Victorian Villainy

by Michael Kurland

  “Young,” Mr. Maws pronounced. “His attire is a bit on the messy side.”

  “Ah!” Moriarty said. “Well, I’ll see him in my office. Give us a few seconds to get settled, and then bring him along.”

  “Very good, Professor,” Mr. Maws said, and he bowed slightly and backed out of the room.

  “The nobility has a sobering effect on Mr. Maws,” Moriarty commented, as we crossed the hall to the office.

  “Who is it, Professor?” I asked. “A client?”

  Moriarty passed me the card. “Certainly he desires to become one,” he said. “Else why would he come calling at this time of night?”

  I examined the card to see what had fascinated Moriarty. Printed on the face was: Lord Everett Tams, and underneath that: Earl of Whitton. There was nothing else. “Then you don’t know who he is?”

  “No.” Moriarty went to the bookshelf by his desk and reached for the copy of Burke’s Peerage, then took his hand away. “And we don’t have time to look him up, either, if those are his footsteps I hear.”

  I sat down on a chair by the window and awaited events.

  A few seconds later a harried-looking man of thirty-five or so in a rumpled dark suit burst through the door and stared at both our faces before deciding which of us he had come to see. “Professor Moriarty,” he said, addressing my companion, who had lowered himself into the massive leather chair behind his desk, “I am in the deepest trouble. You must help me!”

  “Of course, your lordship. Sit down, compose yourself, and tell me your problem. I think you will find this chair by the desk comfortable.”

  His lordship dropped into the chair and looked from one to the other of us, his hands clasped tightly in front of him.

  “This is Mr. Barnett, my companion and confidant,” Moriarty told the distraught lord. Anything you choose to tell me will be safe with him.”

  “Yes, of course,” Lord Tams said. “It’s not that. Only—I’m not sure how to begin.”

  “Let me see if I can help,” Moriarty said, leaning forward and resting his chin on his tented hands. His hawk-like eyes looked Lord Tams over closely for a few seconds. “You are unmarried. Your older brother died unexpectedly quite recently, leaving you heir to the title and, presumably, estates of the Earldom of Whitton. Your new obligations make it necessary for you to give up your chosen profession of journalism, a result that is not altogether pleasing to you. You and your brother were not on the best of terms, although nothing irreconcilable had passed between you.”

  His lordship’s hands dropped to his side and he stared at Moriarty. The professor has that effect on some people.

  Moriarty sat up. “There are some other indications that are suggestive but not certain,” he said. “As to the specific problem that brought you here, I’m afraid you’ll have to tell me what it is.”

  “Who has spoken to you about me?” Lord Tams demanded.

  “No one, your lordship, I assure you,” Moriarty said. “You carry the indications about for the trained eye to read.”

  “Really?” Lord Tams rested one hand firmly on the edge of the desk and pointed an accusing finger at Moriarty with the other. “The death of my brother? The fact that I am unmarried—and a journalist? Come now, sir!”

  Moriarty leaned forward, his eyes bright. “It is, after all, my profession, my lord,” he said. “My ability to see what others cannot is, presumably, what brought you to me. Now, what is your problem?”

  Lord Tams took a deep breath, or perhaps it was a sigh. “Your surmises are correct, Professor Moriarty,” he said. “I am unmarried. My profession, if such I may call it, has been writing free-lance articles on economic subjects for various London newspapers and magazines. When an editor wants a piece on free trade, or Servian war reparations, he calls on me. I have recently—very recently—come into the title, inheriting it from my elder brother Vincent, who died suddenly. It is his death that has brought me here to seek your assistance.”

  I leaned forward in my chair. The thrill of being in at the beginning of one of Moriarty’s little exercises does not diminish with time. “Your brother was murdered?” I asked.

  “My brother’s death was, and is, completely unexplainable, Mr. Barnett,” Lord Tams replied.

  Moriarty clapped his hands together. “Really?” he said. “Come, this is quite—interesting. Tell me everything you know of the affair.”

