Moriarty

The maid brought a pretty decent stew, boiled neck of mutton with carrots and mashed turnips, certainly far superior to anything I had been offered at Hexam’s, and while Athelney Jones poured the wine, his wife carefully steered the conversation in the direction that she preferred. Indeed, her skill was that she seemed natural and uncalculating but I was aware that during the next hour we never once touched on anything to do with the police. She asked me many questions about America: the food, the culture, the nature of the people. She wanted to know if I had yet seen Thomas Edison’s Kinetoscope, a device that had been much discussed in the British press but which had yet to be exhibited. Sadly, I had not.

‘How do you find England?’ she asked.

‘I like London very much,’ I replied. ‘It reminds me more of Boston than New York, certainly in the number of art galleries and museums, the handsome architecture, the shops. Of course, you have so much history here. I envy you that. Would that I had more time for leisure. Every time I walk in the streets I find all manner of diversions.’

‘Perhaps you might be tempted to remain here longer.’

‘It is not such a wild supposition, Mrs Jones. It has long been my desire to travel in Europe … something that is true of many of my countrymen. Most of us came from here, after all. If I am successful in this current investigation with your husband, perhaps I might persuade my superiors to allow me a sabbatical.’

It was my first reference to the business that had brought Athelney Jones and myself together and, as a steaming bread and butter pudding was brought to the table by the little maid who seemed to pop up from nowhere and disappear just as abruptly, our conversation turned to darker things.

‘I must tell you something, my dear, that will concern you,’ Jones began. ‘But you will learn about it from the newspapers soon enough, rarely though you read them …’ With that, he described the events of the afternoon, the attack on Scotland Yard and my own part in what had happened. As agreed, he mentioned neither the position of the bomb nor the death of his secretary, Stevens.

Elspeth Jones listened in silence until he had finished. ‘Were many people killed?’ she asked.

‘Three, but there were a great many injured,’ Jones replied.

‘It seems incredible that such an attack on the Metropolitan Police could be considered, let alone carried out,’ she said. ‘And this so soon after the unspeakable events in Highgate!’ She turned to me, fixing me with her bright, inquisitive eyes. ‘You will forgive me, Mr Chase, if I say that some very dark forces have followed you from America.’

‘I must disagree with you on one major point, Mrs Jones. It was I who followed them.’

‘And yet you have arrived at the same time.’

‘Mr Chase is not to blame,’ Jones muttered, reproachfully.

‘I know that, Athelney. And if I suggested otherwise, I apologise. But I begin to wonder if this should even be a police matter. Perhaps it is time for higher authorities to become involved.’

‘It may well be that they already are.’

‘ “It may well be” is not enough. Police officers have been killed!’ She paused. ‘Was the bomb very close to your office?’

Jones hesitated. ‘It was on the same floor.’

‘Were you the intended target?’

I saw him consider before he answered. ‘It is too early to say. Several inspectors have offices close to where the bomb was placed. It could have been intended for any one of us. I implore you, my dear, let us speak no more of it.’ Fortunately, the maid chose that moment to appear with the coffee. ‘Shall we remove to the other room?’

We left the table and returned to the back parlour where the fire was now burning low. At the last moment, the maid had handed Mrs Jones a parcel wrapped in brown paper and, as we sat down, she passed it to her husband. ‘I am sorry to trouble you, Athelney, but I wonder if you would mind walking up the road to Mrs Mills?’

‘Now?’

‘It is her laundry and some books for her to read.’ She turned to me and continued in the same breath, ‘Mrs Mills is a member of our congregation and recently widowed. To add to her misfortunes, she has not been very well and we do what we can to be good neighbours.’

‘Is it not rather late?’ Jones asked, still holding the parcel.

‘Not at all. She does not sleep very much and I told her you would be looking in. She was delighted to hear it. You know how fond she is of you. Anyway, a stroll will do you good before bed.’

‘Very well. Perhaps Chase will accompany me …?’

‘Mr Chase has not finished his coffee. He will keep me company while you are gone.’