Moriarty

‘But the name of Coleman De Vriess is not. I have to say, it is an ingenious idea for a criminal to hide behind the curtain of diplomatic immunity.’ Jones chuckled. He did not appear remotely put out. ‘No. There is only one way we can lay our hands on Mr Devereux and that is to capture him red-handed. We must set a trap. The moment he makes an appearance outside the legation, we will have him.’

‘Where will we begin?’

‘The answer is perfectly obvious. Indeed … Slow down, driver! I believe we have arrived.’

We had driven but a short distance and, looking around me, I saw that we had returned to the top of Chancery Lane. I had almost forgotten Silas Beckett and his unpleasant barber’s shop, such had been the pace of events. But as we climbed down, I saw that a group of police constables were waiting for us, out of sight of both the shop and the hurdy-gurdy man whose lamentable playing could be heard around the corner. ‘Stay close to me,’ Jones commanded. Then, to the nearest of the officers: ‘You know what to do?’

‘Yes, sir.’

‘Do not on any account show yourselves until we are in the shop.’

This was something else that Jones had inherited from Sherlock Holmes; the maddening habit of not explaining himself until the last minute — and not even then, it would seem, for he did not say a word as we turned the corner and began to walk down the rutted track that led to Staples Inn Gardens. The moment we appeared, the hurdy-gurdy man stopped playing and I recalled that he had behaved in exactly the same way the last time we had come here. It would have been natural for Jones to make straight for the barber’s shop — was that not why we were here? — but instead he walked up to the silent musician.

‘Hair tonic, sir?’ the man asked. ‘Cut or shave?’

‘Not today, thank you,’ Jones replied. ‘But since you mention it, I would be interested to see the style of your own hair.’ And before the man could stop him, he had reached out and plucked the top hat off his head, revealing a shock of bright red hair. ‘It is just as I thought.’

‘What do you mean?’ I asked.

‘Red hair!’

‘What can the colour of his hair possibly have to do with the matter?’

‘It has everything to do with it.’ He turned to the indignant musician. ‘I believe I am addressing Mr Duncan Ross — at least, that is the name you were using two years ago. Your true name, however, is Archie Cooke and this is not the first time you have been engaged on an enterprise such as this!’ The other man started and would have fled but for the weight of the musical instrument which held him down. Jones grabbed his arm. ‘You and I are going to enter the barber’s shop together. Let me advise you against making any trouble. It may go easier for you in the end.’

‘I am an honest man!’ Cooke protested. ‘I play music. I’m paid to advertise the shop. I know nothing more.’

‘That’s enough of that, Archie. I know everything. Disown your partner if you must, but waste no more of my time.’

The three of us crossed the road and re-entered the dingy parlour where we had first met Silas Beckett. I noticed that Archie was limping heavily. As the door closed behind us, the barber appeared, once again climbing up from the basement. He was astonished to see the hurdy-gurdy player and one look at Jones told him that his game — whatever it was — was up. I thought he would turn and run. There might be another way out of the building. But Jones had anticipated him.

‘Stay where you are, John Clay!’ he commanded, releasing the other man and propelling him into the well-worn leather chair. ‘Yes! I know your true name. I know exactly what you are doing here. Do not attempt to run. I have officers at both ends of the street. But if you will trust me and play fair with me, there is still a chance that this may not end too badly for you.’

The barber considered. Then I saw him slump and it was as if he had allowed a coat to slip from his shoulders. He had visibly changed into an older, wiser man and when he spoke his voice had altered too. ‘I prefer Mr Clay,’ he said.

‘I am surprised to see you out of jail so soon.’

‘The judge, a very civilised gentleman, recognised the damage that a lengthy sentence would have on a delicate constitution such as mine.’ It was hard to believe that it was the same man speaking. ‘It may also have helped that we had, by coincidence, both gone to the same school.’

‘What …?’ I began.

‘Let me introduce you to Mr John Clay, the well-known murderer, thief, smasher and forger — or so Sherlock Holmes described him. He is a criminal of the utmost ingenuity, Chase, the inventor of the so-called Red-Headed League.’

‘The robbery at Coburg Square!’ I exclaimed. Had I not seen a newspaper article about the very same, pinned to the wall in Jones’s study?