Moriarty

‘I have it in my office … or what remains of it.’ Jones had removed anything of interest from Bladeston House, including the diary and the block of soap that had led us to Horner’s of Chancery Lane. ‘A party to celebrate business enterprise.’

‘Can you remember the date?’

Jones glanced at me. He could see at once what I had in mind. ‘I believe it was for tomorrow night,’ he replied.

‘Well, of one thing we can be certain,’ I said. ‘Scotchy Lavelle won’t be attending.’

‘For either of us to go in his place would be an extremely serious matter.’

‘For you, perhaps, but not for me. I am, after all, an American citizen.’

‘I will not let you enter on your own.’

‘There can be no possible danger. It is a reception for English and American businessmen …’ I smiled. ‘Is that really how Scotchy thought of himself? I suppose criminal enterprise passes as business of a sort.’ I turned to Athelney Jones and he could surely see I was determined. ‘We cannot let this opportunity pass us by. If we apply to the Foreign Secretary, it will only warn Clarence Devereux of our intentions.’

‘You assume he is here.’

‘Does not the evidence suggest it? We can at least take a look inside,’ I continued, quickly. ‘And surely the risk is small. We will be two guests among many.’

Jones stood, supporting himself on his stick, gazing at the gate and the door that remained fastened in front of him. The wind had dropped and the flag had fallen, as if ashamed to show its colours.

‘Very well,’ he said. ‘We’ll go.’

THIRTEEN The Third Secretary

The American legation had been transformed for the minister’s reception. The gate stood open and torches had been arranged in two lines, blazing the way to the front door. There were half a dozen footmen, equally brilliant in their bright red coats and old-fashioned wigs, bowing to the guests as they climbed down from the phaetons and landaus which had assembled outside. With the lights glowing behind the windows, the piano music playing on the other side of the front door and the flames throwing dark orange shadows across the brickwork, it really was easy to forget that this was a rather drab building and that we were in London, not New York. Even the flag was flying.

Athelney Jones and I had arrived together, both of us in tailcoats and white tie. I noticed that he had exchanged his usual walking stick for another with an ivory handle and wondered if he had one for every occasion. He looked nervous, for once unsure of himself — and I had to remind myself how much of a risk he was taking, coming here. For a British police officer to enter a foreign legation under false pretences and in pursuit of a criminal investigation could be the end of his career. I saw him hesitate, contemplating the open doorway. Our eyes met. He nodded and we moved forward.

He had retrieved the invitation that he had taken from Bladeston House. Fortunately it had survived both the explosion and the fire although, on close inspection, it was slightly singed. ‘The Envoy Extraordinary and Minister Plenipotentiary, Mr Robert T. Lincoln, requests the pleasure of the company of …’ The words were written in perfect copperplate and to this had been added: ‘… Mr Scotland Lavelle and guest.’ We were fortunate that the woman whom we had known, all too briefly, as Hen had not been named. We had decided that if we were questioned, I would claim to be Scott, Scotchy or Mr Scotland, as he now seemed to be. Jones would be the anonymous guest and if asked would give his own name.

But in fact, neither of us was examined in any way. A footman glanced at our invitation and waved us through to a wide entrance hall, lined with books that were obviously artificial — they did not pretend to be otherwise — as well as two plaster replicas of classical Greek goddesses, one at each end. The party was taking place on the second floor. It was from here that the piano music was coming. A thickly carpeted staircase led up, but in order to begin the climb, the guests had to pass a line of four men and a woman who had positioned themselves purposefully so as to be able to greet each and every one of them.

The first man I barely noticed for he was standing with his back to the door. He had grey hair and drooping eyelids and there was something so dull and self-effacing about him that he seemed completely unsuited to be part of a welcoming committee. He was also the shortest of the four of them — even the woman towered over him.

It was clear that this lady was the wife of the envoy. Though in no way beautiful, with a prominent nose, pale skin and hair packed too tightly into curls, she was still undeniably regal, greeting all those who approached her as if she alone were the reason they had come. She was severely dressed in brown wool twill with puffed out gigot sleeves and a ribbon around her neck. As I took her hand and bowed, I smelled lavender water.

‘Scotland Lavelle,’ I murmured.