The Return of Moriarty Read online

  The warehouse was almost cleared by the time Mrs. Wright came down to tell the Professor that his chambers were warm and ready.

  “I put out a pretty cambric nightgown for you.”

  She looked archly at Sal Hodges, who could not but smile in return.

  The Professor rose, gave Sal his arm, and escorted her through the “waiting room” and up the stairs.

  He knew something was wrong the moment they stepped inside the door: the smell, a sense made sharp through years of guarded actions. This second of knowledge gave the Professor a tiny advantage, allowing him to leap forward from the threshold, so that the two men—poised on either side of the door, knives held high and ready to strike the blows as he entered—were momentarily set off balance.

  By the time they recovered themselves, Moriarty had made an agile spring over his desk, his hand moving fast toward the drawer in which lay the Toledo steel dagger presented to him by the Spaniard, Segorbe. He would rather have gone for the Borchardt automatic pistol, but that was prudently locked away.

  Moriarty faced them, the dagger held low and straight in his right hand, legs apart and slightly bent at the knees—the classic position of the knife fighter.

  “You’re flushed at last then,” he hissed, with traces of excitement from the back of his throat.

  Behind the beards he could clearly recognize the countenances of Michael Green and Peter Butler, who were now moving, firm-footed, crabbing away from each other, in a pincerlike action that would bring them to either side of the desk.

  Moriarty backed away, to give himself more space and room for maneuver, conscious that the fireplace was behind him. He countered by moving to the left, in an effort to bring the door of his bedchamber in line with his left hand.

  They came on, clearing the desk: Butler in a crouch, Green smiling, tossing the knife from hand to hand, a ploy calculated to confuse the victim. Moriarty’s eyes moved from one to the other as he kept backing.

  Then there came a crash from the stairs.

  The moment’s hesitation and Moriarty’s bound forward as they entered the room had given Sal Hodges time to act. Her brain, slightly slowed by the champagne, did not react as quickly as it would have done in other circumstances, so a small edge of time was lost. It took a second or two for her to grasp the situation, turn on her heel and descend the stairs.

  She had almost reached the bottom when she saw Kate Wright standing in the middle of the “waiting room” floor, like a statue, still and listening.

  Sal shouted, “Kate. Kate. Quickly. The Professor. They’ll murder him.”

  But Mrs. Wright, instead of taking quick action, advanced softly toward the stairs, lifting her right hand, which held an empty candlestick.

  Sal was two steps from the bottom of the wooden stairs when the game became clear, but by this time Kate was gathering speed, her arm fully back to strike with the candlestick.

  “Shut your mouth, you whore, he’s only getting his due. Let them stick him proper,” mouthed Mrs. Wright.

  “Bitch snake,” screamed Sal, hoisting her skirts high and lashing forward with a silk-enveloped leg, the delicate toe of her boot meeting hard on the forward-moving Kate’s stomach.

  Kate let out a grunt as the kick went home, falling backward as Sal, now off balance, toppled, to come crashing and sprawling across her.

  Upstairs Moriarty’s hand found the doorknob, and with a quick twist he stepped backward. At that moment both Green and Butler sprang, but the Professor was too quick; he turned sideways and sprang away, leaving the two men almost jammed in the doorway.

  With a quick glance behind him, Moriarty took two backward strides into the room, bringing him close to the bed, which was turned down, the cambric nightdress—all frills and lace trimmings, just as Kate Wright had described—laid across one pillow. With a sweep of his left arm Moriarty had the nightdress in his grasp, turning as Peter Butler lunged forward, his knife connecting, not with Moriarty’s ribs, but with the soft material that had been destined to cover Sal Hodges’ nubile body.

  The knife was well entangled, and with a quick and hard pull, Moriarty had Butler off balance. The Toledo blade jabbed forward, a straight movement from the shoulder, the razored steel slicing into Butler’s stomach like a kingfisher through water.

  Butler had time for one scream, shrill and short, descending to a gurgle as he pitched back, Moriarty following through and throwing him from the blade.

