by Sam Christer
‘Indeed Sirius was, and indeed they did have local men. But apparently not in sufficient numbers or excellence. Six of our guards were killed when ground security was breached in the middle of the night. Three unarmed domestic servants were also murdered and numerous other staff horribly injured.’ He took a long and slow breath to calm himself, then added, ‘Most disturbingly of all, it seems Mr Gunn had been corrupted by the Chans and helped facilitate the attack.’
‘Sirius?’ I was aghast. ‘I cannot believe—’
‘You must believe. I discovered his treachery when the Chinese, along with support from their British gangs, took almost overnight control of a number of our betting syndicates and racecourse operations. My men captured one of their ringleaders and under torture, extreme torture I might add, he gave up Gunn’s involvement in return for his own miserable life.’
‘And what now? Why are you here and what must be done?’
‘Revenge should never be rushed.’ He rounded the desk and sat in the professor’s chair. ‘For the moment I must take control of all affairs and act astutely on my brother’s behalf. More immediately, the chateau was looted of a great many treasures and it is not inconceivable that Chan will also seek to plunder the historic and invaluable art, jewellery and sculptures that lie within these walls.’
‘Which, I suppose, is how I am to help?’
‘Do not suppose anything. You are not blessed with either the intelligence or experience to do it. Miss Breed has been recalled and I have something else in mind for the pair of you. Something more befitting your undeniable talents.’
Five days to Execution
Newgate, 13 January 1900
The gaoler who opened my door was a man in his twenties.
When he saw me standing there, bold as brass, facing him down, he almost gagged out of fear and revulsion. I was no sight for the weak hearted. Immediately, he shut the door and whistled for help.
I braced myself and waited, covered in my own excrement. My pot had not been emptied for about a day so I had smeared the entire contents over my clothes, hair, hands and even my face.
The screws would see this abominable act as disrespectful of them. In reality, it was designed to be the ultimate distraction from the soot and dirt of the chimney.
Feet thundered down the corridor. My door opened and gaolers flooded in. They pulled my chains until I fell, then dragged me across the floor and threw bucket after bucket of water on me. I could not catch my breath. Runny excrement filled my eyes and mouth, blinded and choked me.
They scrubbed me hard with long-handled yard brooms and beat me with them. One brush was jammed across my throat, while a young screw pulled off my clothes and threw them out onto the landing, retching while he did it. Then he kicked me like he was learning his trade, an apprenticeship in battering inmates.
Others cheered him on then scraped their brushes over my naked body, twisting my chains and flipping me over like a roasting boar. More icy water came my way. Metal buckets were flung and banged my head.
The young screw lifted my chin to see I was still alive, then let it fall, causing my face hit the cesspit floor like a dropped egg. As I lay there, abuse piled up on me.
‘Dirty bastard!’
‘Filthy fucking pig.’
‘You’re worse than a bleedin’ animal, Lynch.’
The shouting died down and faded into complete silence.
I lifted my head.
Johncock was stood over me.
I got to my knees and retched water.
He kicked me down again and spat on me.
I rose again, needing to retch more water or I would choke.
Johncock stamped on my planted hands. Ground his boots on my knuckles.
I bit through the pain until he stopped.
‘I warned you, Lynch. Warned you right at the start of your stay here about what would happen if you crossed my line.’ He drew back his right foot and swung it at my head.
There was no pain, just dizziness. A million bees buzzed inside my ears and swarmed my brain.
I sank into a sweet world of blackness.
Derbyshire, November 1899
The days that followed my initial encounter with James Moriarty proved tense and frustrating. He calculated that the Chans had the upper hand and would use it to brutally assert themselves.
They did.
The next week was a bloodbath. The Moriarties lost almost all their betting operations. To those caught on the ground, it must have seemed a sad surrender, for rather than sending extra men to support them, James pulled his best lieutenants out. He simply left the weakest of the lambs to be slaughtered by the most vicious of Chan’s wolves.
