The Revenge of Moriarty

JOHN GARDNER

PEGASUS CRIME

NEW YORK LONDON

For my wife Margaret

Contents

Author's Foreword

LONDON AND AMERICA:

Friday, 25 May 1894 – Friday, 22 August 1896
(Crow on the trail)

LIVERPOOL AND LONDON:

Monday, 28 September – Tuesday, 29 September 1896
(Reunion)

LONDON:

Wednesday, 30 September – Thursday, 29 October 1896
(A desirable residence)

LONDON:

Thursday, 29 October – Monday, 16 November 1896
(The art of robbery)

LONDON:

Monday, 16 November – Monday, 23 November 1896
(The cracking of the Cornhill crib)

LONDON AND PARIS:

Saturday, 28 November 1896 – Monday, 8 March 1897
(The robbery of art)

LONDON AND ROME:

Tuesday, 9 March – Monday, 19 April 1897
(A fall from grace and a Roman interlude)

LONDON, ANNECY AND PARIS:

Tuesday, 20 April – Monday, 3 May 1897
(The Spanish lesson)

LONDON AND PARIS:

Tuesday, 4 May – Friday, 14 May 1897
(Vice-versa)

Envoi

Appendix

Glossary

Author's foreword

In the summer of 1969 three bulky leather-bound volumes changed hands in the sitting-room of a small house in Kensington. I was not to know then that these books, crammed with indecipherable script, maps and diagrams, were to take me – almost physically at times – back into the dark, brutal and secret places of the Victorian underworld.

It is now common knowledge that these books are the coded journals of James Moriarty – the diabolically cunning, highly intelligent criminal mastermind of the late nineteenth century.

The known felon who handed the books to me, on that hot and heavy night six years ago, was called Albert George Spear, and his claim was that they had been in his family since his grandfather's day – his grandfather having been one of Moriarty's principal lieutenants.

I have already told the story, in the foreword to
The Return of Moriarty
, of how the cipher to the journals was finally broken, and how my publishers soon realized that it would be impossible to offer these extraordinary documents to the public in their original form. For one thing, they present grave legal problems, for another there are incidents contained in them of such an evil character that, even in this permissive age, they could be accounted a corrupting influence.

There is also the small possibility that the journals might just be a hoax, perpetrated by Spear himself, or even by his grandfather, who figures so largely in them.

I personally do not believe this. However, I think it quite possible that Moriarty, the criminal mastermind, has, in writing the journals, sought to put himself in the best possible light, and with consummate cunning may not have told the entire truth. In some places the journals clash strongly with other evidence – most notably the published records of Dr John H. Watson, friend and chronicler of the great Mr Sherlock Holmes; in others with the evidence I have been able to amass from the private papers of the late Superintendent Angus McCready Crow – the Metropolitan Police officer assigned to the Moriarty case during the closing years of the last century.

Taking these things into account, my publishers very wisely commissioned me to write a series of novels based on the
Moriarty Journals
, occasionally altering names, dates and places wherever this seemed advisable.

It struck us at the time that these books, so shaped from the journals, would be of great interest, not simply to addicts of Dr Watson's memoirs of Sherlock Holmes, but also to the more general reader who might well be entertained by the many aspects of the life, times, adventures, organization and methods of the supremely devilish villain whom Holmes once called the Napoleon of Crime.

The first volume,
The Return of Moriarty
, was concerned with, among other things, the true identity of Professor James Moriarty; the structure of his criminal society; his own version of what really occurred when he met Sherlock Holmes at the Reichenbach Falls (described by Watson in
The Final Problem
); his struggle to maintain a grip on the London underworld of the early 1890s; his alliance with four of the great continental criminals – Wilhelm Schleifstein of Berlin; Jean Grisombre of Paris; Luigi Sanzionare of Rome, and Esteban Segorbe of Madrid; and the, hitherto unpublished, details of a dastardly plot against the British Royal Family.

This present volume continues the story, though it can, of course, be read as a separate entity.

Once again I have to thank Miss Bernice Crow, of Cairndow, Argyllshire, great-granddaughter of the late Superintendent Angus McCready Crow, for the use of her great-grandfather's journals, notebooks, personal correspondence and jottings.

I also have to thank the many friends and colleagues who have given sterling support to this venture in ways too numerous to catalogue here. In particular my thanks go to Enid Gordon, Christopher Falkus, Donald Rumbelow, Anthony Gould-Davies, Simon Wood, Jonathan Clowes, Ann Evans, Dean and Shirley Dickensheet, John Bennett Shaw, Ted Schultz, Jon Lellenberg, and many others who prefer, sometimes for obvious reasons, to remain nameless.

John Gardner,

Rowledge,

Surrey.

1975.

