Who Thinks Evil: A Professor Moriarty Novel (Professor Moriarty Novels)

by Kurland, Michael

  His Lordship considered. “Mycroft Holmes is of the opinion that you are almost certainly innocent of the crime with which you are charged,” he said.

  Moriarty raised an eyebrow. “He thinks me incapable of murder?”

  “He thinks you incapable of being caught so easily, of devising such an amateurish plan.”

  “I must thank him,” Moriarty said.

  The Earl of Scully considered for a long moment. “The task we require of you is delicate and sensitive, and demands the utmost secrecy,” he said. “It is also vitally important that it succeed. It would be no exaggeration to say that the fate of the nation might depend on its success. Other avenues are being explored, but the necessity for keeping it secret restricts the number of people we dare inform, and in any case there are few we can use for something like this—and we have no one with suitable entrée into the underworld. It is there that the answer may lie.”

  Moriarty shook his head. “I can be of little use to you from this cell,” he said. “I will gladly give you whatever little suggestions I can, but that must, unfortunately, be the limit of my assistance.”

  “I am sorry we cannot come to an agreement,” His Lordship said.

  Moriarty raised his manacled hands. “Don’t misunderstand, I’d be delighted to assist you,” he said. “Once I’m unshackled and free to move about, I might be able to accomplish something. But as things stand…”

  The earl rose. “Then we are at an impasse,” he said, “as I have not the authority to order your release.”

  “That is indeed unfortunate,” Moriarty said gently. “Send an urgent message to Holmes. He can never resist an appeal from a peer. He’s something of a snob, but if he can be led away from his fixation on me, he’s often very good.”

  “We have been in touch with the Swedish government,” His Lordship said. “They claim not to have any idea where he is.”

  “He’s probably wandering around Stockholm dressed as a defrocked Zoroastrian mobed, or some such.”

  “Yes, well—” The Earl of Scully banged on the cell door. “I will go now,” he said. “I must look in other quarters.”

  “And I—I must remain here,” Moriarty told him, sitting back on the cot.

  [CHAPTER FIVE]

  ONE NIGHT’S PLAY OF FOX AND HARE

  An adventure is only an inconvenience rightly considered. An inconvenience is only an adventure wrongly considered.

  —GILBERT KEITH CHESTERTON

  SOMETIME, PROBABLY IN THE LATE SEVENTH CENTURY, a Saxon tribe that called themselves the Wetten built a bridge over the River Belisama, some sixty-plus miles northwest of the market town of Londinium. Over the next thousand years Londinium stretched and twisted and burst through its walls and shortened its name. The Belisama, for reasons of its own, became the Ribble, and the town that grew up around Wetten’s bridge increased a wee bit in size and became Wedsbridge.

  On the old Roman road on the west side of the town, cleverly situated between the train station and the river, crouched a U-shaped inn that called itself the Fox and Hare, the name a gradual shrinking and corruption of a phrase that had nothing to do with either the vulpine or lepus genus but had originally meant “Strong Place with Stone Walls of the Wetten Clan.” The present building had been there for at least three hundred years, if you discount the fact that it had burned down and been rebuilt twice in that time.

  So much Barnett had discovered at the British Museum, following Professor Moriarty’s dictum, “An hour’s research and an hour’s planning saves two weeks’ marching about.” How much marching about would be saved by Barnett’s new knowledge of the Wetten clan and their legendary leader Ogthar the Uxorious remained to be seen.

  The instructions in Professor Moriarty’s smuggled note were clear but left much to the intelligence and planning of Barnett:

  Who is Esterman? Where from? Whence comes he to own the Fox and Hare? Why did he lie? He licks his lips when alcoholic beverages are mentioned. Ply him with intoxicants. Mention Hoxbary and see how he responds.

  After the requisite hour’s planning and yet another two hours’ preparation, Barnett and the mummer packed up their bags and hailed a hansom cab. “Euston Station,” Barnett called up to the cabbie, “and drive at a leisurely pace, if you please.”

  The cabbie stuck his heavily mustached face down into the trap. “Mollie and me, we been at this hoccupation for seventeen years,” he said, “Mollie being but a two-year-old when she took up the ’arness. And we hain’t never got a hinstruction like that, we hain’t. You wants me to take my time?”

