‘I’m telling you—’
‘Two …’
He didn’t reach three. I let him go. He was a devil-child and he had made it quite clear that he would happily commit murder, even in this public place. Meanwhile, Jones had done nothing, although he must have seen what was happening. Would he have stood by and let the boy murder me in plain sight to achieve his aim? The boy hurried away, weaving through the crowd. I snatched up a napkin and held it against my neck. When I looked up again, Jones was on his feet, moving away.
‘Is everything all right, monsieur?’ A waiter had appeared, conjuring himself up from nowhere, and hovered over me, his face filled with alarm.
I took away the napkin and saw a smear of bright red blood on the linen. ‘It’s nothing,’ I said. ‘A small accident.’
I hurried to the door but by the time I reached the street it was too late. Both Inspector Jones and the boy who called himself Perry had gone.
SIX
Bladeston House
I didn’t see Jones until the following day when he came hurrying into my hotel, full of the same nervous energy that I had witnessed when he was deciphering the message taken from the dead man’s pocket. I had just breakfasted when he arrived and sat down opposite me.
‘This is where you’re staying, Chase?’ He looked around him at the shabby wallpaper and the few tables positioned close to one another on the well-trodden carpet. I had been kept awake half the night by a man with a racking cough who, for some reason, had been given the room next to mine. I had expected him to join me in the breakfast room but so far he had not shown himself. Apart from this one mysterious guest, I was alone at Hexam’s and frankly I was not surprised. It wasn’t the sort of accommodation that Baedeker or Murray would have recommended, unless it was to avoid. Accordingly, we had the breakfast room to ourselves. ‘Well, I suppose it will do well enough. Not quite the Clarendon but things are proceeding apace and with luck, it may only be a matter of weeks before you are on your way back to New York.’ He rested his stick against the table and suddenly he was more solicitous. ‘You were not hurt, I trust. I saw the boy produce the knife and didn’t know what to do.’
‘You could have stopped him.’
‘And given us both away? From the look of him, he wasn’t the sort to yield under pressure. If I had arrested him, it would have achieved nothing.’
I ran a finger along the mark that Perry had left on my neck. ‘It was a close-run thing,’ I said. ‘He could have cut my throat.’
‘Forgive me, my friend. I had to make a judgement. I had no time to think.’
‘Well, I suppose you acted for the best. But you see now what I was trying to tell you, Inspector. These are vicious people, utterly without qualms. A child of no more than fourteen! And in a crowded restaurant! It almost beggars belief. Fortunately, he didn’t hurt me. The more important question is, did he lead you to Clarence Devereux?’
‘Not to Devereux. No. It was a pretty chase across London, I can tell you. All the way up Regent Street to Oxford Circus and then east to Tottenham Court Road. I would have lost him in the crowd but we were fortunate that he was wearing a bright blue coat. I had to keep my distance though and it was just as well I did for he turned round several times to ensure he was not being followed. Even so, I almost lost him at Tottenham Court Road. He had climbed onto an omnibus and I only just spotted him as he took his place on the knife-board, up on the roof.’
‘You were fortunate, again, that he did not sit inside.’
‘Perhaps. I flagged down a hansom that was heading the right way and we followed. I must say I was glad not to have to walk much further, particularly when we began to climb up towards the northern suburbs.’
‘That was where the boy went?’
‘Indeed. Perry – if that was his name – led me to the Archway Tavern and from there he took the cable tramway up to Highgate Village. I travelled with him, he in the front compartment, I in the back.’
‘And then?’
‘Well, from the tramway, I followed the boy a short way back down the hill and along Merton Lane. The sight of it caused me some alarm, I will admit, for was it not here that the body of your agent, Jonathan Pilgrim, was discovered? At any event, he continued to a house completely surrounded by a high wall on the edge of the Southampton Estate and it was here that, finally, I lost him. As he approached his destination, he hastened his step. You will have observed, Chase, that I do not enjoy the best of health, and I was still some distance away when I saw the boy disappear behind the wall. I hurried forward but by the time I had turned the corner, he had gone. I did not actually see him go into the house but there could still be no doubt of it. At the back was an empty field with a couple of shrubs. No sign of him there. A few more residences stood close by, but if he had been making for any of them, I would have surely seen him as he moved across. No. Bladeston House it had to be. There was a gate set in the wall in the back. That must have been where he entered. It was locked.