  On the “waiting room” floor, Sal Hodges grappled with Kate, both women with their skirts in disarray, showing legs, garters, even Sal’s lace trimmings around the legs of her white drawers, as they grunted and puffed, rolling, pummeling and struggling for the one handy weapon, which was still grasped tightly in Kate Wright’s hand.

  In the bedroom Moriarty and Michael the Peg circled each other, Butler now silent on the floor.

  “Come along then, Peg, my bold lad,” Moriarty was smiling, flushed with the success over Butler.

  Green remained placid, crouching low, with knees bent ready to spring, trying to position himself so his back was not to the door, for the sounds from downstairs were becoming louder.

  Sal clung to Kate Wright’s hand below the wrist, to stop the woman from wresting clear and using the heavy candlestick as she intended. Sal’s other hand fought for her adversary’s throat, but Wright was having none of it, scrabbling and scratching at Sal’s hand with her own free paw. Then with a mighty effort Kate drew herself clear, throwing Sal Hodges back and rolling away. Sal knew she was all but done, as she twisted on the floor in a last attempt to meet Kate, who was up and bearing toward her, the candlestick once more raised. In a final gathering of agility, Sal grabbed for the woman’s boot. Her hands felt the leather around the ankle, and she heaved backward.

  Kate Wright let out a harsh cry, the candlestick fell, hitting the stone an inch or so from Sal’s head, as her attacker, legs pulled from under, went down with a heavy crash.

  Sal was on top of her in an instant, this time pressing home the advantage, her small bunched fists smashing into the housekeeper’s face.

  Green was thrown by the crash and cry from below; for a fraction of a second his concentration wavered and Moriarty, poised on the balls of his feet, leaped forward for the kill.

  But Green was still too quick for him, turning and thrusting back with his own knife so that Moriarty’s blade ripped harmlessly at his sleeve.

  The two men recovered their balance, facing one another again, panting heavily, their eyes shining like two animals at variance over a mate.

  Sal did not know if Mrs. Wright were conscious or not. She lay still though, for long enough to allow Moriarty’s madam time to take to her heels. She ran as if all hell were after her, through the connecting passageway, tripping and stumbling up the iron twisting stairway toward the door she thought belonged to Paget, shouting all the time, a strident cry for help.

  Paget was out of bed, away from his warm bride in a second. The commotion had about it too much urgency to linger, and it was in a confused state of nakedness that he opened the door to Sal Hodges, who breathlessly poured out a string of disjointed words. It took but a moment for Paget to reach for his trousers—and the old five-shot revolver.

  Green made another lunge, Moriarty countering, throwing himself backward across the bed so that Green’s blade switched wide of its mark.

  Rolling over the back-turned counterpane, the Professor recovered, his feet firmly on the floor at the far side, the bed between them. He was uncomfortable, the harness he used in his disguise now hampering him, and the pistol would from Green’s previous attempt, throbbed, pulled open by the exertion.

  Green’s eyes moved ceaselessly as he tried to decide which way to go. Moriarty stood his ground, and there was only an instant’s hesitation before Green made up his mind and came at a rush around the bed, forcing Moriarty to turn and face him. Both men’s hands moved as one, and in a second they were locked wrist to wrist. It was now not so much a question of sk
ill, but of strength and who could first break the other’s wrist grip.

  They strained for what seemed to Moriarty an age of time, his wind and strength ebbing with each new exertion. Twice he lashed out with his right foot in a vain attempt to hook around Green’s ankle, but the Peg was slowly forcing the issue, his grip unwavering around Moriarty’s wrist, while the Professor’s own grasp slowly slipped. He could feel his thumb being pushed back, and then with a hard downward pull of his arm Green’s knife hand was free, back, and descending in a final wicked arc of steel.

  The shot was like a cannon exploding in the room. Green’s face was transformed, the mouth sagging open, his arm falling limp, as though the muscles had been severed.

  The bullet took him high in the chest, an ugly fountain of blood bubbling out before his body hit the floor. There was the smell of powder, and Paget stood in the doorway, chest bare and his hair in disarray, his revolver still trickling smoke.

  Green lived for twenty minutes, no more; and he was lucky at that. The wound had him breathing out pain and raving, crying for help; but Moriarty, having cleared the room, ordered nobody to touch him but sat on the bed and watched until the wretched man expired.

