairly in history as the man who failed to catch Jack the Ripper.

  Crow was now an inspector, a very confused and concerned inspector in the early hours of Saturday, April 7, 1894. The world, together with weighty responsibilities, had fallen in on Inspector Crow.

  It began a little before nine on the evening of Friday the sixth, just as he was completing his evening meal of lamb chops, potatoes and green peas, in his lodgings at number 63 King Street, off Drury Lane. The meal had been prepared for Angus Crow by his landlady, Mrs. Sylvia Cowles, a widow in her early thirties—a lady of plump and pleasant aspect, who, for the three years that Mr. Crow had been lodging with her, had done all any woman could to see that he was looked after and kept happy and contented: her motives being those of any other woman in her position.

  Crow had a free evening that Friday, and, as often happened on his free evenings, he had asked Mrs. Cowles if she would partake of her meal with him. After that, they both knew the evening would be spent in polite conversation, the drinking of a little wine and then, by mutual consent, they would end the day together, either in Inspector Crow’s bed or on Mrs. Cowles’ large nuptial couch. On Friday, April 6, this was not to be.

  Just before nine o’clock there was a loud banging at the front door of 63 King Street, and, when Mrs. Cowles opened up, she found a large police constable, shifting from foot to foot, asking to see Inspector Crow urgently.

  The constable brought a summons from the commissioner, who wished to see Mr. Crow as quickly as possible in his office at Scotland Yard. Summonses from the commissioner were always matters of importance, and Crow made haste, arriving at the Yard by half-past nine. In the next twenty minutes he was invested with the responsibilities that now weighed so heavily on his broad shoulders.

  The commissioner first acquainted him with the facts surrounding the death of Colonel Moran in Horsemonger Lane Jail, and the events that had led up to the incident.

  “Our file on Moran,” he said, looking as grave as an undertaker, “indicates that he has for years been the chief of staff to Professor Moriarty. You know about Moriarty, of course?”

  “Only that he was long considered the mastermind behind every major crime in the country and, for that matter, Europe. Yet we have never had enough sound evidence to place him under arrest, sir.”

  The commissioner nodded.

  “Not a shred.” There was an irritated nag in his tone. “We have also considered him dead for the past three years.”

  “Aye, I ken that also.”

  “Now we are not so sure.”

  “Indeed?”

  “There are indications that he is back here in London at this very moment.”

  “I know Mr. Holmes is back.…”

  “That’s just it, Crow, that’s it in a box. Mr. Holmes has been considered dead these three years, also. Now he has been resurrected and we nail Moran trying to murder him. Then Moran dies before Lestrade can properly question him. But Lestrade has talked to Mr. Holmes and finds that good gentleman strangely uncommunicative.”

  “But Lestrade’s always worked well with Holmes.”

  “Not anymore, it seems. Something decidedly fishy, Crow. That’s why I’m taking Lestrade off the case and putting you in charge. You are to select four or five men, any you wish, and your brief will be to nail Moran’s murderer and discover if Moriarty is alive and back in the country. We have further intelligence though. He is reported to have been seen getting out of a hansom tonight, near the Café Royal. The report is uncorroborated, yet it is a strong whisper. The case is yours, Crow, and the glory also if you uncover the truth. I would suggest that you talk with Lestrade first. You must use tact, for he is, not surprisingly, somewhat out of sorts with me.” The commissioner smiled pleasantly. “I should imagine your next step will be to speak with Mr. Holmes, but you are experienced enough to follow your own line of inquiry.”

  Crow spent the next two hours with Lestrade, and the bulky files that would need to be fully assimilated before he took the next step.

  Lestrade was glum and reticent, telling Crow of his most recent conversation with Holmes. “It’s there in my report,” he said, “but I cannot put my true feelings into words. It was as though Holmes was holding back; as though there was something not quite right. If I did not know Holmes as well as I do, I would say that he has come to some arrangement with … I do not know. It is the first time that I have known Holmes avoid my eye.”

  “Your eye and your questions, then?”

  Lestrade had thought for a moment or two. “He has a knack of changing the subject and you do not realize that he has avoided the question until it is too late. When I asked him why Moran should want him dead, he r
eplied that many people would probably prefer him dead. There was a strange arrogance about that.”

