Moriarty

‘How could they have known? How did they even discover Pilgrim’s identity? Do you take us for amateurs, Mr Chase? Do you really think we would have abandoned the body without emptying its pockets first? There was no way the police could have connected Pilgrim with us but they did — and that in itself tells me that something is wrong.’

‘Perhaps you should invite Inspector Lestrade to this little gathering of yours. I’m sure he’ll be glad to give his side of the tale.’

‘We do not need Lestrade. We have you.’ Devereux thought for a moment, then continued. ‘And then, just twenty-four hours later, we find you in Chancery Lane at the scene of a robbery that has been weeks in preparation and which I expect to return many thousands of pounds in profit — not just the property of London’s wealthier classes, but their secrets too. Once again, I am trying to place myself in your shoes. How did you know? Who told you? Was it John Clay? I do not think so. He wouldn’t have had the nerve. Was it Scotchy? Unthinkable! How did you find your way there?’

‘Your friend Lavelle had left a note in his diary.’ This time it was Jones who had replied, speaking through broken teeth and lips that were stained with blood. He still had not touched his wine.

‘No! I will not accept that, Inspector Jones. Scotchy would never have been so stupid.’

‘And yet I assure you it is the case.’

‘Will you still assure me in half an hour’s time? We shall see. You were responsible for the failure of that particular enterprise and at the time I was prepared to accept it. It was, after all, just one of many. But what I cannot accept, what must be answered tonight, is your intrusion into the legation. How did you come to be there? What led you to me? For the sake of my future safety in this country, I must know. Do you hear what I am telling you, Inspector Jones? This is why I have taken such pains to bring you here. You came face to face with me in my own home. Taking advantage of my affliction, you humiliated me. I am not saying that I intend to punish you for this, but I must take steps to ensure that it never happens again.’

‘You have too great a belief in your own abilities,’ Jones said. ‘Finding you was simple. The trail from Meiringen to Highgate to Mayfair and to the legation was obvious. Anyone could have followed it.’

‘And if you think we’re going to tell you our methods, you can go to the devil!’ I added. ‘Why should we talk to you, Devereux? You plan to kill us anyway. Why not just get it over with and be done with it?’

There was a lengthy silence. Throughout all this, Edgar Mortlake had been staring at us with a silent, smouldering hatred, while the other men stood around, barely interested in what was being discussed.

‘All right. So be it.’ Devereux had been twisting the middle finger of his glove. Now his hands fell to his sides. He seemed almost saddened by what he had to say.

‘Do you know where you are? You are underneath Smithfield, one of the greatest meat markets in the world. This city is a ravenous beast that feeds on more flesh than you can begin to imagine. Every day, it arrives from all over the world — oxen, pigs, lambs, rabbits, cocks, hens, pigeons, turkeys, geese. They travel thousands of miles from Spain and Holland and much further afield, from America, Australia and New Zealand. We are on the very edge of the market here. We cannot be heard and we will not be disturbed. But not so far from where you are sitting, the butchers in their half-sleeves and aprons have arrived. Their carts and wicker baskets are waiting to be filled. Snow Hill is around the next corner. Yes. The market has its own underground station and soon the first train will draw in, direct from Deptford docks. It will be unloaded here … five hundred tons a day. All that life reduced to tongues and tails, kidneys, hearts, hindquarters, flanks and endless casks of tripe.

‘Why am I telling you this? I have a personal interest which I will share with you, before I leave you to your fate. My parents came originally from Europe but, as a child, I was brought up in the Packinghouse District of Chicago and remember it well. My house was on Madison Street, close to the Bull’s Head Market and stockyards. I see it all even now … the steam hoists and the refrigerator cars, the great herds being driven in, their eyes wide with fear. How could I forget? The meat market pervaded my life. The smoke and the smells were everywhere. In the summer heat, the flies came in their tens of thousands and the local river ran red with blood — the butchers were not too delicate when it came to the disposal of offal. Enough meat to feed an army! I say it quite literally for much of the produce was sent to feed the Union troops who were still fighting the Civil War.