And then came an even bigger blow. Ten days after being badly wounded in America, Alexander Rathbone died from his injuries.
Word of the kind and gentle American’s demise passed around the house in Derbyshire. All our spirits fell. Surrey took charge: people were notified, curtains closed and black clothes worn out of respect and a genuine affection for him. It broke my heart to see Elizabeth forsake the brighter colours she had only just started wearing again and retreat into drab funereal cloth.
The following day, we all travelled to the professor’s house in Primrose Hill, leaving the residence in Dovedale guarded by an astonishing number of men that James Moriarty had mustered.
That night, in a series of carefully orchestrated attacks, James used the best of the lieutenants he had withdrawn from earlier battles to simultaneously destroy almost all of the Chans’ London and Manchester shipping businesses.
Buildings were burned to the ground and containers looted. Key figures within the Chinese organisation were murdered and their corpses dumped in the Thames and Irwell. Before first light, police in the pay of the Moriarties swooped on houses and factories in the East End of London and arrested generations of Chinese who had illegally settled in England. Two of Lee Chan’s cousins were followed to a laundry that acted as cover for their drugs trade and arrested.
The message was clear: any violence and disruption by the Chans would be met by an even more devastating response.
James chose this moment to send a personal letter to Lee Chan. It was an offer to halt hostilities, to meet on neutral territory and broker peace. ‘A form of normalised business must be resumed,’ he told us. ‘Wise heads know when to pour brandy, not blood.’
Not unsurprisingly, his offer was met with scepticism. Chan sent word back. He would only agree to such a gathering if it was at a place of his choosing and Elizabeth were placed in the custody of his men as an insurance against foul play.
The first I heard of this demand was when Moriarty walked with me to the carriages, both horse-drawn and motorised, in the yard of the professor’s London residence.
‘Preposterous,’ I exclaimed. ‘He cannot seriously expect you to expose her to such a danger, especially without the exchange of his wife.’
‘He does, and despite my protests he is unmovable on this tenet. In order to broker peace, it is imperative I comply,’ he replied. ‘The time and place has been arranged.’
I grabbed his arm. ‘Then you must reconsider.’
He stared at my hand. ‘I must do only what I wish. And you, my dear fellow, must remember your place.’
I took my hand away. ‘Then allow me to protect her.’
He let out a sigh of aggravation. ‘That is not your role. Tonight, you will be with me, Moran and his assistant Frederick at the peace meeting. They are my most trusted men and you are Brogan’s.’
‘And Elizabeth? Who will be looking after her safety?’
He rested a hand on the brass end of the black cane he was carrying and spoke wearily. ‘Miss Breed will attend to her. Thackeray will deliver them both and he will also be on hand to ensure their safe return. The Chans will believe Breed is Elizabeth’s maid and that will be to our advantage. Moran will also send a contingent of his men to populate the street and intervene if necessary.’
‘Forgiv
e my impertinence, but I am not happy about these arrangements. I would much prefer it if I—’
‘Goddamn you, man! Neither your happiness nor your preferences matter to me! Understand this: Chan has stipulated his non-negotiable terms for the meeting and for the moment we must be seen to acquiesce. Now let us make haste.’ He pointed his cane towards the carriages. ‘We will not take the Benz tonight, as we do not wish to attract attention. I will inform you of your duties en route.’
‘No.’
‘I beg your pardon?’
‘I said no. I am not leaving until I have seen Elizabeth. Are you aware of what she has endured? What we have both been through?’
‘I am quite aware of it. My concerns at the moment are for lives that may be saved, not lives already lost.’
I swallowed my anger and strode off towards our cottage.
Moriarty shouted at my back. ‘She and Breed have already left.’
I stopped in my tracks. Had all this really been done and dusted behind my back? So swiftly? So slickly and irreversibly?
I turned and approached him. ‘Under great duress, I presume.’