When an individual's success, or his status, or his recognition is hindered or threatened, he usually thinks in terms of some person or persons hindering his success or threatening his status, or discouraging his recognition. Thus he may try to revenge himself by removing the cause – in this case, the person concerned.

The Principles of Criminology

Edwin H. Sutherland & Donald R. Cressey.

Sometime when you have a year or two to spare I commend to you the study of Professor Moriarty.

Sherlock Holmes in
The Valley of Fear
.

LONDON AND AMERICA:

Friday, 25 May 1894 – Friday 22 August 1896

(
Crow on the trail
)

At a little before five o'clock on a Friday afternoon towards the end of May, in that chilly spring of 1894, a hansom drew up outside 221
B
Baker Street and deposited a tall, craggy man, straight of bearing and with that authoritative stamp about him which marks a person who has spent his life with either the military or the police.

In this case it was the police, for he was none other than Inspector Angus McCready Crow of the Criminal Investigation Department of Scotland Yard.

An hour or so earlier, Crow had stood at his window in the Police Office, looking out across the busy river, a telegram stretched tight between the thumbs and forefingers of his hands.

The message was brief and to the point –

I would be grateful if you could call upon me at five o'clock today
.

The signature was that of Sherlock Holmes, and, as he read the missive, Crow reflected that there was only one subject he wished to discuss with the great detective.

His hands trembled slightly – an emotional reaction of hope. Crow mistrusted emotion, especially when he was a prey to it. His business stood or fell by facts, logic and the law. Logic told him now that, though Holmes expressed a desire to see him, it was not certain they would talk of Professor James Moriarty.

On the last occasion the two men had spoken, Holmes had given Crow short shrift on that matter.

‘My feud with Professor Moriarty ended a long time ago at the Reichenbach Falls,' he had said bluntly. ‘There is no more for anyone else's ears.'

That was a few weeks past: before Crow had proved beyond doubt that Moriarty lived, and still ran his criminal empire from the secret headquarters in Limehouse; before he had become aware of the meeting of European criminal leaders, with Moriarty at their head; before the disgraceful business at Sandringham, when Crow had come within an ace of putting the evil Professor behind bars.

Now he stood in front of the Baker Street house, his hand reaching for the knocker. Moriarty had gone: disappeared as though he had never been, and the sense of failure and frustration at so narrowly missing the villain was constantly in the forefront of Crow's mind, often blotting out other matters – including his own forthcoming marriage.

The faithful Mrs Hudson answered Crow's knock, told him that he was expected and led him upstairs where he found the great man awaiting him in a mood of high excitement.

‘Come in and sit yourself down, my dear fellow. Here in the basket chair,' Holmes said quite cheerfully, leading Crow over to the fireplace of his somewhat cluttered sitting room.

Having asked Mrs Hudson if she would be so good as to bring them some tea, the consulting detective waited until the door was closed before seating himself in his favourite place and fixing Crow with a steady gaze.

‘I trust you are not inconvenienced,' he began. ‘I see that you have come straight from your office.'

Crow must have looked surprised, for Holmes smiled indulgently and added, ‘It is not hard to deduce, for I see that you have some specks of pink blotting paper adhering to your cuff. If my eyes do not deceive me, it is pink blotting of the type usually found on the official desks of the Metropolitan Police. It is in small details like this, Mr Crow, that we lead criminals to their rightful fate.'

Crow laughed and nodded. ‘Indeed, Mr Holmes, I have come directly from my office at the Yard. Just as I know that earlier this afternoon you were at the Foreign Office.'

It was Holmes's turn to look amazed. ‘Astute, Crow. Pray tell me how you deduced that.'

‘Not a deduction, I'm afraid, sir. It just so happened that my sergeant, a lad named Tanner, was passing down Whitehall and spotted you. When I told him that I was off to see you, he remarked upon it.'

Holmes looked a little put out, but was soon back in his excited mood. ‘I particularly wished to see you at this hour. My good friend and colleague, Dr Watson, is at present in the process of selling his practice in Kensington, with a view to moving back here before either of us is much older. He is, of course, a constant and welcome visitor, though at the moment I know he is engaged until after eight tonight, therefore he will not disturb us. You see, my dear Crow, what I have to say to you is for your ears alone and those of no other living being.'

At this point Mrs Hudson arrived with the tea, so further conversation was abandoned until the cheering brew had been poured and they had helped themselves from the array of jams and interesting cakes which the housekeeper provided.

Once they were again alone, Holmes continued his monologue. ‘I have only recently returned to London,' he began. ‘You may be aware that I have been occupied in the past weeks with that thoroughly unwholesome business concerning the banker, Mr Crosby. But then I do not suppose you are much interested in red leeches?'