‘Bladeston House is not a particularly welcoming place and it is my opinion that the occupants had made it their business to keep it so. A wall surmounted with metal spikes surrounds it. Every window is barred. There was a Chubb patent lock in the garden door, which only the most accomplished burglar would be able to crack. Might the boy come out again? I retreated some distance and kept watch using a device which I have often found useful …’ He gestured at the walking stick and for the first time I saw that the cumbersome silver handle I had noticed earlier could unfold to become a pair of binoculars. ‘There was no sign of Perry, leading me to conclude that he could not have been delivering another message. He must surely live there.’
‘You did not go in?’
‘I very much wanted to.’ Jones smiled. ‘But it seemed to me that we should do so together. This is as much your investigation as mine.’
‘You are very considerate.’
‘However, I have not been idle,’ he continued. ‘I have made certain enquiries which I think may be of interest to you. Bladeston House is the property of George Bladeston, the publisher, who died last year. His family is unimpeachable. They rented the property out six months ago to an American businessman who goes by the name of Scott Lavelle.’
‘Scotchy Lavelle!’ I exclaimed.
‘The same. This is undoubtedly Devereux’s lieutenant, the man of whom you spoke.’
‘And Devereux himself?’
‘Lavelle can lead us to him. I see you have finished your breakfast. Shall we leave straight away? For I tell you, Chase, the game is very much afoot.’
I needed no further encouragement and together we followed the same trail that the child Perry had set down for us the day before, continuing through the heart of the capital, up into the suburbs, finally travelling on the cable tramway which pulled us effortlessly up the hill.
‘This is a remarkable device,’ I exclaimed.
‘It’s a shame I cannot show you more of the area. There are some fine views from the Heath, which is nearby. Highgate was once a village in its own right but I fear it has lost much of its charm.’
‘That happened the day Scotchy Lavelle arrived,’ I said. ‘When he and his friends have been dealt with, we will both enjoy the city more.’
We reached the house, which was just as Jones had described only grimmer, more determined to keep its distance from the world outside. It was not a handsome building, taller than it was wide and built out of dull grey bricks, more suited to the city than the countryside. Its architecture was Gothic with an elaborate archway constructed over the front door and pointed windows covered with tracery, gargoyles and all the rest of it. Jones had certainly been right about the security measures. Gates, spikes, bars, shutters … the last time I had seen a building like this, I had been looking at a prison. Any casual visitor, or indeed a thief in the night, would have found entrance impossible, but then knowing these people as I did I had expected nothing less.
We were not even able to approach the front
door as there was an ornate metal gate set in the wall, separating the entrance from the street, and this too was locked. Jones rang a bell for attention.
‘Is there anyone in?’ I asked.
‘I see a movement behind the window,’ he replied. ‘We are being watched. Suspicious minds, they must have here. Ah! Their man approaches …’
A footman, dressed all in black, walked to us at such a mournful pace that he might have been about to announce that no visit was possible because the master of the house was dead. He reached the gate and spoke to us from the other side of the bars.
‘May I help you?’
‘We are here to see Mr Lavelle,’ Jones said.
‘I am afraid Mr Lavelle is not receiving visitors today,’ the footman returned.
‘I am Inspector Jones of Scotland Yard,’ Jones replied. ‘He will most certainly receive me. And if you don’t open this gate in five seconds, Clayton, you’ll be back in Newgate where you belong.’
The servant looked up, startled, and examined my companion more closely. ‘Mr Jones!’ he exclaimed in quite a different voice. ‘Lord, sir, I didn’t recognise you.’
‘Well, I never forget a face, Clayton, and it gives me no pleasure to see yours.’ As the footman fumbled in his pocket for the keys and opened the gate, Jones turned to me and said, in a low voice, ‘Six months for dog-sneaking the last time we met. It seems Mr Lavelle is none too fussy about the company he keeps.’
