Moriarty

‘I came out of Holloway,’ Clay began. ‘Not a pleasant place. To a gentleman of breeding, something like a pigsty and I couldn’t even pay chummage to get a room of my own. Never mind. The judge, a charming man as I may have mentioned, had at least been lenient — and I cast about me, wondering what I might do next. The failure of my red-headed scheme had been something of a shock to me. What do you say, Archie? It had required a great deal of preparation. It was a shame that Holmes got involved. Another few days and we’d have got away with it.

‘This was in February and the moment I stepped outside, I knew that something was wrong. All my old chums were lying low and the pubs of Shoreditch could have been funeral parlours for all the fun that was to be had. It was as if the Ripper himself had come back to haunt the streets of London … that or something worse.

‘It was worse, as I found out soon enough. A new mob had arrived. Americans, it was said. I have never been very partial to Americans myself, present company excepted. In my view, it was a great shame that my ancestor, King George the Third, allowed the colonies to slip through his fingers. But I digress … These people had come over from New York and, having planted themselves in the city, they had spread like syphilis. I have lost many friends, many colleagues. They didn’t play by our rules and for six weeks the streets and alleyways had been running with blood and I can assure you that I’m not employing a metaphor in this particular instance. I mean it. These people were vicious.’

The kettle had boiled. Archie filled the teapot and brought it to the table. He was still moving with difficulty and I saw that he was in pain.

‘Where was Moriarty?’ I asked.

‘Moriarty? I never met him myself, although I knew of him, of course. We all did. There was a man to be feared if ever there was one. And he took his cut too! There was no crime committed in London that he didn’t take his share of and we all used to complain about it — in whispers — although to be fair he was always there when you needed him. I’ll say that for him. But he’d gone, disappeared. This fellow, Clarence Devereux, had taken his place. And Devereux made Moriarty look like a fairy godmother though he too never showed himself, sending his lieutenants to do his dirty work.

‘Archie and I were sitting in our little lodging house owned by a Jew in Petticoat Lane when they came calling, Scotchy Lavelle, a nasty, pig-eyed man, surrounded by a bunch of hooligan boys. They were English, to their eternal shame and damnation, for that was how these newcomers worked. They recruited straight from the gutter. That gave them the muscle for an army drawn from the rookeries and the opium dens who would do anything for half a crown. No loyalty. No patriotism. And they were well informed. They knew everything about the city and the professionals who worked it — the busters and the screwmen, the skittle-sharps and the rest of them. And they knew about me.

‘They bust in while we were having breakfast and tied Archie to a chair. Scotchy did nothing himself. He stood there, strutting, while his boys did the dirty work for him. Then, finally, he laid out his proposition. Why do I call it that? It was a demand and it would be death if I refused, no doubt of that.

‘There was an empty shop just off Chancery Lane, opposite the Safe Deposit Company. They reckoned it would take me a few weeks to tunnel underneath the road and break in. The place was filled with gold and silver, jewellery and cash. They would pay the rent for the premises but Archie and me, we would do all the filthy work, squatting underground. We’d take all the risk. And what did they want in return for their kindness? Mr Devereux would take half of everything, they told me. Half! Even Moriarty never demanded more than twenty per cent.’

‘And you agreed?’ Jones asked.

‘When you’re surrounded by five cutthroats and the bacon’s gone cold, it’s best not to argue. Even so, I have my dignity. I protested in no uncertain terms. And that was when that devil turned to poor Archie. “Hurt him!” he said. The words were spoken. There was nothing I could do.’

‘You could have stopped them,’ Archie mumbled.

‘It all happened too quickly. It was horrible. They pulled his shoe off and right in front of me …’ Clay stopped. ‘Show them, Archie.’

The red-haired boy leaned down and took his shoe off. And now I understood why he had been limping when we brought him into the barber’s shop. He had lost the nail from his big toe, which was still swollen and bloody.

‘They did this to me!’ he whispered, and there were tears in his eyes.

‘They used a pair of pliers,’ Clay continued. ‘There was a lot of screaming and it quite put me off my breakfast, I can tell you. And I knew it could be worse. If I refused, they might start on me! I had never seen such wanton savagery and of course I knew at that point I had no choice.