  “The circumstances are simple. Vincent had gone to one of his clubs—the Paradol in Montague Street—to stay for a few days. On the morning of the third day a waiter went in to bring Vincent his breakfast, which he had ordered the night before, and found my brother dead in his bed. He was lying on his back, his face and chest unnaturally red, his hands were raised as if to ward off some unseen threat, and a look of terror was fixed on his face. The club doctor, a Dr. Papoli, examined him and said it was apoplexy; but, as the doctor is from somewhere in the Balkans, and lacks a British medical degree, nobody seemed to take him too seriously. The police doctor strongly disagreed, although he could not come up with an alternate diagnosis. ”

  “This was at the Paradol, you say? Did your brother commonly frequent the Paradol Club?”

  “He has been a member for years,” his lordship said, “going perhaps six or seven times a year. But for the past three months he had been going twice a month, and staying for two or three days each time.”

  “Are you also a member?”

  “I am a permanent guest of my brother’s,” his lordship said. “I occasionally use the reading room, but as for the club’s other—functions—I found that they were not to my taste.”

  “I don’t believe I know the club,” I said to Moriarty.

  “It is for, ah, specialized interests,” Moriarty told me. “It is where rich men go to meet with complaisant women. It is an upper-class rendezvous for what the French call le demi-monde. The French seem to have a word for everything, have you noticed?”

  “It is so,” Lord Tams agreed. “The Paradol Club exists for those gentlemen who enjoy the company of women of, let us say, loose morals but impeccable manners. It is not the only establishment of its type in London, but it is one of the most exclusive, expensive, and discreet.”

  “Did your brother express his taste for these sorts of amusements in any other way?” Moriarty asked.

  “His whole life revolved around the pleasures of the senses. It’s funny, really; Mama was always pleased that Vincent didn’t go in for blood sports. She never guessed the sort of sport in which he did indulge.”

  Moriarty leaned back in his chair and fixed his gaze on Lord Tams. “When was the last time you saw your brother?” he asked.

  “The evening before he died.”

  “Ah! Under what circumstances?”

  “I went to see him at the club to ask a favor of him. I am—I was—getting married. I wanted to advance some money from my allowance.”

  “Allowance?” Moriarty asked. “Then you had nothing on your own?”

  “Upon our father’s death the entire estate went to Vincent. The house and lands were, of course, entailed, but Vincent also inherited everything else. It was inadvertent. Vincent was fourteen years older than I, and the will was drawn two years before I was born. My parents did not expect another child, and no provision was made in the will for the unexpected. My father died suddenly shortly before my second birthday, and had not gotten around to revising the will.”

  “I see,” Moriarty said.

  “My brother has actually been quite generous,” Lord Tams said. “The income of a free-lance journalist is precarious at best. Vincent gave me an allowance and added a few odd bob here and there when needed.”

  “How did you feel about his—indulgences?”

  “It was not my place to approve or disapprove. Vincent’s penchants were his own business. His habits, as he kept reminding me, hurt no one. His view was that his companions were all willing, and profited from the relationship. I remonstrated with him, pointing out that the path of vi
ce spirals ever downward, and that the further along it one travels, the harder it is to get off.”

  “He didn’t listen?”

  “He was amused.”

  “Yes. And you went to see him because you’re getting married?”

  “I have been engaged to Miss Margot Whitsome, the poetess, for the past two years. We were to have been married next week.”

  “Were to have been? Then the ceremony has been called off?”

  “Delayed, rather.”

  “By the poetess?”

  “By me. How can I allow any lady of breeding to marry me with this hanging over my head?”

  “Ah!” Moriarty said. “You are suspected of murdering your brother?”

  Our newly-ennobled visitor stood and walked to the window, staring out into the dark evening drizzle. “No one has said anything directly,” he said. “But I have been questioned by Scotland Yard twice, each time a bit more sharply. My fellow journalists are beginning to regard me as a potential story rather than a colleague. An inspector named Lestrade has been up to see my editor at the Evening Standard to ask if I’ve ever written anything on tropical poisons.”

