Moriarty (Anthony Horowitz)

by Anthony Horowitz

  Still, we lingered at the gate.

  ‘Where is my daughter?’ Jones called out.

  ‘You came alone?’ The speaker was a bearded man with long, tangled hair and a broken nose that threw uneven shadows across his face.

  ‘Yes. Where is she?’

  There was a pause. A sudden breeze whispered through the cemetery and the flames bowed in recognition. Then a figure appeared, stepping out from behind a monument with a stone angel perched above. For a moment, I thought it might be Clarence Devereux but then I remembered that his condition would not allow him to show himself in this open space. It was Edgar Mortlake. I had last seen him plunging into the river and to my eyes he now seemed more dead than alive, moving slowly, as if the impact of the water had broken several of his bones. He was not alone. Beatrice Jones, pale and tearful, was holding his hand. Her hair was unbrushed and there were smuts on her face. Her dress was torn and soiled. But she looked unharmed.

  ‘We don’t give a damn about your dear little daughter!’ Mortlake shouted. ‘It’s you we want. You and your infernal friend.’

  ‘We’re here.’

  ‘Come closer. Come and join us! We have nothing to gain by keeping her. We have a carriage waiting to send her home. But if you do not do as I say, you will see something you might rather not.’ He had lifted his other hand, revealing a long-bladed knife, which glinted in the flames as it hung over the little girl. Mercifully, she could not see it. I had no doubt at all that he would use it if we did not obey his instructions. He would cut the girl’s throat where she stood. Jones and I exchanged a glance. Together, we moved forward.

  At once we were surrounded, the hooligan boys moving behind us, cutting off any means of escape. Mortlake stepped towards us, still holding onto Beatrice. She had recognised her father but was too terrified to speak. ‘Take the girl back home.’ He handed her to one of the younger men, a curly-haired rogue with a smile and a stye in one eye. The two of them walked off together. ‘You see, Inspector Jones? I am true to my word.’

  Jones waited until his daughter had left the cemetery. ‘You are a coward – a man who steals a child and uses her for his own evil ends. You are beneath contempt.’

  ‘And you are the cripple who killed my brother.’ Mortlake was very close to Jones now, his face inches away, staring at him with eyes on the edge of madness. ‘You will suffer for that, I assure you. But first there are some questions you must answer. And answer them you will!’

  Mortlake nodded and I saw one of the roughs step forward with a shillelagh, which he swung viciously through the air, hammering it into the back of Jones’s head. Jones fell without another word and I realised that I was now alone with the enemy, that they were all around me, and that Mortlake had already turned to me. I knew what was coming. I expected it. But I was still unprepared for the explosion of pain that sent me hurtling forward into a tunnel of darkness and certain death.

  EIGHTEEN

  The Meat Rack

  I was almost afraid to open my eyes for I was quite convinced that I must be dying. How else could I be so cold?

  As consciousness returned, I found myself lying on a stone floor with a light flickering somewhere close by. I had no idea how long I had been here nor how badly I had been hurt, although my head was still pounding from the blow I had received. I wondered if I had been removed from London. The chill had penetrated right through to my bones and my body was shuddering involuntarily. There was no feeling whatsoever in my hands and my very teeth were aching. It was as if I had been transported to the frozen north and left to perish on an ice floe. But no. I was indoors. It was concrete, not ice, beneath me. I pulled myself into a sitting position and wrapped my hands around me, partly to conserve what little bodily warmth remained, partly to hold myself together. I saw Athelney Jones. He had already regained consciousness but he looked quite close to death. He was sitting slumped against a brick wall with his walking stick next to him. There were sparkles of ice on his shoulders, his collar and his lips.

  ‘Jones …?’

  ‘Chase! Thank God you are awake.’

  ‘Where are we?’ A cloud of white vapour emerged from my mouth as I spoke.

  ‘Smithfield, I think. Or somewhere similar.’

  ‘Smithfield? What is that?’

