The Return of Moriarty (32 page)

“I don't know who it was from.” The rest chased out in a rush from Smith's lips. “I know it was about you, Professor, and it was from some woman. They had a message brought by the lad in the morning. Then there was trouble with Bert Spear. Green and Butler were like cats on hot coals, waiting for the lad to return. When he didn't come, they sent me to find him. That's when your people collared me, and that's the truth, Professor, the stone truth.”

“I believe you, Smith.”

Paget made a noise meant to convey doubt.

“Paget!” Moriarty made the order sound harsh. “Put Smith in a secure chamber by himself. It would be best to keep him apart from the other two.”

The pair they had caught on their way into Nelson Street were nothing: a couple of bullies sent for by Green, obviously so that he would have more protection about him. They knew little, were frightened particularly by Paget's bellicose attitude, and the fact that they were facing the great Professor Moriarty for the first time, uneasy with the knowledge that they had been allied to the losing side. They could add no intelligence, so were sent back to their cell in great disquiet.

“You understand the personal risk you take now?” Paget asked.

Moriarty smiled, as one would condescendingly look upon a bright child.

“Indeed, Paget, I know all too well what risk I run, and we must be careful to lull suspicion and yet be certain not to overlook anything.”

“I hope you are not looking toward me as a food taster, like the Eastern potentates have in their service.”

“It would be a good position for friend Smith.” Moriarty was still smiling, his lips and eyes changing slightly so that more than a hint of evil now lurked in the face. “No, my friend, I think more drastic measures are called for.”

They spoke for some ten minutes, after which Paget went up to the boy's cell, tidied the body, wrapping it in a blanket and circling it with stout cords. That night they would add chains and weights; then the body could be consigned to the river and a safe eternal rest.

When he got down to the kitchen, Paget saw that Mary McNiel was gone. She would be with the Professor now as they had arranged. His instructions were to talk with Fanny, and it would not be easy, for having the girl he loved suspected of such a murder was no simple matter—especially as he was duty bound not to arouse her own suspicions. He called to her from the doorway, making apologies to the Wrights for borrowing her for a few moments. He was pleased to see that Terremant and one of his other men were out in the “waiting room,” their eyes watchful: Moriarty had undoubtedly already made arrangements with them for what was to follow.

“What is it, Pip, you look so serious?” she asked when they reached his chambers.

Paget kissed her lightly on the mouth and smiled.

“Some of it is grave, some happy. Which would you like to hear first?”

She threw back her head, laughing.

“I think I know your happy news. They were teasing me in the kitchen. Is it true? The Professor says we're to be married next week?”

“A week today, girl. Spliced and banqueted like kings and queens, the Professor said.”

“Oh, Pip.”

“How will you like being Mrs. Pip Paget, then?”

She gave a series of little squeals as Paget lifted her in his big hands and whirled her around, his face becoming serious as he gently let her down to the floor again.

“Now there's some unpleasantness, Fan.”

She looked at him with large, innocent eyes, full of questions.

“There's been a horrible accident, Fanny, and this may upset you.”

“Accident? Bert Spear's all right, isn't he? He hasn't…?”

“Bert's fine. It's the boy we took last night. The one in the secure room next to us here.”

“That little fellow. Oh, Pip, he's such a frightened rabbit.”

“He was.”

“What?”

“He
was
a frightened rabbit, Fanny.”

He held her in his eyes, watching for any flicker, any sign that might give her away. She merely looked at him, her eyes widening.

“He
was…
?”

“He's dead, Fan.”

“But I saw him this morning. I took his breakfast in to him.”

“That's just it, Fan. His breakfast.”

It took a few seconds for the light to break into her muddled brain and her mouth to open in a gaping tremble.

“Not like the colonel? Oh no, Pip. Oh God, the Professor wouldn't do a thing like that to a—No.”

Paget caught her hard by the shoulders.

