‘Minister?’ he queried, as Isham closed the door.
‘Please take a seat, Mr De Vriess.’
Another chair was made available and Devereux sat down, keeping a distance between himself and us. ‘May I ask why I have been summoned here, sir?’ He looked at us a second time. ‘I know these gentlemen! They were here on the night of the Anglo-American trade celebration. One of the guests recognised them as imposters and I was forced to eject them. Why are they here?’
‘They have made some very serious allegations about you,’ White explained.
‘Allegations? About me?’
‘May I ask where you were last night, Mr De Vriess?’
‘I was here, Mr White. Where else could I have been? You know that I am unable to venture out unless it is a matter of urgency and even then I can only do so with the most careful preparation.’
‘They claim they met you at Smithfield market.’
‘I will not call it a lie, sir. I will not say that they are seeking revenge for what took place here a week ago. It would be quite wrong to make such assertions in front of His Excellency. I will say only that it is the most dreadful error. That this is a case of mistaken identity. They have confused me with someone else.’
‘You do not know the name Clarence Devereux?’
‘Clarence Devereux? Clarence Devereux?’ His eyes brightened. ‘CD! There you have it. We share the same initials! Is this the cause of the misunderstanding? But no, I have never heard the name.’
Lincoln turned to Jones, inviting him to speak.
‘You deny that you imprisoned us last night, that you and your men abused us and would have put us to death if we had not managed to get away? Did you not tell us of your childhood in Chicago, your hatred of meat, the fear that led to your agoraphobia?
‘I was born in Chicago. That is true. But the rest of it is fantasy. Minister, I assure you …!’
‘If you were not there, then undo your collar,’ I exclaimed. ‘Explain to us the marks around your neck. I placed them there with my own hands and I’m glad I did it. Will you tell us how you came by them?’
‘It is true that you attacked me,’ Devereux replied. ‘You seized me by the neck. But it was not in any meat market. It was here, in this legation. You came here under false pretences and became violent when it fell upon me to eject you.’
‘Perhaps that is the motive for all this,’ Isham remarked. He was so fervent in his defence of Devereux that I began to wonder if he had not been in some way bribed or coerced. ‘There is clearly enmity between these three gentlemen. I will not impugn their motives but it seems very likely to me that a mistake has been made. And I would point out, Minister, that Mr De Vriess has been a good and loyal servant of the American government both in Washington for the past six or seven years and here. Certainly, there can be no doubt about his affliction. Is it likely, given his illness, that he could be the mastermind of an international criminal network? Looking at him now, is that what you see?’
Lincoln sat in gloomy silence, then slowly shook his head. ‘Gentlemen,’ he said. ‘It grieves me to say that you have not made your case. I will not doubt your word, for you are both honourable men, I am sure. But Isham is right. Without physical evidence, it is impossible for me to proceed and although I can promise you we will investigate this matter further, it must be done within the grounds of this legation and in keeping with its rules.’
The meeting was over. But suddenly Jones got to his feet and I recognised at once the energy and the determination that I knew so well. ‘You want evidence?’ he asked. ‘Then perhaps I can give it to you.’ He took out of his pocket a piece of paper with a jagged edge and a few words written in block capitals. He laid it on the table beside Lincoln. I saw the words: WE HAVE YOUR DAUHTER. ‘This was the note that was sent to me to entice me into the cemetery known as Dead Man’s Walk,’ Jones explained. ‘It was the means by which Devereux was able to capture both Chase and myself.’
‘What of it?’ Isham asked.
‘It has been torn from a book and the moment I saw it I knew it had been taken from a library just such as this.’ Jones turned to the bookshelves. ‘The sun hits these windows at a strange angle,’ he continued. ‘As a result, it falls onto very few of your books but I remarked, the moment I came in here, that a few volumes at the very end have been allowed to fade. The top of this page, as you can see, has also been damaged.’ Without asking permission, he went over to the shelves and examined them. ‘These books have not been read for some time,’ he continued. ‘They are all perfectly aligned … all except one which has been recently removed and which has not been replaced in its exact position.’ He took out the offending volume and brought it over to Lincoln. ‘Let us see …’ He opened it.
The frontispiece had been torn out. The jagged edge was there for all to see and it was obvious – indeed, it was unarguable – that it matched the edge of the page on which the kidnapper had written his note.
The open book was greeted by a silence that was profound and it occurred to me then that great trials have turned on less. Though Lincoln and his advisors gave nothing away, they stared at it as if they read in it all the mysteries of life, and even Devereux visibly shrank into himself, recognising that the game might, after all, be lost.
‘There can be no doubt that this page was taken from this library,’ Lincoln said at last. ‘How do you explain this, Mr De Vriess?’
‘I cannot. It is a trick!’
‘It would seem to me that you might, after all, have a case to answer.’
‘Anyone could have removed that book. They could have done so themselves when they were here!’
‘They did not come to the library,’ Isham muttered. These were the first words he had spoken on our side.
Devereux was becoming desperate. ‘Minister, you yourself argued just moments ago that I am protected from the criminal process.’