  My question answered itself. We were in a meat market. There were a hundred carcasses in the room. I had seen them but, with my senses returning to me only slowly, I had been unable to grasp what they were. Now I examined them; whole sheep, stripped bare, missing their heads, their fleeces or anything that would have identified them as God’s creatures, lying with their limbs stretched out, stacked up in piles that reached almost to the ceiling. Small pools of blood had trickled out and then frozen solid, the colour more mauve than red. I looked around me. The chamber was square with two ladders attached to rails so that they could slide from one end to the other. It reminded me of the cargo hold of a ship. A steel door provided the only possible way out, but I was certain it was locked and to touch it would have torn the skin from my fingertips. Two tallow candles had been placed on the floor. Otherwise, we would have been left in the pitch dark.

  ‘How long have we been here?’ I asked. It was as much as I could do to enunciate the words. My teeth were locked together.

  ‘Not long. It cannot be long.’

  ‘Are you hurt?’

  ‘No. No more than you.’

  ‘Your daughter …?’

  ‘Safe … or so I believe. We can at least give thanks for that.’ Jones reached out and took hold of his stick, dragging it towards him. ‘Chase, I am sorry.’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘It was I who brought you here. This is my doing. I would have done anything – anything – to get Beatrice back. But it was not fair to bring you into this.’ His words were breathless, staccato, as stripped of warmth as the butchered sheep that surrounded us. It could not be otherwise. Every word, even as it was uttered, had to fight against the biting cold.

  And yet I replied: ‘Do not blame yourself. We began together and together we will end. It is as it should be.’

  We retreated into silence, conserving our strength, both of us aware that our lives were slipping away from us. Was this to be our fate, to be left here until the blood had frozen in our veins? Jones was almost certainly correct. This had to be a major meat market – and one that was surrounded by cold rooms. The walls that contained us would be packed with charcoal and somewhere nearby a compression refrigerating machine would be grinding away, pumping glaciated – and lethal – air into the chamber. The mechanism was fairly new and we might be the first to be killed by it – not that I could find a great deal of consolation in the thought.

  I still refused to believe that they intended to kill us – not immediately, at any rate – and it was this thought that made me determined not to slip back into unconsciousness. Edgar Mortlake had said that there were questions for us to answer. Our suffering now must surely be no more than a prelude to that interrogation. It would end soon enough. With fingers that could barely move, I fumbled in my pockets only to discover that my trusty jackknife, the one weapon that I always carried with me, had gone. It barely mattered. I would have been in no state to use it.

  I cannot say how many minutes passed. I was aware that I was falling into a deep sleep, which had stretched out like a chasm beneath me. I knew that if I closed my eyes I would never open them again but still I could not stop myself. I had stopped shivering. I had reached some strange condition beyond cold and hypothermia. But even as I felt myself drifting away, the door opened and a man appeared, barely more than a silhouette in the flickering light. It was Mortlake. He looked down at us with contempt.

  ‘Still with us?’ he asked. ‘You’ll have cooled down a little, I suppose. Well, come this way, gentlemen. Everything has been made ready for you. On your feet, I say! There is someone I believe you wish to see.’

  We could not stand. Three men came into the room and pulled us to our feet, han
dling us with as much care as if we had become carcasses ourselves. It was strange to have their hands on me but to feel nothing. However, even opening the door had raised the temperature a little and the movement seemed to restore my almost frozen blood. I found that I could walk. I watched Jones stand with all his weight resting on his walking stick, attempting to regain at least something of his dignity before he was propelled towards the door. Neither of us spoke to Edgar Mortlake. Why waste our words? He had already made it clear that he intended to enjoy our pain and humiliation. He had us completely in his power and anything we said would only give him the excuse to torment us more. Helped by the ruffians who had surely accompanied us from the cemetery, we made our way out of the storage room and into a vaulted corridor, the rough stonework like that of a tomb. Walking was difficult on feet that had no sensation and we stumbled forward until we came to a flight of stairs, leading down, the way now lit by gas lamps. We had to be half-carried or otherwise we would have fallen. But the air was warmer. My breath no longer frosted. I could feel the movement returning to my limbs.