“No, Fanny, not the Professor. It can only have been an accident. He'll be talking to Kate and Bart Wright soon enough: Some of the stuff they used on Moran must have found its way into the beer or the mug or even onto the plate you used for his sausage. It can only have been an accident.”

She was crying, shoulders heaving, nose reddening and the tears welling out, chapping her pink cheeks in raw streaks. If she was a bad one, thought Paget, she was a good actress and ought to be on the stage where she rightly belonged.

He left Fanny, eventually, still upset, blaming herself.

“That's twice, Pip. Twice I've taken the means of death to people. I'll burn in hell for it, burn in hell.”

He quietened her, told her not to fret, and to stay in their room until she felt better.

“There will be a lot going on around the place for the next hour or so, Fanny love, you're best out of it.”

Mary McNiel had left the Professor by the time Paget got to his chambers.

“I do not know.” Moriarty was gazing from his window. “I really have no idea, Paget. And you?”

“The same. Shall I get Bart and Kate?”

“Let's have it over with. I'll not eat or drink happy until we've done with them all.”

Paget returned a few minutes later, shepherding the Wrights into the room, closing the door behind him and standing, arms folded, in front of it.

Moriarty motioned the Wrights into chairs and began, telling them that there had been a fearful accident and that somehow the boy's meal had become tainted with the strychnine they had used on Moran.

“But I keep it locked, in my private cupboard.” Kate Wright was suddenly white with fear.

“If it could have got into the boy's food or drink, then other things might be poisoned also.” Bartholomew Wright's voice moved, falsetto, up the scale.

“Quite so.” The Professor leaned back. “That is why Terremant and one of the other punishers are at this moment destroying all the food in the house and emptying all the ale and wine that is not safely unopened.”

“But—” Kate Wright began, changing her mind because of the look in the Professor's eyes.

“I want you, Kate, to go down with Paget here, and give him the poison. He will get rid of it. After that we are making arrangements for you to have one of the carts. Terremant and the other will go with you to buy fresh food and replenish the drink. I cannot take chances, Kate. We will have all the plates, mugs, knives and the like thoroughly washed in boiling water also. The girls can do it while you are getting the provisions. That way we'll avoid any similar unpleasantness.”

Paget went down with Mrs. Wright, returning with the small blue bottle marked with the distinctive skull and cross bones. When the Wrights finally left, Moriarty went again to stand by his window.

“They will all be watched like hawks from now on. I have sent for Parker to bring in another pair of his best people. The moment he or she makes a mistake, we will know.”

Paget was to remain greatly troubled for some days.

In the early afternoon Moriarty went with Paget to visit Spear, who by now had been propped up and was sipping beef tea, specially brought in for him, the feeding cup held by Bridget. Now that she was rested and her hair well dried out, they saw that she was indeed a pretty girl, and although she would retain the thin, undernourished look for a while yet, a pert cheekiness could be discerned in her face and eyes; the whole was framed by a mass of golden hair which hung full-bodied to her shoulders.

Spear smiled weakly when they inquired how he fared, saying that in a few days he would be up and about again, softly cursing his lost opportunity with the Bray's butler, Halling, and even managing to ask after the Professor's wound.

“It will take time before you can use your hands again.” The Professor bent over the bed like a surgeon.

“When I can, there'll be many who'll need to watch themselves.” Spear's cut and bandaged face was a disconcerting and bizarre mask. “I pray you'll not get Green or Butler before I can have a piece of them.”

“You just quiet yourself,” soothed Bridget, then turning to Paget and Moriarty, “I think he should be allowed to rest again now.”

Moriarty raised his eyebrows, the lips softening into a thin, humorless smile.

“Miss Nightingale,” murmured Paget.

“A spirited girl, young Bridget,” mused Moriarty once they were outside. “It is hoped that she can be trusted.”

“I'll see to it that she is watched.” Paget was sullen, his humor reflecting the dark thoughts he secretly nursed, for he did not know whom to trust anymore.

