Moriarty

‘You are wrong!’ I shouted, and at the same time I launched myself out of my chair. I had taken Mortlake and the other men unawares. They had been lulled by Devereux’s long speech and our own seeming lethargy. Now, before anyone could stop me, I threw myself onto Devereux, one hand grabbing his silk waistcoat, the other around his throat. Would that I could have reached one of the knives set out on the table! Still, I brought him crashing to the ground and was half-strangling him when several hands seized hold of me and I was pulled free. I felt a cosh strike against the side of my head, not hard enough to knock me unconscious, and a moment later someone’s fist crashed into the side of my face. Dazed, and with fresh blood streaming from my nose, I was thrown back into my chair.

Clarence Devereux stood up, his face pale with anger. I knew that he had never been attacked in this way — certainly not in front of his own men. ‘We are finished,’ he rasped. ‘I had hoped we might conduct ourselves as gentlemen but the business between us is over and I will not stay to watch you being torn apart. Mortlake! You know what to do. Do not let them die until you have heard the truth — then report back to me.’

‘Wait …!’ Jones cried.

But Devereux ignored him. He climbed back into the coach. The driver pulled hard on the reins, turning the horses round. Then he whipped them on and the whole contraption disappeared down the tunnel, the way they had come.

Mortlake walked over to the table. He took his time, running his hand over the implements. Finally he chose what looked like a barber’s razor. He flicked it open to reveal a curious notched blade which he held up to the light. The six men from the cemetery closed in on us.

‘All right,’ Mortlake said. ‘Let’s begin.’

NINETEEN A Return to Light

After the beating I had received, I was too weak to move. I could only sit there watching as Mortlake balanced the razor at his fingertips, holding it out before him as if to admire its beauty. Never before had I felt so helpless. At that moment, I accepted that I had set too much store by my own capabilities and that all my plans and aspirations were about to come to this bloody end. Clarence Devereux had beaten me. Small consolation that he had briefly felt my fingers around his throat. Their impression would have faded long before he reached the safety of the legation and by then I would be lost in a vortex of pain. I felt hands fall, heavy, on my shoulders. Two of Mortlake’s men had approached and stood either side of me, one of them holding a length of rope. The other grabbed hold of my wrist, preparing to tie me down.

But then Inspector Jones spoke. ‘Hold off!’ he said, and I was astonished to hear him sound so calm. ‘You are wasting your time, Mortlake.’

‘You believe so?’

‘We will tell you everything your master wishes to know. There is no need for this squalid and inhuman behaviour. It has been made clear to us that we are to die in this place so what is to be gained by remaining silent? I will describe to you, step by step, the journey that brought us here and my friend, Mr Chase, will corroborate every word I say. But you will find it of little value. Let me assure you of that now.’ Jones had drawn up his walking stick across his lap as if it might provide a barrier between himself and his tormentors. ‘We have no secrets and no matter how much you debase yourself in God’s eyes, you will discover nothing that will be of any use.’

Mortlake considered, but only briefly. ‘You don’t seem to understand, Inspector Jones,’ he replied. ‘You have information and I am sure you will provide it. But that is no longer the point. My brother Leland died in your custody and even if his killer was completely unknown to you, I hold you responsible and will make you pay. I might start by removing your tongue. That is how indifferent I am about what you have to say.’

‘In that case, I’m afraid you leave me no choice.’ Jones swung the stick round so that the tip faced towards Mortlake and at the same moment I saw that he had unscrewed the raven’s head to reveal a hollow interior. Holding the stick with one hand, he inserted the index finger of the other and twisted. At once there was an explosion, deafening in the confined space, and a great red chasm appeared in Mortlake’s stomach even as gobbets of blood and bone erupted out of his back. The blast had almost torn him in half. He stood there, the knife falling away, his arms thrown forward, his shoulders hunched. A wisp of smoke curled up from the bottom of the walking stick which, I now understood, had concealed an ingenious gun. Mortlake groaned. Fresh blood poured over his lip. He fell to the ground and lay still.

The gun had one bullet only.