Moriarty

Nobody followed us. We had left the horrors of that subterranean world behind. It was quite possible that Devereux’s men had all perished, but even if some of them had appeared there would have been little they could do for we were now surrounded by other people: butchers and delivery boys, market clerks and inspectors, buyers and sellers, creeping in silence to their work. We saw a policeman and rushed towards him.

‘I am Detective Inspector Athelney Jones of Scotland Yard,’ Jones gasped. ‘I have been the victim of a murderous attack. Call for reinforcements. I must have your protection.’

God knows what we must have looked like, drawn and desperate, bruised and covered in blood, our clothes dishevelled, our skin streaked with dirt and soot. The policeman looked at us with equanimity. ‘Now, now, sir,’ he said. ‘What’s all this about?’

The sky was already turning pink when we made our way back to Camberwell. I had travelled with Jones — I could not return to my hotel until we had seen the conclusion of the night’s work together. We had spoken little but as we reached Denmark Hill, seated together in the carriage that the policeman had eventually been persuaded to provide, he turned to me.

‘You saw him.’

‘You mean Perry, the child who led us to Bladeston House?’

‘Yes. He was there.’

‘He was.’

‘I still do not understand it, Chase …’

‘Nor I, Jones. First he tries to murder you at Scotland Yard. Now it is as if he wished to save you.’

‘He and the man who was with him. But who were they and how did they find us?’ Jones closed his eyes, deep in thought. He was close to exhaustion and would have slept but for the uncertainty of what lay ahead. We only had Devereux’s word that Beatrice had been returned and we had no reason to trust anything he said. ‘You did not tell them about Perry,’ he continued. ‘When Devereux asked you how we found our way to Highgate, you did not say that we had followed the child from the Café Royal.’

‘Why should I have told him the truth?’ I said. ‘It seemed better to leave him uncertain. And it was more important for me to hear him freely admit to the murder of Jonathan Pilgrim. He did so. Of course, we always knew he was responsible, but now we have heard it with our own ears and can testify to it in a court of law.’

‘If we can ever drag him before it.’

‘We will, Jones. After tonight, he cannot be safe anywhere.’

We reached the front door of Jones’s house but we had no need to open it. Seeing our carriage pull up, Elspeth came flying out, her hair loose and a shawl around her shoulders. She fell into her husband’s arms.

‘Where is Beatrice?’ Jones asked.

‘She is upstairs, asleep. I have been worrying myself to death about you.’

‘I am here. We are safe.’

‘But you are hurt. Your poor face! What has happened to you?’

‘It is nothing. We are alive. That is all that matters.’

The three of us went into the house. The fire was blazing and breakfast was already being cooked but I was asleep, in an armchair, long before it was served.

TWENTY Diplomatic Immunity

It seemed strange that, in the end, the entire affair — my long and painful search for the greatest criminal who ever came out of America — should come down to the formality of a meeting with three men in a room. We went back to the legation in Victoria Street, this time using our own names and with the full knowledge of the Chief Commissioner. Indeed, permission had been sought as far up as the office of the Foreign Secretary, Lord Salisbury himself. And so we found ourselves sitting in front of the envoy, Robert T. Lincoln, and his councillor, Henry White, both of whom had greeted us on the night of the party. The third man was Charles Isham, Lincoln’s secretary, a rather wayward young man now wearing a mauve jacket and a floppy cravat. It was he who had arrested us at the behest of Edgar and Leland Mortlake.

We were in a room that must surely be used as a library; two entire walls being lined with books, hefty legal tomes which had surely never been read. The walls opposite were painted an anaemic shade of grey, covered with portraits of former envoys, the earliest of them in high collars and stocks. Wire screens had been drawn over the windows, blocking the view into Victoria Street, and I wondered if this might presage a visit from Devereux himself. He had not been there when we arrived, nor had his name yet been mentioned. We were at least certain that he must be somewhere in the building, assuming, that is, that he had returned there after his appearance at Smithfield market. Inspector Jones had positioned police constables around the building, all of them out of uniform. They had been discreetly watching everyone who came and went during the day.