  “Why not?” Barnett asked.

  “To Euston Station?”

  “Correct.”

  The cabbie shook his head. “You’re an original, you are!”

  “I don’t want to overly excite the port,” Barnett explained.

  The cabbie having no response to that; they rode the rest of the way to the station in dignified silence and boarded the 10:23 A.M. Western Local, which got them into Wedsbridge in time for a late lunch.

  The publican of the Fox and Hare, Archibald Esterman by name, was behind the bar polishing glasses when Barnett, two small suitcases under his arm, pushed through the door. “Good day to you, publican,” Barnett called. “Are we too late for a bit of lunch? And have you rooms for my companion and myself?”

  Esterman looked Barnett over suspiciously as he approached the bar, taking in the shiny derby, the bespoke brown tweed suit, and the dusty but well-polished shoes. He came to an opinion. “Good day to you, sir,” he said, “but if you’re another of them reporter fellows, and I fancy you are, then you can just turn around and go back out the door.”

  “You mistake me, sir,” Barnett said, holding the door open for the mummer as the little man staggered past him lugging two large black cases. “We are traveling men. Although why you would have an animus against newspaper reporters—surely an inoffensive breed—is beyond me.”

  Esterman sniffed and looked doubtful. “And what, if I may ask, do you travel in?”

  “Spirits,” Barnett said.

  “Come off it now,” said Esterman, giving forth with a brief guffaw. “Gents what sell spiritous beverages don’t dress like toffs, and toffs don’t come around trying to sell me no spirits.”

  “Well said, sir, and I’m sure you’re correct,” Barnett told him, “but you misunderstand me.” He took one of the cases from the mummer and heaved it up onto the nearest table. “My man and I travel in fortified spirits and vins au pays, as it were, and none of your common plonk neither. Inns and public houses are not our clientele of choice. At least not in the hinterlands, although we have some trade clients in the city. And, of course, the better gentlemen’s clubs.” He sprang the catch, and the case divided in two and opened like a black canvas butterfly spreading its wings. “Few public houses have a patronage who could appreciate, or would be willing to spring for, our merchandise,” he continued.

  Within the case, neatly embedded in wire frame and cotton batting, were eight wine bottles, four to a side, their labels facing forward for inspection.

  “Here we have,” Barnett began, running his forefinger over the first bottle with an air of learned professionalism, “the Royal Muscat, or Muscat Frontignan as she is properly called in La Belle France, grown in Beaumes-de-Venise within sight of the Rhone and bottled, of course, by Montiverde et Cie.”

  “Of course,” the publican said, his left eye twitching an involuntary twitch as he licked his lips.

  “This one, as you can plainly see by the label,” Barnett went on, moving his finger to the next bottle, “is a Quinto do Alexandro Crusting Port. The amber liquid was poured into this bottle in the fall of 1815, shortly after Napoleon’s defeat at Waterloo. Which would explain the ‘Vive le roi’ overstamp at the bottom of the label. My agency has discovered forty cases that were forgotten in the cellar of a lodge in Vila Nova de Gaia, and paid a handsome price for them. These are probably the last bottles anywhere in the world of this justly renowne
d product.”

  “Justly,” Esterman agreed. His eyes blinked rapidly as he peered at the bottle. His tongue ran along his upper lip as though seeking confirmation that it was still there.

  “Four guineas the pop,” Barnett said, swinging the case closed, “but I don’t want to bore you.”

  “Four guineas the case is a bit—” Esterman began.

  “The bottle,” Barnett gently corrected him.

  “The—” The publican’s chin thrust out and his eyelids twitched as he fixed his gaze on Barnett’s mustache. “Say, what do you take me for? Four—”

  “As I said,” Barnett told him, settling down on a bar stool, “the average publican could not be expected to stock such exotica, splendid a quaff as it may be.” He cast a critical eye around the room, managing to raise one eyebrow in silent assessment of the ancient well-knocked and pitted tables and chairs. “I imagine your patrons are more likely to be downing porter than port. Beer at tuppence the pint is a far cry from quality port at five shillings the glass.”

