Moriarty

Ahead of me, crossing the road, I saw a boy whom I recognised instantly. It was Perry, who had sat next to me in the Café Royal and who had held a knife to my neck. I stood there and it seemed to me that everything had become very still, as if an artist had taken the scene and captured it on a canvas. Even at a distance, Perry was enveloped in what I can only describe as an aura of menace. This time, he was dressed as a naval cadet. He had a cap, a dark blue double-fronted jacket with two lines of buttons, and a leather pouch hanging diagonally across his chest. As before, he seemed to be squeezed into the uniform he was wearing, his stomach pressing against the waistband, his neck too large for the collar. His hair looked even more yellow in the afternoon sun.

Why was he here? What was he doing?

Athelney Jones appeared, walking out of Scotland Yard, looking for me, and I raised a hand in alarm. Jones saw me and I pointed in the direction of the boy, who was walking briskly down the pavement, his plump little legs carrying him ever further away.

Jones recognised him but he was too far away to do anything.

There was a brougham waiting for Perry, barely fifty yards from where I was standing. As he approached it, a door opened. There was a man inside, half hidden in the shadows. He was tall, thin, dressed entirely in black. It was impossible to make out his face but I thought I heard him cough. Had Jones seen him? It was unlikely for he was quite a distance ahead and on the wrong side of the road. The boy climbed into the brougham. The door closed behind him.

Without any further thought, I ran towards it. I saw the driver whip up the horse and the carriage jolted forward — but even so I might have been able to reach it. Jones was on the edge of my vision. He had begun to move too, using his walking stick to lever himself forward. The brougham continued down Whitehall, picking up speed, heading for Parliament Square. I was running as fast as I could but I wasn’t getting any nearer. To reach it, I had to cross Whitehall but there was a great deal of traffic. Already, the brougham was disappearing around the corner.

I veered to one side. I had left the pavement and I was in the road.

Athelney Jones cried out a warning. I didn’t hear him but I saw him calling to me, his hand raised.

Suddenly, there was an omnibus bearing down on me. At first, I did not see it for two horses filled my vision: huge, monstrous, with staring eyes. They could have been joined together, a single creature drawn from Greek mythology. Then I became aware of the vehicle being hauled behind them, the driver pulling at the reins, the half a dozen people crowded together on the roof, trapped there, horrified witnesses to the unfolding drama.

Somebody screamed. The driver was still struggling with the reins and I was aware of hooves pounding down, the wheels grinding against the hard surface, that same surface rushing up at me as I threw myself forward. The whole world tilted and the sky swept across my vision.

I might have been killed, but in fact the omnibus missed me by inches, veering away and then drawing to a halt a short distance ahead. I had cracked my head and my knee but I was unaware of the pain. I twisted round, looking for the brougham, but it had already gone. The boy and his travelling companion had made their escape.

Jones reached me. To this day, I am not sure how he managed to cover the distance so quickly. ‘Chase!’ he exclaimed. ‘My dear fellow! Are you all right? You were almost crushed …’

‘Did you see them?’ I demanded. ‘Perry! The boy from the Café Royal! He was here. And there was a man with him …’

‘Yes.’

‘Did you see his face?’

‘No. A man in his forties or fifties, perhaps, tall and thin. But he was concealed, inside the carriage.’

‘Help me …’

Jones was leaning down, helping me to my feet. I was aware of a little blood trickling past my eye and wiped it away. ‘What was it all about, Jones?’ I asked. ‘Why were they here?’

My question was answered seconds later.

The explosion was so close that we felt it as well as heard it, a blast of wind and dust rushing to us where we stood. All around us, horses whinnied and carriages veered out of control as the drivers fought with the reins. I saw two hansoms collide with each other and one tilted and crashed to the ground. Men and women who had been walking past stopped, clutching onto each other, turning in alarm. Pieces of brick and glass rained down on us and a smell of burning pervaded the air. I looked round. A huge plume of smoke was rising up from within Scotland Yard. Of course! What else could have been the target?

‘The devils!’ Jones exclaimed.