Clayton opened the gate and led us into the house, struggling to regain his composure with every step. ‘What can you tell us of your new master?’ Jones demanded.
‘I can tell you nothing, sir. He is an American gentleman. He is very private.’
‘I’m sure. How long have you worked for him?’
‘Since January.’
‘I guess he didn’t ask for a reference,’ I muttered.
‘I will tell Mr Lavelle you are here,’ Clayton said.
He left us alone in a vast, shadowy entrance hall whose walls, rising high above us, were covered with wooden panelling of the gloomiest sort. A massive staircase, uncarpeted, led up to the second floor which took the form of a galleried walkway open on every side so that we could be observed from any one of a number of upper doorways without knowing it. Even the pictures on the walls were dark and miserable – winter scenes of frozen lakes and trees bereft of leaves. Two wooden chairs had been set on either side of a fireplace but it was hard to imagine anyone wishing to sit in them, even for a moment, in this gloomy place.
Clayton returned. ‘Mr Lavelle will see you in his study.’
We were shown into a room filled with books that had never been read – they had a musty, unloved look about them. As we entered, a man glared at us from behind a monstrous Jacobean desk and for a moment, I thought he was about to attack us. His appearance was that of a prizefighter even if he did not dress the part. He was completely bald with an upturned nose and very small eyes that were set deep in his face. He was wearing a boldly patterned suit that fitted him tightly and he wore a ring on almost every finger of both his hands, the gaudy stones fighting with each other. One might have been acceptable but the overall effect was tawdry and strangely unpleasant. The folds of his neck had bunched up as they sought a way to enter his collar and I knew him at once. Scotchy Lavelle. It seemed strange to be meeting him for the first time in the surroundings of a suburban house, thousands of miles from New York.
There were two seats opposite the desk and although he had given us no invitation, we took them. It signalled at least our determination to stay.
‘Now what is all this?’ he demanded. ‘Inspector Jones of Scotland Yard? What are you doing here? What do you want? I’ve got nothing to say to you.’ He noticed me. ‘And who’s he with you?’
‘My name is Frederick Chase,’ I replied. ‘I’m with the Pinkerton Agency in New York.’
‘Pinkerton’s! A ragbag of bums and back-stabbers. How far do I have to go to be away from them?’ He was using the coarse language of the lower Manhattan streets. ‘There’s no Pinkerton’s over here and I won’t speak to you, not in my own crib, thank you very much.’ He turned to Jones. ‘Scotland Yard, you say! I have no business with you either. I’ve done nothing wrong.’
‘We are looking for an associate of yours,’ Jones explained. ‘A man called Clarence Devereux.’
‘I don’t know the name. I never heard it. He’s no associate. He’s nothing to me.’ Lavelle’s small, pugnacious eyes dared us to challenge him.
‘You did not travel with him to England?’
‘Didn’t you just hear me? How could I travel with someone I never met?’
‘Your accent tells me that you are American,’ Jones tried. ‘Can you tell me what brings you to England?’
‘Can I tell you? Maybe I can – but I don’t know why the blazes I should.’ He jabbed a single finger towards us. ‘All right, all right. I’m a company promoter. Nothing wrong with that! I raise capital. I offer opportunities for investment. You want shares in soap, candles, bootlaces or what have you, I’m your man. Maybe I can interest you in an investment, Mr Jones? Or you, Mr Pinkerton? A nice little gold mine in Sacramento. Or coal and iron in Vermissa. You’ll get a better return than a catch-pole’s salary, I can promise you.’
Lavelle was taunting us. We both knew the truth of his connection to Devereux and he was well aware of it. But with no evidence of any crime, planned or committed, there was little we could do.
Inspector Jones tried a second time. ‘Yesterday I followed a young man – a child – to this house. He was fair-haired, dressed in the uniform of a telegraph boy. Did you meet with him?’
‘Why would I have done that?’ Lavelle sneered. ‘I may have received a telegraph. I may not. I don’t know. You’ll have to ask Clayton.’
