Moriarty

‘Then if it was not him, who was it?’ I gazed helplessly. ‘Was it Moriarty?’

‘No! That cannot be possible.’

We were both of us attenuated, drenched through by the drizzle, close to exhaustion. It seemed that an eternity had passed since we had ridden out together to the London docks and that expedition too had not worked out as we had planned. We stood facing each other, helpless, while around us the police officers crept forward, staring at the corpse with dismay. The door of the club suddenly slammed shut, cutting off the light. It was as if the people who worked there wanted nothing more to do with us.

‘Deal with this, Sergeant!’ Jones called to one of the policemen, although I could not tell which. All the life seemed to have gone out of him. His face was drawn and there was nothing in his eyes. ‘Have the body removed and then take down the details of everyone in the club. I know we have done it once before but we must do it again! Allow no one to leave until you have their statements.’ He turned to me and spoke more quietly. ‘They will find nothing. The killer will have already left. Come with me, Chase. Let us get out of this damned place.’

We walked down the street and into Shepherd’s Market. There we found a public house on a corner — the Grapes. We went inside, into the warmth, and Jones ordered half a pint of red wine which we shared between us. He had also produced a cigarette, which he lit. It was only the second time I had seen him smoke. At length, he began to talk, choosing his words carefully.

‘Moriarty cannot be alive. I will not believe it! You must remember the letter … the coded letter that began all this. It was addressed to Moriarty and it was found in the pocket of the dead man. It follows, therefore, that the dead man must in all probability have been Moriarty. As always, the logic is inescapable. It was only because he was killed that Devereux and his cohorts were able to take his place, fully establishing themselves in London. And it is only because of the letter that we have been able to proceed thus far.’

‘Then if it is not Moriarty taking revenge, it must be his former associates. Even before he set out for Meiringen, he could have left them instructions …’

‘There you may be right. Inspector Patterson said that he had arrested them all but he may have been mistaken. Certainly, we seem to have stumbled onto two opposing factions. On the one side, Lavelle, the Mortlakes, Clarence Devereux. And on the other …’

‘… the fair-haired boy and the man in the brougham.’

‘Perhaps.’

‘I am wasting my time!’ I said. I could feel my clothes, damp against my skin. I drank the wine but it tasted of nothing and barely warmed me at all. ‘I have come all the way from America in pursuit of Clarence Devereux and I have found him but you say I cannot touch him. I have Edgar Mortlake in front of me but he escapes. Scotchy Lavelle, John Clay, Leland Mortlake … all of them dead. And my young agent, Jonathan Pilgrim … I sent him here and that cost him his life. I feel the shadow of Moriarty hanging over us at every turn and frankly, Jones, I have had enough. Without you, I would have got nowhere but even with your help I have failed. I should return home, hand in my notice and find some other way to spend my days.’

‘I will not hear of it,’ Jones returned. ‘You say we are making no progress but that is far from true. We have found Devereux and know his true identity. At the same time his own forces have been decimated, his latest scheme — the robbery at Chancery Lane — undone. He cannot escape. I will have men at every port in the country …’

‘Three days from now, you may no longer have the authority.’

‘And much can happen in three days.’ Chase laid a hand on my shoulder. ‘Do not be dispirited. The picture is a murky one, I grant you. But still it begins to take shape. Devereux is a rat in a hole but even now he must be fearful. He will have to strike out. It may be that he will finally make the mistake that allows us to capture him. But believe me, he will act soon.’

‘You think so?’

‘I am sure of it.’

Athelney Jones was right. Our enemy did indeed act — but not in a way that either of us could have foreseen.

SEVENTEEN Dead Man’s Walk

I knew that something terrible and unexpected had happened the moment I set eyes on Athelney Jones at Hexam’s Hotel the next day. His features, in which the long history of his illness was always written, were more drawn and haggard than ever and he was so pale that I felt obliged to lead him to a chair, for I was certain he was about to faint. I did not let him speak but ordered hot tea and lemon and sat with him until it arrived. My first thought was that his meeting with the Commissioner had already taken place and that he had lost his position with the Metropolitan Police, but knowing him as I now did and recalling our conversation in the rooms in Chiltern Street, I knew that such an event would hardly matter to him and that whatever had happened was much, much worse.