  “True,” Esterman granted, “but—”

  “But not as satisfying, you’re going to say,” Barnett interrupted, raising a forefinger of emphasis, “and you can’t say truer than that.”

  The mummer leaped with surprising grace onto the next bar stool. “P’raps we could let His Honor here try a tuppit of the old and mellow, gov. What d’you say?”

  “Well…” Barnett considered, rubbing his forefinger along the side of his nose. “We have some errands to do in the vicinity,” he told Esterman. “So if you’ll give us a couple of rooms to throw our luggage in, we’ll be off. We have people to see. Upon our return, this evening, after the last draft of lager is pumped, we’ll settle down and sample our stock. Perhaps in trade for a cut off the joint and a boiled potato or two, eh?”

  Esterman paused to think, flicking his tongue in and out of his mouth like a viper as he did the calculation. A shilling’s worth of supper against a glass or two—three glasses?—of a three-guinea-the-bottle crusting port laid down in 1815. “Could be managed,” he allowed. “Could be done.”

  “Done and done!” declared Barnett, sticking out his hand. “My name’s Barnett, and this is my companion and adviser, Mummer Tolliver, otherwise known as Mummer the Short. And you are?”

  “Esterman’s the name. Archibald Esterman.” He took Barnett’s hand and moved it solemnly up and down twice. “Proprietor of the Fox and Hare, which I purchased these ten years ago from the Wigham clan, what has owned it, father and son, for these past four hundred years.”

  “Four hundred years?” Barnett marveled.

  “Or more. Or even more.”

  “Here now,” the mummer said, hopping off his chair. “We’d best be on our way, nest-see-paz? We’ve got a barrel full o’ gentry to see afore we settles in to that joint you’re cutting.”

  “That’s so, that’s so,” Barnett agreed. “Landlord, if you could show us to out rooms we’ll move our luggage in, and then we must be off to visit”—here he took a scrap of paper from his waistcoat pocket and peered down at it—“Lord Thornton-Hoxbary, or, as it may be, his steward or butler.”

  Esterman pushed himself suddenly to his feet and looked down at Barnett with foxy eyes. “And just why is that?” he demanded. “What do you want with His Lordship?”

  The mummer hopped up on his chair and thrust his chin out pugnaciously. “His Lordship, is it?” he demanded. “Friend of yours, is he?”

  “I had the honor to be in His Lordship’s service at one time,” Esterman said, pulling his face back from the mummer’s sharp, inquisitive nose, “and I don’t hold with people going over to annoy His Lordship, who was very good to me and mine.”

  “Very good, was ’is Lordship? Gave you the jolly to buy this pub, did ’e?” the mummer suggested.

  “That’s as may be,” Esterman said sharply, “and what business would that be of yours?”

  “Now-now-now-now,” Barnett said sharply, raising his hand between the two. “We’re all friends here, we are. We wish to see His Lordship to interest him—or his steward—in some of our fine wines and spirits. He’s on our list, which was drawn up by the accounts manager himself. And Mummer, Mr. Esterman’s business is just that—his business. Keep your sharp little nose out of it!”

  “So that’s the way the apple bounces, is it?” the mummer said peevishly, jumping off his chair. “Well, I’ll just out myself into the street and await your worshipful presence, Mr. Barnett.” The mummer put an edge on the “Mr.” sharp enough to cut paper, and with that he packed up the two wine cases and stomped out of the taproom with one under each arm.

  Esterman glared after the departing little man until the door had closed behind him, then turned to Barnett and smiled a jagged-tooth smile. “Interesting creature, that,” he said. “P’raps you should keep him on a lead.”

  “I’d better go after him,” said Barnett. “Sorry if he said anything untoward; he doesn’t mean anything by it. He gets a bit testy when his morning dance is cut short.”

  “His … dance?”

  “After he gets up and before breakfast,” said Barnett, improvising furiously. “He spends about twenty minutes in his room dancing. The hornpipe, the jig, the kazatsky, whatever strikes his mood. If he doesn’t get his morning dance, he tends to be disputatious all day.”

  Esterman nodded. “Interesting. I had an aunt who was like that. Only with her it wasn’t dancing, it was—well, never mind about that now.”

  “So don’t take Mr. Tolliver seriously. He means well.”