  A second corridor stretched out at the bottom of the stairs. I had the impression we were some distance underground. I could feel it in the heaviness of the air and the strange silence that pressed upon my ears. I was already walking unaided but Jones made tortuous progress, relying on his stick. Mortlake was somewhere behind us, doubtless relishing what was to come. We turned a corner and stumbled to a halt in a remarkable place, a long subterranean chamber whose existence might never be suspected by those who walked above.

  It was formed of brick walls and vaulted ceilings with arches, dozens of them, arranged opposite each other in two lines. Steel girders had been fixed in place above our heads with hooks suspended on the ends of rusting chains. The floor consisted of cobblestones, centuries old and heavily worn, with tramlines swerving and criss-crossing each other on their way into the bowels of the earth. Everything was gaslit, the lamps throwing a luminescent haze that hung suspended in mid-air, like a winter’s fog. The air was damp and putrid. A pair of trestle tables had been set up in front of us with a number of implements which I could not bring myself to examine and there were two rickety wooden chairs; one for Jones, one for myself. Another three men, making six in total, awaited us. They presented an even grimmer spectacle than they had at Dead Man’s Walk for we were their prisoners, entirely in their hands. It was we who were the dead men now.

  None of them was speaking and yet I heard echoes … voices, far away and out of sight. There was the clang of steel striking steel. The complex must be vast and we were in but one secluded corner of it. I thought of shouting out, calling for help but knew it would be pointless. It would be impossible for any rescuer to tell where the sound had come from and I would surely be struck down before I could utter two words.

  ‘Sit down!’ Mortlake had given the order and we had no choice. We sat on the chairs and, even as we did so, I heard an extraordinary sound: the crack of a whip, the rattle of wheels turning on the cobbles, the clatter of horses’ hooves. I turned my head and saw a sight I will never forget: a glistening black carriage, pulled by two black horses, hurtling towards us with a black-clad coachman at the reins. It seemed to form itself out of the darkness, like something from a tale by the Brothers Grimm. Finally, it drew to a halt. The door opened and Clarence Devereux stepped out.

  Such an elaborate entrance for so small a man! And all for an audience of just two! Slowly, deliberately he walked towards us, dressed in a top hat and cape with a brightly coloured silk waistcoat visible beneath and what could have been a child’s gloves on his tiny hands. He stopped a few feet away, his face pale, examining us through heavy-lidded eyes. It was only here, of course, that he could feel at ease. For a man with his strange condition, to be buried underground might come as a relief.

  ‘Are you cold?’ he asked, his thin voice filled with mock concern. He blinked twice. ‘Warm them up!’

  I felt my arms and shoulders seized and saw the same thing happening to Jones. All six men closed in on us and while Devereux and Mortlake watched, they began to beat us, taking it in turns to pound us with their fists. There was nothing I could do but sit there and take it, brilliant lights exploding in my eyes each time my face was struck. When they had finished I could feel blood streaming from my nose. I tasted it in my mouth. Jones was bowed over, one eye closed, his cheek swollen. He had not uttered a sound while the punishment was administered but then nor, for that matter, had I.

  ‘That’s better,’ Devereux muttered once the men had finished and stepped back and we were sitting panting in our chairs. ‘I want to make it quite clear to you that I dislike this. I will add that I abhor the methods that brought you here. The kidnap of a little girl is not something I would normally have suggested and if it is any consolation to you, Inspector Jones, I can assure you that she is now back with her mother. I could have used her more. I could have tortured her in front of you. But whatever you may think of me, I am not that sort of man. I am sorry that she will never set eyes on her father again and that her last memories of you will not have been pleasant ones. But I dare say she will forget you in time. Children are very resilient. We can, I think, dismiss her from our thoughts.

