Moriarty

Lestrade was still haranguing the barman when a door at the side opened and two men came out. I recognised them both at once. Edgar Mortlake we had already met. This time, his brother was with him. Just as the maid at Bladeston House had told us, the two of them were very much alike (they were both dressed in black tie) and yet they were nonetheless curiously different, as if some artist or sculptor had been at work and deliberately created from one a more brutal and hot-blooded representation in the other. Leland Mortlake had the same black hair and small eyes as his brother but no moustache. He was a few years older and they weighed heavily on him: his face was fleshier, his lips thicker, his whole expression one of contempt. He was several inches shorter than Edgar but even before he spoke I could see that he was the more dominant of the two. Edgar was standing a few steps behind him. It was his natural position.

They had not seen Lestrade — or if they had, had chosen to ignore him. However, Edgar recognised both Jones and myself and, nudging his brother, led him over to us.

‘What’s this?’ Leland demanded. His voice was hoarse and he breathed heavily as if the act of speaking exhausted him.

‘I know them,’ Edgar explained. ‘This one is a Pinkerton’s man. He didn’t trouble to give me his name. The other is Alan Jones or something of the sort. Scotland Yard. They were at Bladeston House.’

‘What do you want?’

The question was aimed at Jones and he replied. ‘We are searching for a man named Clarence Devereux.’

‘I don’t know him. He’s not here.’

‘I told you I was unacquainted with him,’ Edgar added. ‘So why have you come here? If you wanted membership, you could have asked when we met in Highgate. Although I think you may find our annual fees a little beyond your means.’

By now, Lestrade had noticed the exchange and came striding over. ‘You are Leland Mortlake?’ he demanded.

‘I am Edgar Mortlake. That’s my brother, if you wish to speak to him.’

‘We’re looking for—’

‘I know who you’re looking for. I’ve already said. He’s not here.’

‘Nobody is leaving here tonight until they have given me proof of their identity,’ Lestrade said. ‘I wish to see the register of your guests — their names and addresses. I intend to search this club from the top floor to the basement.’

‘You cannot.’

‘I very much think I can, Mr Mortlake. And I will.’

‘You had a man staying here at the beginning of the year,’ I said. ‘He was here until the end of April. His name was Jonathan Pilgrim.’

‘What of him?’

‘You remember him?’

Leland Mortlake stared vacantly, his small eyes still filled with resentment. But it was his brother who answered my question. ‘Yes. I believe we did have a guest with that name.’

‘What room?’

‘The Revere. On the second floor.’ The information was given reluctantly.

‘Has it been occupied since?’

‘No. It’s empty.’

‘I’d like to see it.’

Leland turned to his brother and for a moment I thought the two of them were going to protest. But before either of them could speak, Jones stepped forward. ‘Mr Chase is with me and he has the authorisation of Scotland Yard. Take us to the room.’

‘Whatever you say.’ Edgar Mortlake looked at us with controlled fury and had we not been in London, surrounded by the British police, I cannot say what might have ensued. ‘But this is the second time you have bossed me about and I can tell you, Mr Jones, that I don’t like it. There won’t be a third time, of that I can assure you.’

‘Are you threatening us?’ I demanded. ‘Are you forgetting who we are?’

‘I’m just saying that I won’t stand for it.’ Edgar lifted a finger. ‘And it is you, perhaps, who has forgotten who you’re dealing with, Mr Pinkerton. You may rue the day that you chose to interfere.’

‘Dry up, Edgar!’ Leland muttered.

‘Whatever you say, Leland,’ Edgar returned.

‘This is an outrage,’ the older brother continued. ‘But you must do as you want. We have nothing to hide.’

We left Lestrade with them, the police already beginning the long process of interviewing each and every one of the guests, painstakingly noting down their details. Together, we climbed the stairs, arriving at a narrow corridor running left and right. On one side, there was another large room lit by candelabra and with several tables covered with green baize. Evidently, this was where the gaming took place. We did not enter it, following the corridor in the other direction past several bedrooms, each one named after a famous Bostonian. Revere was about halfway down. The door was unlocked.

‘I cannot imagine what it is that you hope to find,’ Jones muttered as we went in.

‘I’m not sure I expect to find anything,’ I replied. ‘Inspector Lestrade said that he had already been here. And yet Pilgrim was a clever man. If he thought himself to be in danger, there’s a chance he might have tried to leave something behind.’

‘One thing is certain. There is nothing to be discovered downstairs.’

‘I quite agree.’