‘So you are and so you must be. And yet I cannot stand by and do nothing. Two officers of the law have identified you. It cannot be denied that grave events have taken place. And now they have evidence …’
Another long silence was interrupted by the councillor of the legation. ‘It would not be without precedent for a member of the diplomatic corps to be questioned by the police,’ White said. Even I was surprised by the speed with which these gentlemen were shifting ground – but then, of course, they were politicians. ‘If there is a case to be made against you, it is only reasonable that you should, at the very least, co-operate, for how else will we clear your name?’
‘Even outside the legation, you will still enjoy its full protection,’ Isham added. ‘We can extend to you the right of innocent passage – ius transitus innoxii. It will allow our friends in the British police the right to interview you whilst still placing you outside their jurisdiction.’
‘And then?’
‘You will be returned here. If you have been unable to explain yourself satisfactorily, it will be for the minister to decide what will be done next.’
‘But I cannot leave! You know I cannot venture outside.’
‘I have a closed wagon waiting for you,’ Jones said. ‘A Black Maria might strike fear into the heart of ordinary criminals but for you it will be a place of refuge. It has no windows and a door that will remain securely fastened – I can assure you of that. It will transport you directly to Scotland Yard.’
‘No! I will not go!’ Devereux turned to Lincoln and for the first time I saw real fear in his eyes. ‘This is a trick, sir. These men do not intend to interview me. They mean to kill me. The two of them are not what they seem.’ The words tripped out, faster and faster. ‘First there was Lavelle. They saw him and the very next day he was murdered in his own home, along with his entire household. Then Leland Mortlake, a respected businessman! Your Excellency will remember meeting him. He was no sooner arrested than he was poisoned. And now they have come for me. If you force me to leave with them, I will never reach Scotland Yard – or if I do I w
ill die there. They will kill me before I step into this Black Maria of theirs! I have nothing to answer for. I am an innocent man. I am not well. You know that. I will answer any questions you put to me and allow you a complete examination of my life but I swear to you, you are sending me to my death. Do not make me go!’
He sounded so pathetic and so frightened that I would have been inclined to believe him myself had I not known that it was all an act. I wondered if Lincoln might not take pity on him but the envoy cast his eyes down and said nothing.
‘We mean him no harm,’ Jones said. ‘You have my word on it. We will speak with him. There are many, many questions that remain unanswered. Once we have satisfied ourselves on these – and have a full confession – we will return him to you according to diplomatic law. Lord Salisbury himself has agreed. It is indifferent to us whether this man faces justice in Britain or in the United States. Our only concern is that he should not escape the consequences of what he has done.’
‘Then it is agreed,’ Lincoln said. He got to his feet, suddenly tired. ‘Henry – I want you to send an envoy to Scotland Yard. He is to be present throughout the cross-examination – which will not begin until he arrives. I wish to see Mr De Vriess back at the legation before nightfall.’
‘It may take more than one day to arrive at the truth.’
‘I am aware of that, Inspector Jones. In that event, he will be returned to you tomorrow. But he is not to spend even one night behind bars.’
‘Very well, sir …’
Without another word, and without even glancing at Devereux, Lincoln left the room.
‘I must not go! I will not leave!’ Devereux grabbed hold of the arms of the chair like a child, tears welling in his eyes, and the next few minutes were as strange and as undignified as any I can remember. We had to call more officials into the room and prise him away by force. While White and Isham watched in dismay, he was dragged downstairs, a whimpering wretch who began to screech the moment he saw the open door. Only the night before, this same man had stood, surrounded by his cronies, sentencing us to a painful death. It was almost impossible to compare that man with the creature he had become.
A cover was found and thrown over his head and we were able to escort him out to the gate where the Black Maria was waiting. White had come with us. ‘You are not to begin your questioning until my representative arrives.’
‘I understand.’
‘And you will accord Mr De Vriess the respect due to the third secretary of this legation.’
‘You have my word on it.’
‘I will see you again this evening. Is it too much to hope that this business will be concluded by then?’
‘We will do what we can.’
These were the arrangements that Jones had made for the transfer of Clarence Devereux from the legation. Five police constables had come from Scotland Yard, all of them hand-picked by Jones himself. Nobody else was to be allowed to come close. There was to be no chance of a second poison dart being fired from somewhere in the crowd. Nor was the mysterious sniper who had come to our rescue at Smithfield market going to be presented with a target. Devereux himself was blind and unable to resist and we made sure that he was surrounded, protected by a human shield until he reached the Black Maria, which had been parked directly beside the gate. The vehicle – in fact it was dark blue – was a solid box on four wheels and it had been thoroughly searched before it set out: once Devereux was inside, Jones was fairly certain that he would be safe. The doors were already open and, with utmost care, we bundled him in. The interior was dark, with two benches facing each other, one on either side. To any ordinary criminal, it might have seemed a dreadful mode of transport but the irony was that, given his condition, Devereux would find it almost homely. We closed and locked the doors. One of the constables climbed onto the footplate at the back and would remain standing there for the entire journey. So far, everything had gone according to plan.