  ‘Nor do I usually make it my business to kill police officers and lawmen. It creates too many aggravations. Pinkerton’s is one thing but Scotland Yard quite another and it may well be that one day I will regret this. But for too long now the two of you have been causing me difficulties. What really bothers me is that I do not quite understand how you have managed to achieve so much. That is why you are here and the pain you have just suffered is only a foretaste of what is to come. I see that you are both shivering, by the way. I will do you the favour of supposing that it is through exhaustion and cold rather than fear. Give them a little wine!’

  He gave the order with exactly the same tone that he had used to initiate the beating. At once a cup of red wine was pressed into my hand. Jones was given the same. He did not drink but I did, the dark red liquid wiping away the taste of my own blood.

  ‘In just a few weeks you have reached the very heart of my organisation and you have left a trail of destruction in your wake. My friend Scotchy Lavelle was tortured and killed and, quite inexplicably, his entire household was murdered with him. Now, Scotchy was a very careful man. He had plenty of enemies in New York and he knew how to keep his head down. He had rented a quiet house in a quiet neighbourhood and it makes me wonder: how did you ever find him? Who told you where he lived? He was, I admit, known to Pinkerton’s and I have no doubt that you, Mr Chase, would have recognised him. But you had been in England less than forty-eight hours and yet you went directly to Highgate, and for the life of me, I cannot work out how you did it.’

  I thought that Jones would explain that we had followed the messenger boy Perry from the Café Royal but he remained silent. Devereux, however, wanted a reply and it struck me that our situation, already bad, might become considerably worse if he didn’t get one.

  ‘It was Pilgrim,’ I said.

  ‘Pilgrim?’

  ‘He was an agent. He worked for me.’

  ‘Jonathan Pilgrim,’ Mortlake growled. ‘My brother’s secretary.’

  Devereux looked puzzled. ‘He was a Pinkerton? We knew that he was an informer – we discovered he was telling tales and we made him pay for it. But I was of the understanding that he worked for Professor Moriarty.’

  ‘Then you were mistaken,’ I said. ‘He was working for me.’

  ‘He was English.’

  ‘He was American.’

  ‘And he gave you Scotchy’s address? It is possible he was working for you, I suppose, although it’s a shame we never thought to ask him ourselves. I did tell Leland that he had been in too much haste to be rid of him. Still, I wonder if you are trying to deceive me, Mr Chase, and would warn you most sincerely not to do so. It may be that you have underestimated me for you have seen me at my weakest. But if you lie to me, I will know and you
will pay. You have nothing to add? Well, let us move on. Pilgrim told you the address. You came to Bladeston House. And that very same night Scotchy and his entire household were killed in their sleep. How did that happen? Why did it happen?’

  ‘That is not for us to answer.’

  ‘We shall see. Scotchy said nothing to you. Of that I am sure. He would have said nothing to the police and I am equally certain that he would have left no incriminating papers, no letters, no clues. He was, as I say, a careful man. And yet, the very next day you turned up at my club.’

  ‘Jonathan Pilgrim had written to me from that address. And the police knew that he had a room there.’

  ‘How could they have known? How did they even discover Pilgrim’s identity? Do you take us for amateurs, Mr Chase? Do you really think we would have abandoned the body without emptying its pockets first? There was no way the police could have connected Pilgrim with us but they did – and that in itself tells me that something is wrong.’

  ‘Perhaps you should invite Inspector Lestrade to this little gathering of yours. I’m sure he’ll be glad to give his side of the tale.’

  ‘We do not need Lestrade. We have you.’ Devereux thought for a moment, then continued. ‘And then, just twenty-four hours later, we find you in Chancery Lane at the scene of a robbery that has been weeks in preparation and which I expect to return many thousands of pounds in profit – not just the property of London’s wealthier classes, but their secrets too. Once again, I am trying to place myself in your shoes. How did you know? Who told you? Was it John Clay? I do not think so. He wouldn’t have had the nerve. Was it Scotchy? Unthinkable! How did you find your way there?’