His eyes narrowed. ‘Elizabeth understood that she is key to this meeting because of her perceived closeness to my brother and she very properly accepted her responsibilities. She also understood that you would be unduly concerned about her, even angered to the point of being impudent.’
‘Can you blame me?’
‘I forgive you. But only because I know such a reaction is born out of loyalty to her. Tonight you and your loyalty to my family will be needed. Simeon, my patience is wearing thin; may we please make progress?’
I knew I had no option but to board the carriage.
Once it was filled with Moriarty, the big young oaf Frederick and the older man Moran, the horses were whipped into life and we headed south-east across London to the meeting point. I was informed that the intended venue was a large, mid-terraced house in Harley Street, owned by a friend of Chan, a surgeon who worked at St Bartholomew’s.
As we travelled, the full details of James’s plan were disclosed. He told us there would be face-to-face discussions between him and Chan. The parties would then retire to separate rooms to consider their positions. At this point, Moriarty’s men, armed with pistols, knives and iron bars would climb into the house through the connected attic that served the whole row of dwellings.
‘They will kill all the gang leaders and Lee Chan. By removing the head of the foraging snake the vipers in the nest will perish.’
‘And what if your men cannot get into the attic?’ I asked.
‘They are already in. Once Chan named the venue, we purchased access from a nearby resident. The Chinaman has men patrolling the street, of course, but they stand out like sore thumbs and are not much loved by the locals. We already have twenty of our people in position.’
‘And throughout all this, where is Elizabeth being held?’
‘She and Miss Breed will be detained in lodgings in Clerkenwell, a couple of miles from Harley Street. As there is every possibility that they may be moved from there, I have men on the street, lying in wait to follow them.’
There was not much more to be said. The three of us were there to protect Moriarty. Personal survival was his paramount concern. Tonight we were to leave the killing to others and that suited me just fine.
London jolted past the window of our carriage. I saw a black motor car up ahead, driven by a flat-capped young man. It came alongside us and passed by at twice our speed, with such noise that it scared our horses into a dance.
For some time, we were delayed by a congestion of horse-drawn omnibuses, each vying for space on a tight street corner. Our coachman cursed at the state of London’s roads and grudgingly backed up the carriage to let one of them past.
The rest of the journey progressed relatively quickly and without further incident but as we approached our destination my feelings of foreboding increased.
I remembered the words of the old gypsy in Milldale about sensing danger.
Never before had I felt peril to be so close.
London, November 1899
The house in Harley Street was a handsome white-fronted, four-storey terrace ringed by spiky, black iron railings and overlooked by gargoyles and heavily muscled men.
Inside, all was opulence. A hall of grey marble led to a mighty oak tree of a staircase that branched east and west to galleried landings, rooms and passages on the upper floors.
The corridor we trod was adorned with a collection of classical nude sculptures that were, I imagined, worth considerably more than most surgeons could afford. Either the owner came from an enormously rich family or, more probably, the wealth had been amassed through aiding the Chans in their criminal enterprises.
The four of us were shown into a large reception room lit by a sumptuous chandelier. A giant golden mirror hung squarely over a marble fireplace. It wasn’t solely for decoration. It afforded anyone seated close to the large fireplace a near-panoramic view of the room.
Fine oils of country hunts and Lakeland scenes covered the other walls and created a strangely scenic backdrop for two wing chairs and large sofas covered in contrasting creams and reds.
After several minutes, the door opened. Lee Chan swept in, followed by his bodyguards. He was dressed in black out of respect for his grandfather, as were his men.
Chan bowed slightly to Moriarty, who had not dressed in black. Not for Alex. Nor for the Chans.
James reciprocated somewhat awkwardly, then, to my surprise, spoke to him in fluent Chinese.
Chan replied curtly.
Without so much as a handshake they took the chairs by the fire. Both men glanced repeatedly at the mirror above their heads, which reflected the spectacle of the rest of us, left to stand and stare at each other.
