Moriarty

The cart was parked to one side, the horse snorting and shifting its head impatiently. A pair of trestle tables had been set up and John Clay and Archie Cooke were standing in front of them, rather in the manner of two shopkeepers with a difficult customer. There were about fifty different objects on display: silver cutlery and candlesticks, jewellery, several oil paintings, glassware and china, banknotes and coins. I had no idea where they had all come from — Chancery Lane Safe Deposit had, of course, not been touched — but supposed Jones must have supplied them, perhaps from the evidence room in Scotland Yard.

From where we were standing, we were able to hear the conversation that ensued. Mortlake strode the full length of the tables, his hands clasped behind his back. He was wearing the dark frock coat that he seemed to favour but he had left his walking stick behind. He stopped opposite John Clay, his eyes glinting with hostility. ‘A poor haul, Mr Clay,’ he muttered, ‘quite miserable. Not at all what we had expected.’

‘We were unlucky, Mr Mortlake,’ Clay replied. ‘The tunnel worked well enough — although it was the devil’s own work, you have no idea! But we were disturbed before we could open too many of the boxes.’

‘This is all of it?’ Mortlake stepped closer so that he towered over the smaller man. ‘You haven’t thought to hold something back?’

‘This is all of it, sir. You have my word as a gentleman.’

‘Upon our lives!’ Archie croaked.

‘It is indeed your lives that will be forfeit if I find you are lying to me.’

‘There’s a thousand pounds here,’ Clay insisted.

‘That’s not what I read in the newspapers.’

‘The newspapers lied. The Safe Deposit Company would not want to alarm their customers. A thousand pounds, Mr Mortlake! Five hundred each. Not so bad for a few weeks’ labour, the labour in question being Archie’s and mine. You and your friends come out of it handsomely.’

‘My friends are of a different opinion. In fact, I must inform you that Mr Devereux is far from satisfied. He had expected more and feels that you have disappointed him; that you are, in effect, in breach of contract. He has therefore instructed me to take all of it.’

‘All of it?’

‘You may keep this.’ Mortlake leaned forward and plucked out a silver eggcup. ‘A souvenir of your work.’

‘An eggcup?’

‘An eggcup and your life. And the next time Mr Devereux has need of your services, you will perhaps come up with a strategy that leads to a decent return. There is a bank in Russell Square that has come to our attention and I would advise you against leaving — or trying to leave — London. We will see you in due course.’

Mortlake nodded at the hooligan boys who produced sacks that they proceeded to fill, sweeping the goods off the tables. Athelney Jones had seen enough. I saw him stride into full view, at the same time producing a whistle from his pocket. He blew a single, long blast and suddenly a dozen policemen in full uniform appeared at both ends of the warehouse, blocking the exits. To this day I am not sure where they had been concealed. Could they have come off one of the boats that had been moored nearby? Had they been tucked away in one of the offices? Wherever they had come from, they had been well drilled and closed in around us as Jones and I walked purposefully towards the little group.

‘Stand where you are, Mr Mortlake,’ Jones announced. ‘I have witnessed everything that has taken place here and I have heard you name your accomplice. I am arresting you for conspiracy to commit burglary and for receiving stolen goods. You are exposed as part of a criminal network that has brought terror and bloodshed to the streets of London but this is the end of it. You, your brother and Clarence Devereux will answer to the courts.’

Throughout this lengthy speech, Edgar Mortlake had stood there, showing no expression at all. When Jones had finished he turned not to the detective but to the thief, John Clay, who was blinking uncomfortably. ‘You knew of this,’ he said, simply.

‘They gave me no choice. But I will tell you that, in actual fact, I don’t give a jot. I’ve had enough of your threats, your violence, your greed and I cannot forgive you for what you did to my friend Archie. You give crime a bad name. London will be better off once it’s seen the back of you.’

‘You have betrayed us.’

‘Wait …’ Clay began.