We prepared to leave. Two more police officers took their places next to each other, sitting behind the horses at the front of the Black Maria. Meanwhile, Jones and I climbed into a curricle that had been parked behind, Jones taking hold of the reins. The other two constables would walk ahead in the road ensuring that the way was clear. Our progress would be slow but the distance was not great. More policemen, the same men who had been watching the legation, would be waiting for us at every corner. It struck me that we resembled nothing so much as a funeral procession. There were no mourners standing in respectful silence, but we set off with almost as much solemnity.
The legation disappeared behind us. Henry White was standing on the pavement, watching us go, his countenance grave. Then he turned and went back the way he had come. ‘We’ve done it!’ I said. I could not disguise my sense of relief. ‘The bloodiest criminal who ever came to this country is in our custody and it is all thanks to you and your genius with that book! Finally, it is over.’
‘I am not so sure.’
‘My dear Athelney – can you not rest for one moment? I tell you, we have succeeded. You have succeeded! See – we are already well on our way.’
‘And yet, I wonder—’
‘What? You have your doubts even now?’
‘They are more than doubts. It does not work. None of it works. Unless …’
He stopped. Ahead of us, the police constable was pulling at the reins. A boy pushing a barrow laden with vegetables had turned across the street, blocking our path because one of the wheels seemed to have got stuck in a rut. Another policeman walked ahead to help clear the path.
The boy looked up. It was Perry, dressed now in a ragged tunic and belt. A moment before, his hands had been empty but suddenly he lifted them and the surgeon’s knife with which he had once threatened me was already there, glinting in the sun. Without a word he brought it swinging round. The second policeman fell in a welter of blood. At the same moment, there was a shot – it sounded like a piece of paper being torn – and the officer who had been holding the reins of the Black Maria was hurled sideways, crashing down into the road. A second shot and his companion followed. One of the horses reared up, knocking into the other. A woman emerging from a shop began to scream and scream. A carriage coming the other way veered onto the pavement, almost hitting her, and crashed into a fence.
Athelney Jones had produced a gun. Against all the rules, he must have carried it into the legation and it had been in his pocket all along. He brought it up and aimed at the child.
I took out my own gun. Jones looked at me and I think I saw shock, dismay and finally resignation pass through his eyes.
‘I’m sorry,’ I said, and shot him in the head.
TWENTY-ONE
The Truth of the Matter
It would appear, my dear reader, that I have deceived you – although, in truth, you are not very dear to me and anyway, I have taken the greatest pains to avoid any deception at all. That is to say, I have not lied. At least, I have not lied to you. It is perhaps a matter of interpretation but there is all the difference in the world, for example, between ‘I am Frederick Chase’ and ‘Let me tell you that my name is Frederick Chase’ which I remember typing on the very first page. Did I say that the body on the slab in Meiringen was James Moriarty? No. I merely stated, quite accurately, that it was the name written on the label attached to the dead man’s wrist. It should not have escaped your attention, by now, that I, your narrator, am Professor James Moriarty. Frederick Chase existed only in my imagination … and perhaps in yours. You should not be surprised. Which of the two names appeared on the front cover?
All along, I have been scrupulously fair, if only for my own amusement. I have never described an emotion that I did not feel. Even my dreams I have made available to you. (Would Frederick Chase have dreamed of drowning in the Reichenbach Falls? I don’t think so.) I have presented my thoughts and opinions exactly as they were. I did like Athelney Jones and even tried to prevent him pursuing the case when I learned he was married. I did think him a ca
pable man – though obviously with limitations. His attempts at disguise, for example, were ridiculous. When he presented himself dressed as a pirate or a fisherman on the day we set out for Blackwall Basin, I not only recognised him, I had to work hard to prevent myself laughing out loud. I have faithfully recorded every spoken word, mine and others. I may have been forced to withhold certain details from time to time, but I have added nothing extraneous. An elaborate game, you might think, but I have found the business of writing a curiously tedious one – all those hours spent pummelling away at a machine that has proved unequal to the task of eighty thousand two hundred and forty-six words (a peculiarity of mine, the ability to count and to recall the number of every word as I go). Several of the keys have jammed and the letter e is so faded as to be indecipherable. One day, someone will have to type the whole thing again. My old adversary, Sherlock Holmes, was fortunate indeed to have his Watson, the faithful chronicler of his adventures, but I could afford no such luxury. I know that this will not be published in my lifetime, if at all. Such is the nature of my profession.
I must explain myself. We have travelled thus far together and we must come to an understanding before we go our separate ways. I am tired. I feel I have written enough already but even so it is necessary to go back to the start – indeed, even further than that – to put everything into perspective. I am reminded of the Gestalt theory proposed by Christian von Ehrenfels in his fascinating volume, Über Gestaltqualitäten – I was reading it, as it happens, on the train to Meiringen – which questions the relationship between the brain and the eye. There is an optical illusion that has become popular. You think you are seeing a candlestick. Then, on closer examination, you perceive that it is in fact two people facing each other. This has, in some ways, been a similar exercise though hardly quite so trivial.
Why was I in Meiringen? Why was it necessary to fake my own death? Why did I meet with Inspector Athelney Jones and become his travelling companion and friend? Well, let me turn on the electric light and pour another brandy. Now. I am ready.
Moriarty (Anthony Horowitz) Page 24