‘I saw the boy come into the house. He did not leave.’
‘Sitting there with your peeper, were you? Measuring me? Well, there’s no squeakers here, telegraph or otherwise.’
‘Who resides here?’
‘What’s it to you? Why should I tell you that? I’ve already said. I’m a respectable businessman. You can ask about me at the legation, why don’t you? They’ll vouch for me.’
‘If you do not wish to assist us, Mr Lavelle, we can return here with a warrant and a dozen officers. If you are as you say you are, then you will answer my questions.’
Lavelle yawned and scratched the back of his neck. He was still scowling at us but I could see that he had weighed up his options and knew he had no choice but to give us what we demanded.
‘There are five of us,’ he said. ‘No, six. Myself and my woman, Clayton, the cook, the maid and the kitchen boy.’
‘You said there were no children here.’
‘He’s no child. He’s nineteen. And he’s a ginger.’
‘We would still like to meet him,’ I interposed. ‘Where is he?’
‘Where do you think you’ll find a kitchen boy?’ Lavelle snarled. ‘He’s in the kitchen.’ He tapped the fingers of one hand against the desk, making the jewelled rings dance. ‘I’ll fetch him for you.’
‘We will go to him,’ I said.
‘Want to nosey around, do you? Very well. But after that you can hop the twig. You have no reason to be here, I tell you, and I’ve had enough of the both of you.’
He rose up from behind the desk, the movement reminding me of a swimmer breaking the surface of the sea. As he revealed himself to us, he seemed to shrink in size, with the huge desk looming over him. At the same time, it seemed to me that the lurid colour and tight fit of his suit along with his surfeit of jewellery only diminished him further.
He was already moving to the door. ‘This way!’ he commanded.
Like supplicants who had just been interviewed for a menial position in his household, Jones and I followed. We recrossed the hall and this time we were met by a woman coming down the stairs, a great deal younger than Lavelle and, like him, dressed extravagantly, in her case in swathes of crim
son silk that hugged her ample form rather too closely. Her neckline was low enough to have caused a commotion had she walked onto the streets of Boston and her arms were bare. A string of diamonds – real or paste, I could not say – hung around her neck.
‘Who is it, Scotchy?’ she asked. She had a Bronx accent. Even at a distance, I could smell soap and lavender water.
‘It’s no one,’ Lavelle snapped, doubtless annoyed that she had betrayed him by using the name by which he was known to myself and to many law enforcers across America.
‘I’ve been waiting for you.’ She had the whining voice of a schoolgirl dragged unwillingly to class. ‘You said we were going out …’
‘Shut the potato trap and give the red rag a holiday.’
‘Scotchy?’
‘Just get upstairs and wait for me, Hen. I’ll tell you when I’m ready for you.’
Pouting, the woman hitched up her skirts, turned and ran up the way she had come.
‘Your wife?’ Jones enquired.
‘My convenience. What’s it to you? I met her in a goosing slum and brought her with me when I travelled. This way …’
He led us across the hall and through a doorway into the kitchen, a cavernous room where three people were busily occupied. Clayton had laid out the silver, which he was polishing, each implement receiving the most careful attention. The ginger-haired kitchen boy, a lanky, pockmarked lad who did not resemble Perry in the least, was sitting in the scullery, peeling vegetables. A rather severe woman with grey hair and an apron was stirring a large pot on the cooking range and the whole room was filled with the smell of curry. Every surface in the kitchen had been scrubbed clean. The floor, black and white tiles, was immaculate. Two large windows and a glass-panelled door looked out into the garden, providing natural light, and yet, even so, I had a sense that this was a gloomy place. As in the rest of the house, the windows were barred, the door locked. It would be easy to believe that these people were being held here against their will.
They stopped what they were doing when we came in. The kitchen boy got to his feet. Lavelle stood in the doorway, his broad shoulders almost touching the frames. ‘These men want to talk to you,’ he muttered, as if no further explanation was required.
Moriarty (Anthony Horowitz) Page 7