  Crow seemed about to interrupt, then changed his mind and nodded as Lestrade resumed. “I put it to him that there might be wider issues involved. He said that wider issues were always involved in criminal action. I recall his words exactly. He said, ‘Every crime emits ripples, Lestrade. Some crimes can be likened to tossing a pebble into a pool: the ripples move outward in widening circles. With others the reverse is true, as if the crime itself becomes the focal point, where the ripples decrease, moving inward, sucked toward it.’”

  In the early hours Crow chose to walk back to King Street, and it was with very mixed feelings that he finally took to his lonely bed.

  Saturday, April 7, passed without any notable incident. In the Limehouse headquarters few people set eyes on the Professor. He was occupied with other matters—mainly the dark beauty of Mary McNiel.

  Spear, Ember and Lee Chow, took it in shifts throughout the day to question the unhappy Fray and Roach—Spear disappearing on three occasions to report directly to the Professor, and, at about four in the afternoon, leaving the warehouse to carry a message of a confidential nature into the West End.

  The Wrights were kept busy with their normal work, though today they were without the assistance of Fanny Jones, for Moriarty left special instructions that Paget and his lady were not to be disturbed.

  So the day passed in Limehouse.

  At Scotland Yard other events were taking place. Inspector Crow chose his small staff with considerable care, being at pains to select men with whom he had worked before and knew, with reasonable certainty, were as beyond corruption as any police officers could be.

  At midday Crow left the Yard, driving to Baker Street in an official hooded gig. He spent over an hour at 221B, leaving at last with the distinct impression that Mr. Sherlock Holmes knew more than he was prepared to tell.

  “As far as I am concerned, Inspector Crow,” the great detective had said to him, “my feud with Professor Moriarty ended a long time ago at the Reichenbach Falls. There is no more for anyone else’s ears.”

  Crow would have to rely on what little evidence was at hand from the events at Horsemonger Lane Jail, together with whatever else was on file about Moran, Moriarty and their known associates.

  He returned to 63 King Street that evening, taking a heavy bundle of files and documents with him. The lamp in Crow’s room burned long into the early hours of Sunday.

  * The truth about the famous de Goncourt scandal is revealed later.

  Sunday, April 8, 1894

  (TAKING STOCK)

  TO SAY THAT Jonas Fray and Walter Roach were terrified men would have been an understatement as rank as to suggest that a nervous scholar was indifferent to the birch.

  For over thirty-six hours the two men were pushed, pummeled and harried by turns. The tough Spear infused dread; Ember made oblique threats, and the small Chinese, Lee Chow, seemed to them to be the very epitome of pain as he described the tortures with which he could drag the pair through hell and back if need be. All the while the three Moriarty lieutenants were accompanied by at least two of the muscular punishers.

  In the back of their minds, both Roach and Fray held the unbelievable yet indisputable fact that they had seen and come face to face with the dead Moriarty.

  So they talked, loudly and long, telling of Michael Green’s and Peter Butler’s headquarters, the properties they owned, the people who worked for them, the rackets, burglaries and plans that were already arranged.

  The three members of Moriarty’s “Praetorian Guard” already knew, or a least had a rough idea of much of what the men had to tell—Parker and his lurkers having provided many details regarding the netherskens, sluiceries, and possible houses, both public and private, from which Michael the Peg was working. Yet Fray and Roach were able to put flesh on the skeleton. And when Mary McNiel had been reluctantly sent back to Sal Hodges, Moriarty sat for a full hour listening to the details as told him by Spear, Ember and Lee Chow.

  Even though he was acquainted with much of the information, Moriarty was disturbed to find how deeply his own concerns had been penetrated by Green and Butler. At least two fences—John Togger and Israel Krebitz, two of the best—had most certainly been providing their services for Green’s faction. When Moriarty had left England, they did business with nobody but his people. There were several other names formerly associated—though not in any major sense—with Moriarty that now appeared to have been used on many occasions by the rivals. There was also little doubt that certain night houses and hostelries, which had paid regular dues to Moriarty, were now giving weekly coinage to Green and Butler’s men.

  Another worry was the list of names, extracted by Spear, of the girls who were plying their trade within the one good West End house maintained by Green and Butler. Five names on that list disturbed Moriarty, for they were the names of five girls who he knew had previously been in Sal Hodges’ best house.