  “No problem,” Esterman said, spreading his arms magnanimously.

  “Hold on to our luggage, will you?” asked Barnett. “We’ll be back—and there’s that bit of a taste I promised you.”

  “I’ll have the bags taken up to your rooms,” Esterman said.

  * * *

  “We’re not actually going to visit ’is bloomin’ lordship, is we?” the mummer asked when Barnett caught up with him some hundred yards down the road.

  “We’d best not,” Barnett replied. “Supposing his lordship wishes to acquire some of our plonk? We’d have to find it somewhere.”

  “The professor wouldn’t like it if we further denuded his wine cellar,” the mummer observed. “But if we is to call ourselves traveling men, we’d best do some traveling.”

  “We’ll knock about for a few hours,” Barnett said, “and reappear at the Fox and Hare sometime late afternoon. Then, after we dine, we’ll share a few drinks with the publican.” Barnett turned to stare at his little companion. “What gave you the idea for that bit about Esterman and his lordship?”

  “It just came to me,” the mummer said, “the way Esterman reacted when you read off his lordship’s name.”

  “I wonder if it means anything?”

  “I’ll be much surprised if it don’t,” the mummer observed.

  “Well, we’ll find out this evening, if our landlord is as susceptible to drink as the professor supposes. In the meantime…”

  “I could do with a bit o’ skof,” the mummer suggested.

  “A late lunch?” Barnett asked.

  “The very same. Never too late, I says.”

  “There’s a tearoom some ways down,” Barnett suggested. “Here, let me take one of those cases.”

  “I won’t say no,” the mummer agreed, letting one black case slide slowly out from under his arm until Barnett caught the handle.

  * * *

  Esterman raised his glass and leered at the liquid within. “There is a divinity what shapes my ends,” he declaimed, “however so much I hew them with my little ruff.” He plumped down into his chair and tilted his head back so the last few drops of ruby liquor could more easily pass between his welcoming lips.

  “A noble sentiment,” Barnett opined. “You have a sensitive soul, Mr. Esterman, a sensitive soul.” He lifted his glass and made a show of drinking deep without actually imbibing more than a few drops. There was little doubt that the landlord could drin
k him under the table, and probably under the whole house, if he’d a mind to. Once the drinking began, he had little mind for anything else. It was late evening of the second day of Barnett and the mummer’s sojourn at the Fox and Hare. The gas lamps burned low, the other patrons were long gone, and the bottles of aged port were being sampled to extinction.

  “It is unusual—I might say unique,” Barnett said, “to find an innkeeper quoting the bard.”

  “You might say that,” Esterman agreed, looking up from under his eyebrows, which seemed to have grown strangely heavy. He raised his voice.

  “There is a history in all men’s lives,

  Figuring the nature of the times deceas’d,

  The which observ’d a man may prop … prof … prophesy,

  With a near aim, of the main chance of things

  As yet not come to life.”

  He turned and squinted at Barnett. “That’s Hank the Quart,” he said.

  Barnett mentally turned the phrase over. “Henry the Fourth?”

  “The very one.”

  “How came you to have such an appreciation of Shakespeare?” Barnett asked.

  “’Ere,” the mummer interjected, “let me fetch another bottle of the ’38. This one seems to have depleted itself.” Bottle in hand, he trotted off.

  Esterman watched the mummer’s retreat with interest until the little man turned the corner. Then he ponderously moved his head and adjusted his vision to look at Barnett. “When I was with His Lordship,” Esterman said, “His Lordship had the library redone. All the bookshelves, what were oak, were ripped out and replaced with other bookshelves what were cut from the Widdersign Ash, a great squat tree which were over two hundred years old when it was removed to make way for the tennis courts. He had two Italian artisans come in to do the work. On the bookshelves, not the tennis courts.”

  “A great improvement, no doubt,” said Barnett.

  “Not so’s you’d notice,” Esterman said, “but what His Lordship wants is what His Lordship does. At any rate, I was responsible for these big stacks of books while they was out of the shelves. And so I started reading. Shakespeare and Kidd and Marlowe and Bacon and like that. They used the most mellyfloo … mellifluous words, and I grew into the habit of speaking them aloud when they wasn’t anybody who could hear me.”