Moriarty

‘I must not go! I will not leave!’ Devereux grabbed hold of the arms of the chair like a child, tears welling in his eyes, and the next few minutes were as strange and as undignified as any I can remember. We had to call more officials into the room and prise him away by force. While White and Isham watched in dismay, he was dragged downstairs, a whimpering wretch who began to screech the moment he saw the open door. Only the night before, this same man had stood, surrounded by his cronies, sentencing us to a painful death. It was almost impossible to compare that man with the creature he had become.

A cover was found and thrown over his head and we were able to escort him out to the gate where the Black Maria was waiting. White had come with us. ‘You are not to begin your questioning until my representative arrives.’

‘I understand.’

‘And you will accord Mr De Vriess the respect due to the third secretary of this legation.’

‘You have my word on it.’

‘I will see you again this evening. Is it too much to hope that this business will be concluded by then?’

‘We will do what we can.’

These were the arrangements that Jones had made for the transfer of Clarence Devereux from the legation. Five police constables had come from Scotland Yard, all of them hand-picked by Jones himself. Nobody else was to be allowed to come close. There was to be no chance of a second poison dart being fired from somewhere in the crowd. Nor was the mysterious sniper who had come to our rescue at Smithfield market going to be presented with a target. Devereux himself was blind and unable to resist and we made sure that he was surrounded, protected by a human shield until he reached the Black Maria, which had been parked directly beside the gate. The vehicle — in fact it was dark blue — was a solid box on four wheels and it had been thoroughly searched before it set out: once Devereux was inside, Jones was fairly certain that he would be safe. The doors were already open and, with utmost care, we bundled him in. The interior was dark, with two benches facing each other, one on either side. To any ordinary criminal, it might have seemed a dreadful mode of transport but the irony was that, given his condition, Devereux would find it almost homely. We closed and locked the doors. One of the constables climbed onto the footplate at the back and would remain standing there for the entire journey. So far, everything had gone according to plan.

We prepared to leave. Two more police officers took their places next to each other, sitting behind the horses at the front of the Black Maria. Meanwhile, Jones and I climbed into a curricle that had been parked behind, Jones taking hold of the reins. The other two constables would walk ahead in the road ensuring that the way was clear. Our progress would be slow but the distance was not great. More policemen, the same men who had been watching the legation, would be waiting for us at every corner. It struck me that we resembled nothing so much as a funeral procession. There were no mourners standing in respectful silence, but we set off with almost as much solemnity.

The legation disappeared behind us. Henry White was standing on the pavement, watching us go, his countenance grave. Then he turned and went back the way he had come. ‘We’ve done it!’ I said. I could not disguise my sense of relief. ‘The bloodiest criminal who ever came to this country is in our custody and it is all thanks to you and your genius with that book! Finally, it is over.’

‘I am not so sure.’

‘My dear Athelney — can you not rest for one moment? I tell you, we have succeeded. You have succeeded! See — we are already well on our way.’

‘And yet, I wonder—’

‘What? You have your doubts even now?’

‘They are more than doubts. It does not work. None of it works. Unless …’

He stopped. Ahead of us, the police constable was pulling at the reins. A boy pushing a barrow laden with vegetables had turned across the street, blocking our path because one of the wheels seemed to have got stuck in a rut. Another policeman walked ahead to help clear the path.

The boy looked up. It was Perry, dressed now in a ragged tunic and belt. A moment before, his hands had been empty but suddenly he lifted them and the surgeon’s knife with which he had once threatened me was already there, glinting in the sun. Without a word he brought it swinging round. The second policeman fell in a welter of blood. At the same moment, there was a shot — it sounded like a piece of paper being torn — and the officer who had been holding the reins of the Black Maria was hurled sideways, crashing down into the road. A second shot and his companion followed. One of the horses reared up, knocking into the other. A woman emerging from a shop began to scream and scream. A carriage coming the other way veered onto the pavement, almost hitting her, and crashed into a fence.