  Paget brought up four of the punishers—fuddled and bleary from the party—to remove the bodies. Kate Wright was bound, and with Terremant as guard, locked in one of the secure rooms.

  Fanny, Ember and Lee Chow were up; Fanny tending the cuts and bruises sustained by Sal Hodges, who took the opportunity to consume a couple of glasses of the Professor’s best Hennessy’s brandy—the 1840. Once the bodies were taken away, Lee Chow and Ember set about the menial task of cleaning the bedroom, washing out the bloodstains, and remaking the bed.

  Moriarty, his disguise now removed, and his body clothed in a long silk robe, sat by the fire also sipping brandy. Paget, fully dressed, stood beside the desk.

  “I cannot credit Kate Wright,” said Moriarty’s most trusted man.

  The Professor stared broodingly into the coals.

  “What of her husband?”

  “We have him downstairs. He’s to pieces—cannot explain anything.”

  “And swearing eternal loyalty, I’ve no doubt.”

  Paget nodded.

  “We’d best have him up, and Paget—”

  “Professor?”

  “I have no way of thanking you. I was finished but for your pistol.”

  “That’s my duty. Any of the others would have done the same.”

  They brought Bartholomew Wright up, his face drained, undeniable fear showing in his eyes and at the corners of his mouth. He spoke like a man stricken by some unexpected family loss, as though he could not fully grasp the nature of what had occurred.

  Moriarty spent only a few minutes on him before irritably ordering them to take him away. When he had gone, the Professor called to Lee Chow, instructing him to take a bottle of the cheaper brandy and sit with Bart Wright, making sure that the man got the spirits inside him. Lee Chow did not waste either words or time.

  Then Terremant and Paget brought Mrs. Wright up the stairs, into the chamber. With the woman it was a different story, even though she was still shaken from her fight with Sal Hodges, the deep and livid bruises beginning to color about her face.

  “So, Kate.” The Professor looked at her with undisguised contempt.

  “So.”

  Paget could have sworn that she had almost laughed the word.

  “You sold me to Green and Butler then?”

  “And would do again.”

  “Young Slimper?”

  “Yes, young Slimper also. He would have told you quick enough that he carried messages for me between here and Nelson Street.”

  “Mmm!” Moriarty looked away, into the fire. “Why, Kate? Have I not always looked after you? Why?”

  She was silent, erect and head tilted. “For women’s reasons.”

  The Professor’s eyebrows arched. “Emotions? I thought you were beyond that, Kate.”

  “Aye, so does my husband, but I’ve had the horns on him for three years.”

  Moriarty’s brow wrinkled deeply, then as suddenly cleared as he saw the only possible truth. His face broke into a smile flecked with evil, lips opening to emit a laugh.

  “Moran,” he chuckled. “So Moran had you, did he?”

  “Yes, Sebastian treated me like his queen.…”

  “When he wasn’t off with his whores.”

  “He had his whores.” She was quiet, in complete control of herself. “But the colonel always came back to me. I think the three years you were away were the three happiest of my life.”

  “But Kate, you prepared the basket for Moran in Horsemonger Lane. You didn’t try to alter that.”

  She shrugged. “What would have been the point? Bart did it anyway, not me. It was quicker for Sebastian Moran that way; better than the wait for Ketch’s tree. After he went, it was up to me, and we damn near had you.” She wrenched free of Terremant, leaning forward to spit full in Moriarty’s face.

  “Get her out.” Moriarty did not watch as the big punisher dragged her, shouting abuse, from the room.

  Paget hovered, knowing what was to come.

  “I don’t care which one of you does it,” the Professor said with no sign of feeling. “Nor the method. I want her dead and disposed of tonight. Then send young Fanny to me; and I want to see Lee Chow as soon as Bart Wright’s full of brandy. We cannot take risks.”

  “You’re not—” Paget stopped himself.

  “I’m not what, Pip? Not going to let Bart Wright go the same way? How can I do otherwise? What respect or loyalty could I expect from him now? You get on with the woman. Leave the man to Lee Chow.”