A little after six, the trio of thieves, Fisher, Clark and Gay, arrived at the warehouse, and for the following two hours they discussed plans for the proposed robbery at Harrow: Paget voiced his opinions, based on the reconnaissance he had made, and the other men—all well experienced in matters of this kind—took the Professor step by step through their designs. Moriarty listened for a while before he pronounced his ultimate blessing on the scheme with, naturally, a few modifications. He also authorized the use of a two-horse van for removal of the loot, and directed Paget to travel down to Harrow on the day of the robbery.

“Just to make sure the matter is still possible. If our fine customers have changed their plans and perhaps come home unexpectedly, it is better that we should be warned.” He caught Paget's worried frown. “You can return long before the crib's cracked open, Paget; I have my eye on two very likely fellows of ours to join this trio.”

At ten o'clock a cab brought Alton, muffled against both the chill night air and the possibility of recognition. He was ushered into the Professor's chambers where Lee Chow, Ember and Paget were also gathered. A table was set up in front of Moriarty's desk, and upon it Alton spread out a large ground plan of Coldbath Fields Prison.

For the better part of an hour he talked quietly and with great concentration, interrupted only occasionally by remarks from Moriarty and small queries from the three members of the “Praetorian Guard.”

By the time he left the warehouse Alton was satisfied: half his fee jingled in his pocket. The remainder would be his late on Thursday evening when William and Bertram Jacobs became free men.

Moriarty dismissed his three lieutenants after a brief word to Paget regarding the watch being kept on the women and the kitchens, also on the work for the morrow. He needed to talk with their first prisoners—Roach and Fray—and make the journey, at last, to Abrahams to arrange details of fencing the loot from the Harrow affair.

But the day was not yet concluded for the Professor. Mary McNiel hovered at the foot of the stairs leading to his chambers, wishing to get to bed and knowing that when she did there would be no sleep for a while, Moriarty's carnal appetites being what they were. Indeed, he had told her earlier, “Tonight, Mary, you can prepare for a long ride to Mount Pleasant and Shooter's Hill.”

Before bed, though, Parker was waiting to see the Professor.

“I have talked to our man at Scotland Yard,” said the chief lurker once he was settled in the armchair in front of Moriarty's desk. “This Crow is a hard man, one who as often as not walks alone, and there is little to make us doubt that it is yourself he seeks. There are certain files and papers that have been made available to him, and his staff have been asking questions.”

“And not getting answers, I trust.”

“I think not, but he is a worthy opponent.”

Parker went on to outline Crow's career, his theories regarding the work of police detection, which made him, to some extent, an unpopular figure at the Yard.

The lurker continued giving many small details of Crow's life, including a description of his rooms in King Street and the association with Mrs. Sylvia Cowles.

“She might be the fulcrum of his downfall, then,” mused the Professor.

Parker grunted. “Do not take him too much for granted. He is an avid reader and his shelves contain some strange selections for a man in his profession.”

“Such as?”

Parker pushed a sheet of paper across the desk. He knew Moriarty's theories well, for the Professor always held to the maxim, “Acquaint yourself with your man's bookshelves and you will know him.” The list was a detail of every book in Crow's rooms.

There were the usual titles of literary merit, though one or two showed a certain paradoxical romanticism in the detective. Among the more specialized volumes, he expected to see such things as Havelock Ellis'
The Criminal
; Guyot's
La Police
; a translation of Purkinje's 1823 lecture on fingerprint impressions; Bertillon's
Signaletic Instructions, Including the Theory and Practice of Anthropomeric Identification,
and a number of specialized journals, including a copy of the
Revue politique et littéraire
for April 28, 1883.

What he did not expect to find were such items as John Locke's
Essays Concerning Human Understanding,
the works of Aristotle, and Bacon's
The Advancement of Learning.

Moriarty pondered. This man Crow might well prove to be of similar mettle to Holmes. A trial of strength with Crow would mean a testing of the deductive method of logic, combined with scientific skills not yet fully practiced in England.

“Has he been around and about, or does he just sit and brood?” the Professor asked.