  “How imaginative of him,” Moriarty commented.

  Our visitor turned sharply. “Professor Moriarty, I have been told that you can solve the unsolvable; that you can see clearly where others find only darkness. I hope this is true, for otherwise I see nothing but darkness ahead of me,” he said. “I want you to find out what happened to my brother. If he was murdered, I want you to find out who did it. If he met his death by some natural means, I want you to discover the agency that brought it about. My peace of mind and my future happiness depend upon your success! You can name your fee!”

  Moriarty rose and took Lord Tams’ hand. “First let me solve your little problem,” he said, “then we’ll discuss the price.”

  After some further reassurances, Moriarty sent Lord Tams back out into Russell Square, assuring him that he would have some word for him soon.

  “All right,” Moriarty,” I said when we were again alone. “By what feat of legerdemain did you deduce all that? Did you pick the man’s pocket as he entered the room?”

  “Deduce what?” Moriarty asked, settling back down in his chair. “Oh, you mean—”

  “Yes, I mean,” I agreed.

  “Nothing extraordinary,” Moriarty said. “That he was unmarried I deduced from the state of his clothing. No respectable woman would let her husband go out with his suit unpressed and a tear in the jacket pocket. That also told me that he does not yet employ the services of a valet. That his older brother died quite recently I deduced from his calling card. The lower line of type was of a slightly different font than the upper, also the spacing between the two lines was slightly off. The second line was added, probably by one of those small hand presses that you find around printer’s offices. The missing valet and the calling card surely indicate that he became the Earl of Whitton quite recently. And he hasn’t come into the estate quite yet, or he surely would have had new cards printed, and probably bought a new suit. The hand press also pointed me in the direction of his profession. The column proof that was stuffed into his right-hand jacket pocket completed that deduction.”

  “His suit looked fine to me,” I commented.

  “Yes, it would,” Moriarty said. “Anything else?”

  “How did you know it was an older brother who died? Why not his father?”

  “If it were his father, then he would have expected to inherit at some time, and the conflict between career and station would have been resolved long since. No, it was clearly the unexpected death of an older brother that has created this dilemma for him.”

  “And the antipathy between him and his brother?”

  “A glance at his right sleeve showed me the pinholes where a black armband had been. The band had not been tacked on, and the pinholes had not enlarged with wear. His period of mourning for his brother was brief. Surely that suggests a certain coolness between them?”

  “But not irreconcilable?”

  “Certainly not. After all, he did wear the armband.”

  “Ah!” I said.

  The next morning Moriarty disappeared before breakfast and returned just as I was finishing my coffee. “I have been to Scotland Yard,” he said, drawing off his coat and hanging it on a peg by the door. “This exercise is promising indeed. I have sent the mummer out to procure copies of the last two months’ London Daily Gazette. The crime news is more complete, if a bit more lurid, in the Gazette. Is there more coffee?”

  “What did you learn at Scotland Yard?” I asked, pouring him a cup.

  “The inquest has been postponed at the request of the medical office, who are still trying to determine the cause of death. The defunct earl may have suffered from apoplexy, as diagnosed by Dr. Papoli, probably on the basis of the red face, but that did not cause his death. There are indications of asphyxiation, but nothing that could have caused it, and two deep puncture marks on his neck. The two pathologists who have been consulted can agree on nothing except their disagreement with Dr. Papoli’s findings.”

  I put down my coffee cup. “Puncture marks—my dear Moriarty!”

  Moriarty sipped his coffee. “No, Barnett,” he said. “They are not the marks of a vampire, and neither are they the punctures of a viper. They are too wide apart, coming low on the neck and almost under the ear on each side of his head. There are some older puncture marks also, in odd places; on the inner thighs and under the arms. They do not seem to have contributed to his death, but what purpose they served is unknown.”

  Moriarty drank a second cup of coffee, staring at the fireplace, apparently deep in thought. Then Mummer Tolliver, Moriarty’s midget-of-all-work, came in with bundles of newspapers, and Moriarty began slowly going through them. “It is as I remembered,” he said finally. “Look here, Barnett: the naked body of a young man was found floating in the Thames last week, with two unexplained puncture marks.”

