Victorian Villainy

by Michael Kurland

  “Thank you, but we cannot stay,” Moriarty said.

  “A small glass,” she said, pouring the umber liquid into three small stemmed glasses and handing us each one.

  Moriarty took a sip, and then another, and then stared down at his glass. “My God!” he said. “This is the ‘09 Languert D’or! I didn’t know there was any of this left in the world.”

  “I have a new gentleman friend,” she said. “His cellars, I believe, are unrivaled. Now, what can I do for you, my dear Professor?”

  “Vincent Tams, the newly-defunct Earl of Whitton,” Moriarty said. “Do you know of him?”

  “He died at the Paradol Club last week,” Mrs. Atterleigh said. “I believe he was alone in bed at the time, which was unlike him.”

  “He was a regular visitor to the demi-monde?”

  “Say rather he dwelled in its precincts,” Mrs. Atterleigh said.

  Moriarty turned to me. “Mrs. Atterleigh is my gazette to the fils du joi—the harlots, strumpets and courtesans of London,” he said. “They all trust her, and bring her their problems. And on occasion, when it violates no confidences, she passes on information to me.”

  I remained silent and sipped my port.

  “Was his lordship keeping a mistress?” Moriarty asked.

  “Always,” Mrs. Atterleigh replied. He changed them every three or four months, but he was seldom without.”

  “Do you know who was the current inamorata at the time of his death?”

  “Lenore,” she said. “Dark haired, slender, exotic looking, artistic; she is, I believe, from Bath.”

  “Will she speak with me?” Moriarty asked.

  “I’ll give you a note,” Mrs. Atterleigh said. “I would come with you, but I’m expecting company momentarily.”

  Moriarty rose to his feet. “Then we will not keep you. If you would be so kind—“

  Mrs. Atterleigh went to her writing-desk and composed a brief note, which she handed to Moriarty. “I have written the address on the outside,” she said. “Please come back to see me soon, when you don’t have to run off.”

  “I shall,” Moriarty said.

  She turned to me and stretched out a hand. “Mr. Barnett,” she said. “You are welcome here, too. Any time. Please visit.”

  “I would be honored,” I said.

  We left the house and walked down the street to hail a cab. As the vehicle took us back up the street again, I saw a black covered carriage stop in front of the house we had just left. A man in formal attire got out and went up the steps. Just as we passed he turned around to say something to his driver and I got a good look at his face. “Moriarty!” I said. “That was the prime minister!”

  “Ah, well,” Moriarty said. “He is reputed to have an excellent wine cellar.”

  The address we went to was in a mews off St. Humbert’s Square. A small woman with raven-black hair, bright dark eyes, and a cheerful expression threw the door opened at our ring. She was wearing a painter’s smock, and by the daubs of color on it I judged that the garment had seen its intended use. “Well?” she demanded.

  “Miss Lenore Lestrelle?” Moriarty asked.

  She looked us up and down, and didn’t seem impressed by what she saw. “I have enough insurance,” she said, “I don’t read books, and if a distant relative died and left me a vast fortune which you will procure for me for only a few pounds for your out-of-pocket expenses, I’m not interested, thank you very much. Does that cover it?”

  Moriarty handed her the note and she read it thoughtfully and then stepped aside. “Come in then.”

  She led us down a hallway to a long room at the rear which had been fixed up as an artist’s studio. A easel holding a large canvas on which paint had begun to be blocked in faced us as we entered the room. On a platform under the skylight a thin red-headed woman, draped in artfully arranged bits of gauze, stood with a Greek urn balanced on her shoulder.

  “Take a break, Mollie,” Miss Lestrelle said. “These gentleman want to talk to me.”

  Mollie jumped off the platform and pulled a housecoat around her shoulders. “I’ll be in the kitchen then, getting sommat to eat,” she said. “Call me when you need me.”

  A large wooden table piled high with stacks of books and clothing and assorted household goods stood against one wall, surrounded by similarly burdened straight back chairs. Miss Lestrelle waved in their general direction. “Take your coats off. Sit if you like,” she said. “Just pile the stuff on the floor.”

