Moriarty

‘I am Inspector Jones of Scotland Yard,’ Jones replied. ‘He will most certainly receive me. And if you don’t open this gate in five seconds, Clayton, you’ll be back in Newgate where you belong.’

The servant looked up, startled, and examined my companion more closely. ‘Mr Jones!’ he exclaimed in quite a different voice. ‘Lord, sir, I didn’t recognise you.’

‘Well, I never forget a face, Clayton, and it gives me no pleasure to see yours.’ As the footman fumbled in his pocket for the keys and opened the gate, Jones turned to me and said, in a low voice, ‘Six months for dog-sneaking the last time we met. It seems Mr Lavelle is none too fussy about the company he keeps.’

Clayton opened the gate and led us into the house, struggling to regain his composure with every step. ‘What can you tell us of your new master?’ Jones demanded.

‘I can tell you nothing, sir. He is an American gentleman. He is very private.’

‘I’m sure. How long have you worked for him?’

‘Since January.’

‘I guess he didn’t ask for a reference,’ I muttered.

‘I will tell Mr Lavelle you are here,’ Clayton said.

He left us alone in a vast, shadowy entrance hall whose walls, rising high above us, were covered with wooden panelling of the gloomiest sort. A massive staircase, uncarpeted, led up to the second floor which took the form of a galleried walkway open on every side so that we could be observed from any one of a number of upper doorways without knowing it. Even the pictures on the walls were dark and miserable — winter scenes of frozen lakes and trees bereft of leaves. Two wooden chairs had been set on either side of a fireplace but it was hard to imagine anyone wishing to sit in them, even for a moment, in this gloomy place.

Clayton returned. ‘Mr Lavelle will see you in his study.’

We were shown into a room filled with books that had never been read — they had a musty, unloved look about them. As we entered, a man glared at us from behind a monstrous Jacobean desk and for a moment, I thought he was about to attack us. His appearance was that of a prizefighter even if he did not dress the part. He was completely bald with an upturned nose and very small eyes that were set deep in his face. He was wearing a boldly patterned suit that fitted him tightly and he wore a ring on almost every finger of both his hands, the gaudy stones fighting with each other. One might have been acceptable but the overall effect was tawdry and strangely unpleasant. The folds of his neck had bunched up as they sought a way to enter his collar and I knew him at once. Scotchy Lavelle. It seemed strange to be meeting him for the first time in the surroundings of a suburban house, thousands of miles from New York.

There were two seats opposite the desk and although he had given us no invitation, we took them. It signalled at least our determination to stay.

‘Now what is all this?’ he demanded. ‘Inspector Jones of Scotland Yard? What are you doing here? What do you want? I’ve got nothing to say to you.’ He noticed me. ‘And who’s he with you?’

‘My name is Frederick Chase,’ I replied. ‘I’m with the Pinkerton Agency in New York.’

‘Pinkerton’s! A ragbag of bums and back-stabbers. How far do I have to go to be away from them?’ He was using the coarse language of the lower Manhattan streets. ‘There’s no Pinkerton’s over here and I won’t speak to you, not in my own crib, thank you very much.’ He turned to Jones. ‘Scotland Yard, you say! I have no business with you either. I’ve done nothing wrong.’

‘We are looking for an associate of yours,’ Jones explained. ‘A man called Clarence Devereux.’

‘I don’t know the name. I never heard it. He’s no associate. He’s nothing to me.’ Lavelle’s small, pugnacious eyes dared us to challenge him.

‘You did not travel with him to England?’

‘Didn’t you just hear me? How could I travel with someone I never met?’

‘Your accent tells me that you are American,’ Jones tried. ‘Can you tell me what brings you to England?’

‘Can I tell you? Maybe I can — but I don’t know why the blazes I should.’ He jabbed a single finger towards us. ‘All right, all right. I’m a company promoter. Nothing wrong with that! I raise capital. I offer opportunities for investment. You want shares in soap, candles, bootlaces or what have you, I’m your man. Maybe I can interest you in an investment, Mr Jones? Or you, Mr Pinkerton? A nice little gold mine in Sacramento. Or coal and iron in Vermissa. You’ll get a better return than a catch-pole’s salary, I can promise you.’

Lavelle was taunting us. We both knew the truth of his connection to Devereux and he was well aware of it. But with no evidence of any crime, planned or committed, there was little we could do.

Inspector Jones tried a second time. ‘Yesterday I followed a young man — a child — to this house. He was fair-haired, dressed in the uniform of a telegraph boy. Did you meet with him?’

‘Why would I have done that?’ Lavelle sneered. ‘I may have received a telegraph. I may not. I don’t know. You’ll have to ask Clayton.’