  “In his neck?” I asked.

  “In his upper arms. And here—three weeks previously the body of a girl, clad only in her shift, was discovered in a field in Lower Norwood. She had what the Gazette describes as “strange bruises” on her legs.”

  “Is that significant?” I asked.

  “Scotland Yard doesn’t think so,” Moriarty said. After a moment’s reflection he put down the paper and jumped to his feet. “Come, Barnett!” he cried.

  “Where?” I asked, struggling into my jacket.

  “Since we cannot get satisfactory answers as to the manner of Lord Vincent Tams’ death, we must inquire into the manner of his life. We are going to Abelard Court.”

  “I thought the Paradol Club was in Montague Street.”

  “It is,” Moriarty said, clapping his hat on his head and taking up his stick. “But we go to Abelard Court. Come along!”

  We waved down a passing hansom cab, Moriarty shouted an address to the driver, and we were off. “I must tell you, Barnett,” Moriarty said, turning to face me in the cab. “We are going to visit a lady who is a good friend and is very important to me. Society would forbid us calling her a ‘lady,’ but society is a fool.”

  “Important to you how?” I asked.

  Moriarty stared at me for a moment. “We have shared events in our lives that have drawn us very close,” he said. “I trust her as fully as I trust myself.”

  The address the hansom cab let us off in front of was a paradigm of middle-class virtue, as was the lady’s maid who answered the door, though her costume was a bit too French for the more conservative household.

  “Is Mrs. Atterleigh at home?” Moriarty asked. “Would you tell her that Professor Moriarty and a friend are calling?”

  The maid curtseyed and showed us to a drawing room that was decorated in pink and light blue, and filled with delicate, finely-detailed furniture that bespoke femininity. Any male would feel rough and clumsy and out of place in this room.

  After a brief wait, Mrs Atterleigh en
tered the drawing room. One of those ageless mortals who, in form and gesture, encompass the mystery that is woman, she might have been nineteen, or forty, I cannot say. And no man would care. Her long brown hair framed a perfect oval face and intelligent brown eyes. She wore a red silk house dress that I cannot describe, not being adept at such things, but I could not but note that it showed more of her than I had ever seen of a woman to whom I was not married. I did not find it offensive.

  “Professor!” she said, holding out her arms.

  Moriarty stepped forward. “Beatrice!”

  She kissed him firmly on the cheek and released him. “It has been too long,” she said.

  “I have a favor to ask,” Moriarty said.

  “I, who owe you everything, can refuse you nothing,” she replied.

  Moriarty turned. “This is my friend and colleague, Mr. Barnett,” he said.

  Beatrice took my hand and firmly shook it. “Any friend of Professor Moriarty has a call on my affections,” she said. “And a man whom Professor Moriarty calls ‘colleague’ must be worthy indeed.”

  “Ahem,” I said.

  She released my hand and turned to again clasp both of Moriarty’s hands in hers. “Professor Moriarty rescued me from a man who, under the guise of benevolence, was the incarnation of evil.”

  I resisted the impulse to pull out my notebook then and there. “Who?” I asked.

  “The monster who was my husband, Mr. Gerald Atterleigh,” she replied.

  “Moriarty, you never—” I began.

  “It was before you joined my organization,” Moriarty said. “And I didn’t discuss it later because there were aspects of the events that are better forgotten.”

  “Thanks to Professor Moriarty, Gerald Atterleigh will no longer threaten anyone on this earth,” Mrs. Atterleigh said. “And I pity the denizens of Hell that must deal with him.”

  Moriarty let go of Mrs. Atterleigh’s hands, looking self-conscious for the first time since I had known him. “It was an interesting problem,” he said.

  Mrs. Atterleigh went to the sideboard and took a decanter from the tantalus. “It is not too early, I think, for a glass of port,” she said, looking questioningly at us.