  Much troubled, Paget left the room. He had seen enough of death that night and certainly had no stomach for killing women; but he was the Professor’s most trusted, and it would be difficult to delegate the duty to any other. All he could do was see it was a quick end for Kate Wright.

  Fanny faced Moriarty with unease blatant on her pretty face, for she was no fool and could guess at what was now going on.

  Moriarty’s face bore signs of strain, which Fanny, naturally, put down to the ordeal he had endured with Michael Green and Peter Butler. She was not to know the pressure was building up inside the Professor like a head of steam in a railway engine.

  The fight with Green and Butler, the unmasking of Wright, and the subsequent dispensing of rough and quick justice had all played a part; but within the Professor’s mind there still lurked the unease he had felt on seeing the two strangers in the church.

  Crow was a man of tenacity; he was also a man with a good mind and a sense of logic. Moriarty did not need crystal balls or any other artifice of fortune tellers to reveal truth to him. He knew, with that supreme sense of mental illumination which ran in his family, that Crow was on the hunt. His brain ran wild with ideas and feelings and shadowy pictures of Crow’s men watching, waiting, following—Crow at the center (rather like Moriarty at the center of his own world) organizing, outthinking, using his brain and intuition.

  “Mrs. Paget.” Moriarty addressed her wearily, and Fanny experienced a slight shock at hearing her new name for the first time.

  “Mrs. Paget, we have had some bother of which you are, no doubt, aware.”

  “Yes.” Her voice was small.

  “Our good friends and servants, Kate and Bart Wright, have had to leave us, quite suddenly it seems. I am, so to speak, incommoded—without a housekeeper.” His head swung from side to side in the familiar oscillating motion. “Without a housekeeper,” he repeated. “So the position is vacant; it is a demanding one, but can be rewarding. I’ve no need to tell you that.” He breathed a deep sigh. “What I am trying to say is, would you now consider taking over the situation?” He passed one hand across his brow.

  Fanny was confused; she had not even considered this aspect. She opened her mouth to speak, but before words came, Moriarty said:

  “I realize you will have to speak with
Paget about this matter. You cannot be expected to make a decision on your own. The position is one of responsibility, and if you take it, I will see that you are well recompensed. In any event I would be grateful if you would continue with Mrs. Wright’s duties at least for the time being.” He lapsed into a moment’s silence, appearing to be preoccupied, before he continued. “It may well be that we will have to change our style of living, by which I mean that we may soon be involved in moving house. If you take the post, I would have to rely heavily upon you during the change. Talk to Paget.”

  “Yes. Yes, Professor. I’ll talk to him; and I will carry on Kate’s—Mrs. Wright’s—duties for the time being.”

  Moriarty fluttered a limp hand in her direction: a dismissive signal.

  Fanny left, bewildered and uncertain. There were wheels within wheels and while the horror of the night could not be wholly blotted from her mind, she was strangely disturbed by the Professor’s talk of changing their abode.

  Moriarty was also disturbed. The warehouse had been an excellent headquarters. It was in the heart of his territory and had all the appurtenances necessary to his livelihood and that of his organization. He also liked his private quarters, particularly the refurbishing that had been carried out during the enforced exile. But the appearance of the two coppers during Paget’s wedding had caused the Professor to start thinking seriously of alternatives. He had long ago made provision for a time such as this—an estate in Berkshire, kept in excellent repair and condition, though the largest part of the place was shut off and the rest occupied only by a couple hired for that specific purpose. A number of men and women in Moriarty’s service had seen the place, for it was often used as a hideaway for those wanted by the police, or for special cases that needed holing up until they could be transported from the country. Perhaps, Moriarty reflected, the time was coming when he would need to move his entire entourage, a step that could prove disruptive, if only because a base in London had always been deemed necessary.

  Moriarty waited a further hour, until Paget returned, looking weak and ashen, with the news that all had been done. Lee Chow had also been given his instructions and would report in the morning. Moriarty had no cause to be concerned about that: The Chinese was without qualms regarding life, death, and loyalty. If Moriarty told him to slit his mother’s throat, it was certain he would do it without question or conscience.