Chan continued to talk and Moriarty continued to listen. He did not blink or move. I noticed at one point he sneaked a deep breath to calm himself. I sensed his inner rage, noticed his fist, the one furthest from Chan, clench until the knuckles turned white then slowly flex and relax.
Chan finished and Moriarty responded. Neither interrupted the other. The pattern had been set and so it stayed for the following hour.
Finally, Moriarty stood. The Chinaman rose. He bowed and led his contingent out of the room.
Moriarty walked to the curtains. He twitched them open and closed – a signal to the street to set his men in action. ‘Barricade that door,’ he told us. ‘Push the furniture against it and prepare for hell to break out.’
We acted swiftly and as quietly as possible. Once Moriarty’s men descended from the attic, there would be mayhem and the Chinese would undoubtedly come for our blood.
As we waited, I wished for everything to be already over. Once I was reunited with Elizabeth we might use the cover of this current chaos to run away and start afresh somewhere. Perhaps it was not too late for us to become normal people.
Noise erupted behind the closed doors. Chinamen shouted in anger and surprise. The attack had begun. A cacophony of violence followed – raised voices, gunfire, splintering wood, crashing glass. More gunfire. Wailing. Shouting. Cries of pain.
‘We need to leave.’ Moran ushered Moriarty back to the window. He tried to lift the sash but it was stuck.
‘We must get out,’ cried Moriarty. ‘The police will come. I cannot be discovered here.’
‘Then we break the glass,’ said Moran. ‘Frederick, use one of the chairs.’
The big oaf picked it up like it was weightless, and hurled it through the window.
Moran kicked out the remaining shards. Moriarty took off his jacket and covered his head, presumably to hide his identity, then climbed through the broken frame. Moran was but a beat behind him.
I heard fighting on the street as well. Presumably Moriarty’s men had tackled whatever guards Chan had posted there.
Frederick was staring at me as though he had forgotten what to do and needed me to instruct him. ‘Go on,
’ I urged. ‘We need to get out as well.’
He took a pace towards the window and I wondered if he was too big to fit through. ‘Out you go! You can make that.’
The big oaf grabbed me by the throat.
I was too shocked to react. His thumbs dug into my neck. It felt like his nails would pop through my skin. Years of training saved me. Instead of trying to force his huge hands from my neck, I grabbed his arms, gripped the cloth of his jacket and swung myself down and between his legs.
He lost his grip and his footing, crashed forehead first into the floor and broken glass.
I rolled to my feet, caught my breath and headed to the window. My hands were on the ledge when he grabbed and pulled me back. Again he snatched at my throat. This crazy imbecile was set on killing me. I stepped outside his reach and piled a powerful left into his belly. Air whooshed from his mouth and he doubled up.
I hit him with a hearty right-hander; his eyes glazed over and he rocked, staggered to his left, then collapsed. I was out on the street before his body had settled on the floor.
No sign of Moran, or Moriarty. They had gone, but the street was far from empty. The noise of the fight sounded like hell being emptied. Police vans were everywhere. I had no choice but to run towards them.
The Old Bill poured from their carriages. Whistles cut the night air. A copper snatched at me as I tried to pass by.
I slapped my hand in his chest and pushed him away rugby-style.
Another rozzer swung his stick at my head.
I blocked it with my left arm, cracked him with my right fist. I sprinted to the end of the road and turned into a part of town I knew well. This was a labyrinth of alleyways, a rookery that encompassed the old Knights Templar buildings to the south of the meat market. I slowed to a walk and disappeared into the shadows. The darkness stank of piss and gin.
I was not alone. I could hear others. Smell them. Sense them. Hairs bristled on the back of my neck.
Sitting in the shadows were the skeletal forms of more than a dozen homeless men and women, sheltering from the elements. I dug into my pocket, took out a handful of change and dropped it noisily. ‘There’s plenty of clink there. Anyone asks, I was never here.’