  It disturbed greatly because none of the girls would yet be much over the age of twenty-five, and even if, for one reason or another, they had become past working for Sal, Moriarty had an arrangement with the whore-mother that all the girls in her best house should be looked after once they stopped playing the national indoor game. Any woman who had worked in Sal Hodges’ house was privy to information Moriarty could never afford to have passed into other hands.

  After hearing all there was to tell, Moriarty sat still, except for his ever-moving head, his brow creased and his visage reflecting the concentration he brought to bear on the many problems. At last he spoke.

  “Spear, get a message to Sal. I wish to see her here as soon as she can conveniently manage it. Then get Paget. I wish to talk to all of you.”

  Spear returned with Paget some five minutes later.

  “Have you news for us, then?” Moriarty asked of Paget, who came as near to blushing as a man of his background could.

  “Yes, Professor. I’ve asked her and she has answered yes. We are to be married.”

  There was a general stir, with Moriarty strangely beaming like a proud father.

  “Later,” he said, “we will arrange the day. But first there is the question of the slime that Green and Butler have spread.”

  For Paget’s sake, he went over the information once more.

  “I have to talk with Sal,” he continued, “and then spend some time in contemplation. When we hit the Peg and the Butler, we must hit hard and right. They have to learn the lesson properly—and so has the rest of London.”

  The four members of the “Praetorian Guard” nodded agreement.

  “Now to other matters.” The smile had faded from the Professor’s lips. “It appears that I was too euphoric on my return. Moran has left matters in tumult, so it is necessary that we consolidate. Today I shall require the four of you to go out and discover our true situation in the city. Take stock of our forces; be careful not to arouse suspicion.” He paused, the head oscillating as though seeking out a target. It stopped, looking in the direction of the Chinese. “Lee Chow, do you know how we are placed regarding the present opium and laudanum supplies?”

  “Not exacly. But I go makee good and sure.”

  Lee Chow had run that side of Moriarty’s enterprises for many years, but the recent revelations had made even him nervous.

  “Ember.” The Professor fixed his eyes on the small man. “I want you to contact all our dips and whizzers, our palmers and magsmen.”

  Ember nodded.

  “Paget, you will keep your woman inside the house until further notice. We don’t want her face on the streets until the Moran business has blown over. Your special concern today will be the fences, cash carriers and collectors. Spear”—the head whipped round—“you will see to what coiners we still have working, and to the moneylenders.”

  Moneylending was one of Moriarty’s most lucrative lines, for whether it was a sixpence to some poverty-stricken couple or several hundre
d pounds to those with prospects, the rate was usurious and the manner of collecting barbarous.

  There were nods of understanding.

  “Before we go, I think it best if you see Fray and Roach again,” Spear murmured. “I would also be obliged if I could have words with you in private concerning another small matter you asked me to settle.”

  The Professor seemed to be lost in thought for a second, then he quickly nodded.

  “Good. On your ways then. Paget, warn your woman, do not forget that; and you remain with me for a moment, Spear.”

  “I wish to take care of our friend, Halling, Lady Bray’s butler,” Spear said, once the others had left. “You’ve already instructed me on it and I’d like to get going today when I’ve completed the other work.”

  “If you have the time, all well. If not, then it will keep. It can be your wedding gift to Pip Paget and his lady.”

  Spear laughed gruffly, the serrated scar a white river plunging down the leathery terrain of his cheek. “Do the punishers remain close?”

  “I do not want them loose until I have decided how best they should be deployed. In any case, we need them to look after the two turncoats.” He chuckled. “There’ll be plenty for them to do once we start cleaning out the Peg’s midden.”

  Fray and Roach were still bound, but their gags had been removed. Two of the punishers shared the small room that had been allotted to them, and there was no denying the terror that lurked in the eyes of the prisoners.

  Moriarty and Spear stood before them, Moriarty smiling, the twist of his lips betraying contempt.

  “You have not been roughly treated, I trust?”

  Fray appeared to have difficulty in swallowing.

  “No,” he croaked, surly.

  “Good,” Moriarty nodded. “And they have been given food?” he queried of Spear.

  “They’ve both been fed.”

  “Then you should have no complaints. I am pleased with what you have told my people. You need not fear. You will live and be kept safe—very safe—from the influence of Mr. Green and Mr. Butler.”