Moriarty

‘Well, from the tramway, I followed the boy a short way back down the hill and along Merton Lane. The sight of it caused me some alarm, I will admit, for was it not here that the body of your agent, Jonathan Pilgrim, was discovered? At any event, he continued to a house completely surrounded by a high wall on the edge of the Southampton Estate and it was here that, finally, I lost him. As he approached his destination, he hastened his step. You will have observed, Chase, that I do not enjoy the best of health, and I was still some distance away when I saw the boy disappear behind the wall. I hurried forward but by the time I had turned the corner, he had gone. I did not actually see him go into the house but there could still be no doubt of it. At the back was an empty field with a couple of shrubs. No sign of him there. A few more residences stood close by, but if he had been making for any of them, I would have surely seen him as he moved across. No. Bladeston House it had to be. There was a gate set in the wall in the back. That must have been where he entered. It was locked.

‘Bladeston House is not a particularly welcoming place and it is my opinion that the occupants had made it their business to keep it so. A wall surmounted with metal spikes surrounds it. Every window is barred. There was a Chubb patent lock in the garden door, which only the most accomplished burglar would be able to crack. Might the boy come out again? I retreated some distance and kept watch using a device which I have often found useful …’ He gestured at the walking stick and for the first time I saw that the cumbersome silver handle I had noticed earlier could unfold to become a pair of binoculars. ‘There was no sign of Perry, leading me to conclude that he could not have been delivering another message. He must surely live there.’

‘You did not go in?’

‘I very much wanted to.’ Jones smiled. ‘But it seemed to me that we should do so together. This is as much your investigation as mine.’

‘You are very considerate.’

‘However, I have not been idle,’ he continued. ‘I have made certain enquiries which I think may be of interest to you. Bladeston House is the property of George Bladeston, the publisher, who died last year. His family is unimpeachable. They rented the property out six months ago to an American businessman who goes by the name of Scott Lavelle.’

‘Scotchy Lavelle!’ I exclaimed.

‘The same. This is undoubtedly Devereux’s lieutenant, the man of whom you spoke.’

‘And Devereux himself?’

‘Lavelle can lead us to him. I see you have finished your breakfast. Shall we leave straight away? For I tell you, Chase, the game is very much afoot.’

I needed no further encouragement and together we followed the same trail that the child Perry had set down for us the day before, continuing through the heart of the capital, up into the suburbs, finally travelling on the cable tramway which pulled us effortlessly up the hill.

‘This is a remarkable device,’ I exclaimed.

‘It’s a shame I cannot show you more of the area. There are some fine views from the Heath, which is nearby. Highgate was once a village in its own right but I fear it has lost much of its charm.’

‘That happened the day Scotchy Lavelle arrived,’ I said. ‘When he and his friends have been dealt with, we will both enjoy the city more.’

We reached the house, which was just as Jones had described only grimmer, more determined to keep its distance from the world outside. It was not a handsome building, taller than it was wide and built out of dull grey bricks, more suited to the city than the countryside. Its architecture was Gothic with an elaborate archway constructed over the front door and pointed windows covered with tracery, gargoyles and all the rest of it. Jones had certainly been right about the security measures. Gates, spikes, bars, shutters … the last time I had seen a building like this, I had been looking at a prison. Any casual visitor, or indeed a thief in the night, would have found entrance impossible, but then knowing these people as I did I had expected nothing less.

We were not even able to approach the front door as there was an ornate metal gate set in the wall, separating the entrance from the street, and this too was locked. Jones rang a bell for attention.

‘Is there anyone in?’ I asked.

‘I see a movement behind the window,’ he replied. ‘We are being watched. Suspicious minds, they must have here. Ah! Their man approaches …’

A footman, dressed all in black, walked to us at such a mournful pace that he might have been about to announce that no visit was possible because the master of the house was dead. He reached the gate and spoke to us from the other side of the bars.

‘May I help you?’

‘We are here to see Mr Lavelle,’ Jones said.

‘I am afraid Mr Lavelle is not receiving visitors today,’ the footman returned.