  “That’s all right, Miss Lestrelle,” Moriarty said.

  “Suit yourself,” she said. “Don’t bother with the ‘Miss Lestrelle.’ Lenore is good enough.”

  “My name is Professor Moriarty, and this is Mr. Barnett,” Moriarty told her.

  “So the letter said. And you want to know about Vincent. Why?”

  “We are enquiring into his death.”

  “I can’t be much help to you there. I didn’t see him for several days before he died.”

  “I thought he was—ah—“

  ”Keeping me? That he was. In a nice flat in as fashionable a section of town as is reasonable in the circumstances.” She waved a hand at the goods piled up on the table. “Those are my things from there. I’ve just finished moving out.”

  “Ah!” Moriarty said. “The brother evicted you?”

  “I’ve not seen the brother. This is where I do my work, and this is where I choose to be. I am an artist by choice and a harlot only by necessity. As there was no longer any reason to remain in that flat, I left.”

  A fair number of canvases were leaning stacked against the near wall, and Moriarty started flipping them forward and examining them one at a time. “You don’t seem overly broken up at his lordship’s death,” he commented.

  Lenore turned, her hands on her hips, and glared at Moriarty. After a moment she shrugged and sat on a high wooden stool by her easel. “It was not a love match,” she said. “Most men want their mistresses to provide love and affection, but Vincent wanted only one thing of his women: to be there when he called. He was not particularly faithful to the girl he was keeping at the moment, and he tired of her after a few months. As I’d been with Vincent for over three months, I expected to be replaced within the fortnight. The flat he kept, the girls were transitory.”

  “You had to be at the flat all day waiting for him?”

  “After ten at night,” she said. “If he hadn’t found another interest by ten or eleven, he wanted to have some one to come home to.”

  “Did he ever discuss his business affairs with you?”

  “Never.”

  “Ever have any visitors?”

  “Once we had another girl in for the evening, but aside from that none.”

  “How did you feel about that?”

  Lenore shrugged. “He was paying the bills,” she said.

  Moriarty looked up from his study of the paintings. “How would you describe his sexual tastes? You can speak freely. Mr. Barnett is a journalist, and therefore unshockable.”

  “I have no objection to talking about it if you have no objection to listening. Lord Tams was normal that way. No strange desires or positions or partners. He was just rather insistent. He felt that if he didn’t bed a woman every night he would die.”

  I couldn’t help but exclaim, “Every night?”

  “So he told me.” She looked at me. “you’re trying to solve his murder?”

  “That’s right,” I said.

  She turned to Moriarty. “And you’re Professor Moriarty. I’ve heard of you. Then I guess it’s all right.”

  Moriarty leaned forward like a hound dog catching a scent. “What’s all right?” he asked her.

  “Talking about Vincent. A person in my trade shouldn’t talk about her clients, it isn’t professional. And since I haven’t found a patron for my art yet, I can’t afford to take my departure from the sporting life.”

  “Has anyone else asked you to talk about Vincent?” Moriarty asked.

  “Oh, no,
” she said. “Not specifically. But there’s always men wanting to hear about other men. I figure there’s men who like to do it, men who like to talk about doing it, and men who like to hear about it. They come around and buy a girl dinner and ask all sorts of questions about who does what and what other men like to do and what do girls really like, and that sort of thing. Most of them claim to be writers, but I never heard of them. And where could they publish the stories I tell them?”

  “The intimate tastes of men are varied, and stretch from the mundane to the absurd,” Moriarty commented.

  “I’ll say,” Lenora agreed. “Why I could tell you—” She smiled. “But I won’t. Except about poor Vincent, which is why you’re here.”

  “Indeed,” Moriarty agreed. “So Vincent saw his prowess as necessary to his health?”

  “That he did. About three weeks ago, when for a couple of nights he couldn’t—perform—he went into a sulk like you’ve never seen. I tried cheering him up, told him he was just overtired, or ill, and would be up to snuff in no time.”

  “How did he take to your cheering words?” Moriarty asked.

  “He threw a fit. I thought he had gone crazy. He broke everything in the house that could be lifted, and some that couldn’t. He knocked me down, but that was an accident. I got between him and something he was trying to break. When everything was broken, he collapsed on the floor. The next morning when he left he seemed quite normal, as if nothing had happened. That afternoon a team of men from Briggs and Mendel came to repair the damage and replace the furniture and crockery.”

  “And how was he after that?”

  “I only saw him a couple of times after that. Once he came to the flat, and once he sent a carriage for me to join him at the Paradol Club. There’s an inconspicuous door around the side for the special friends of the members. He was unusually silent, but he had recovered from his trouble, whatever it was. He proved that.”

  “Did you notice any peculiar bruises on his body when you saw him?”

  “Bruises? Why, yes. On his neck. Two bright red marks, almost opposite each other. I asked him about them, and he laughed and said something about Shelley.”

  “Shelley?” I asked. “The poet?”

  “I suppose. He said something about an homage to Shelley, and then for a long time we didn’t speak. And then I left, and that was the last time I saw him.”

  “I see you’re heavily influenced by the French school,” Moriarty said.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Your art.” Moriarty gestured toward the paintings. “You’re quite good.”

  “Oh. Thank you.”

  “Will you sell me one?”

  “Will I—you don’t have to—”

  ”I want to. I’ll tell you what; there’s a gentleman who owns an art gallery in the Strand who owes me a favor. I’ll send him down to see you, look at your work.”

  “That would be very kind.”

  “Nonsense. After he’s seen your stuff he’ll owe me two favors. We’ll have to make up some tale about your past, London society is not ready for a harlot artist. It’s barely ready for a woman artist. You won’t make as much money as men who only paint half as well, but it’ll be better than you’re doing now.”

  Lenore had the wide-eyed look of a poor little girl at the pastry counter. “I don’t know what to say,” she said.

  “Say nothing until it happens,” Moriarty said. “And I’ll be back next week to pick out a painting for myself.”

  “Whichever you want, it’s yours,” Lenore said.

  “We’ll let Vincent’s brother pay for it,” Moriarty said. It’s only fitting.” He took her hand. “It’s been a pleasure meeting you,” he said. “You’ve been a great help.”

  We exited to the street, leaving behind a pleased Miss Lestrelle. “Moriarty,” I said, putting my collar up against the light drizzle that had begun while we were inside, “you shouldn’t do that.”

  “What?”

  “You know perfectly well what. Raising that girl’s hopes like that. I got a good look at her paintings and they were nothing but blobs of color splattered on the canvas. Why, from close up you almost couldn’t tell what the pictures represented.”

  Moriarty laughed. “Barnett,” he said, “you are a fixed point of light in an otherwise hazy world. Just trust me that Van Delding will not consider himself ill used to look at those canvases. The world of art has progressed in the last few decades, along with practically everything else. And we are going to have to accustom ourselves to even more rapid changes in the future.”

  “I hope you’re wrong,” I told him. “Few of the changes that I’ve observed over the last quarter-century have been for the better.”

  “Change is the natural condition of life,” Moriarty said. “Stones do not change of themselves.” He hailed a passing hansom cab and gave our address to the driver. “Well, Barnett,” he said as we started off, “what do you think?”

  “I think I’ve missed my lunch,” I said.

  “True,” he admitted. “I get rather single-minded when I’m concentrating on a problem.” He knocked on the roof and shouted to the driver to change our destination to the Savoy.

  “I don’t see as we’re any further along with discovering how Lord tams met his death,” I told him. “We’ve learned a lot about the character and habits of the deceased earl, but it doesn’t seem to have gotten us any closer to the way he died.”

  Moriarty glanced at me. “Scientists must train themselves to use rational deductive processes in solving whatever problems come their way, whether they involve distant galaxies or sordid crimes in Belgravia,.” he said. “And the deductive process begins with the collection of data. Only after we have all the facts can we separate the dross from the gold.”

  “Of course, Moriarty,” I said. “And what of this case? You must have some facts that are relevant to the problem at hand on which to set those rational processes to work. Lord Vincent Tams may have been a sexual glutton, but I fail to see how a knowledge of his grosser appetites of the flesh will advance our knowledge of how he died.”

  “Grosser appetites of the flesh?” Moriarty said. “Very good, Barnett; you outdo yourself. If you reflect on what we have learned these past few hours, you will realize that our time has not entirely been wasted.”

  “I am not aware that we have learned anything of value,” I said.

  Moriarty considered for a moment. “We have learned that the defunct earl spoke of Shelley,” he said, “and that by itself should tell us all. But we have learned more: We have learned that artistic talent can flower in the most unlikely places.”

  “Flower!” I said. “Pah!”

  Moriarty looked at me. “Who, for example, would suspect that such fine writing talent could emerge from a quondam reporter for the New York World?”

  “Pah!” I repeated.

  I had some errands which occupied me after lunch, and Moriarty was out when I returned to Russell Square. I dined alone, and was catching up on filing some accumulated newspaper clippings when the door to the study was flung open and a tall man with a scraggly beard, a dark, well-patched overcoat, and a blue cap strode in. Convinced that I was being accosted by a dangerous anarchist, I rose, trying to remember where I had put my revolver.

  “Ah, Barnett,” the anarchist said in the most familiar voice I know, “I hope there is some dinner left. I have been forced to drink more than I should of a variety of vile liquors, and I didn’t trust the food.”

  “Moriarty!” I exclaimed. “I will ring for cook to prepare something at once. Where have you been?”

  “Patience,” Moriarty said, taking off his long gaberdine overcoat. He pulled off the beard and reached into his mouth to remove two gutta-percha pads from his cheeks. Then a few quick swipes over his face with a damp sponge, and he was once again recognizable. “Food first, and perhaps a cup of coffee. Then I’ll tell you of my adventures.”

  I rang and told the girl to have cook prepare a tray for the profe
ssor, and she returned with it inside of five minutes. Moriarty ate rapidly, seemingly unaware of what he was eating, his eyes fixed on the far wall. I had seen these symptoms before. He was working out some problem, and I knew better than to interrupt. If it was a difficult one he might spend hours, or even days, with a pencil and note-pad in front of him, drinking countless cups of coffee and consuming quantities of the rough-cut Virginia tobacco he favored in one of his briar pipes, and staring off into space before he again became conscious of his surroundings.

  But this time the problem had worked itself out by the time he finished the last of the roast, and he poured himself a small glass of cognac and waved the bottle in my direction. “This was laid in the cask twenty years before we met,” he said, “and it has aged well. Let me pour you a dram!”

  “Not tonight, Moriarty,” I said. “Tell me what you have discovered!”

  “Ah!” he said. “There was a fact in the new Earl of Whitton’s statement to us that begged for examination, and I have spent the afternoon and evening examining it.”

  “What fact?” I asked.

  “How many clubs are you a member of, my friend?”

  I thought for a second. “Let’s see...The Century, the American Service Club, Whites, the Bellona; that’s it at present.”

  “And you have, no doubt, an intimate knowledge of two or three others through guest membership, or visiting friends and the like?”

  “I suppose so.”

  “And of these half-dozen clubs you are well acquainted with, how many have club doctors?”

  “I’m sure they all have physician members,” I said.

  “Your reasoning is impeccable,” Moriarty said. “But how many of them have doctors on staff?”

  “Why, none,” I said. “Why would a club keep a doctor on staff?”

  “My question exactly,” Moriarty said. “But Dr. Papoli was described by both Lord Tams and Inspector Lestrade as the club doctor, which implies a professional relationship between the doctor and the club. And a further question: if, for some reason, the directors of a club decided to hire a doctor, would they pick one who, as Lord Tams told us, lacks a British medical degree?”