He froze in midstride and his mouth dropped open.
The girl turned her head to see what her cull was staring at. At the back of the room the nude body of a young boy was spread out on the red and tan Baluchi carpet, his chest and stomach splayed open, his various internal organs placed carefully around him like offerings to an obscene god. The pools of blood surrounding him had not yet begun to dry.
For a second the scene seemed not to register; then her eyes widened and the color drained from her face. Slowly, and with a sort of innocent grace, she fell unconscious to the floor.
The man screamed. Not a full-throated scream, but a sort of loud, hysterical gargle. It was enough, it would suffice.
The remaining nine rooms on the floor were soundproofed, so no one within heard anything amiss. However, there were three men on the stairs who came rushing up at the sound.
By this time Natyana had regained control, gently but firmly closed the offending door, and taken the fat man by the hand. “There’s been a horrible accident,” she told him. “We must call the police. Perhaps it would be wise for you to leave before they arrive, don’t you think? I’ll attend to the girl.”
The three men from the stairs came tumbling over to them. “An accident,” Natyana repeated to them. “This gentleman will tell you all about it. He’s had a bad fright. You might want to help him downstairs.” She paused, then went on, “It is probably a good idea for all of our guests to vacate, to go home now.”
“What happened?” one of the men demanded.
“Beyond what this gentleman can tell you,” Natyana replied, “you’d best not know. Downstairs, please.”
The three men exchanged glances and, finding no better course of action, turned and headed back downstairs, taking the fat man with them, leaving the fainting girl lying in the corridor.
“What now, do you suppose?” asked the porter.
“Pick up the poor girl—it’s Agnes, isn’t it?—and lay her on the divan by the stairs.”
“Yes. Of course.” The porter complied, laying the girl down gently with a cushion under her head, and smoothed what there was of her clothes.
“Now,” Natyana said, “I imagine, we must have any remaining guests leave. P’raps you should alert the rest of the staff and see to it.”
“What are we going to tell them?”
Natyana considered. “Trouble with the pipes should do it. Although I fancy they’ll hear otherwise soon enough.”
The porter nodded and then asked, “Why’d you tell those three that the fat gent would tell them all about it?”
“Because he was going to anyhow,” she said. “No way to stop him.”
“Ah!”
“You’d best get Master Paternoster up here. I’d go myself, but I had better stand cové over this door.”
The porter shook his head. “Five years I’ve been here, and never nothing like this. Nothing remotely like this. What are we going to do?”
“Considering that most of our members will know about this before they leave, I fancy we have little choice in the matter.”
“You ain’t really nohow going to call the rozzers, are you? We ain’t calling in no rozzers, are we?”
“Master Paternoster must decide, but—I don’t see any way around it. Luckily there are a couple of select, ah, rozzers that we can call. Gentlemen who spend time here in a private capacity, although they spend their days at Scotland Yard. They may be willing to help us in our time of need, but our members had better be long gone before they arrive.”
[CHAPTER SEVEN]
RELEASE
When the hounds of spring are on winter’s traces,
The mother of months in meadow or plain
Fills the shadows and windy places
With lisp of leaves and ripple of rain.
—ALGERNON CHARLES SWINBURNE
THEY CAME FOR MORIARTY AT FIVE IN THE MORNING, tramping down the narrow passage, two men in mufti with the unmistakable ramrod-stiff comport of army officers. Jacobs the warder led the way, huffing, coughing, wheezing, and stomping. The sound of their coming awoke Moriarty, and he sat up and pushed the rough brown blanket aside.
Jacobs made his usual show of working the locks on the cell door before swinging it open. The beam of his bull’s-eye lantern glanced about the walls of the cell and finally settled on Moriarty. Jacobs coughed and spat on the stone floor. “You’re to go with these here two gentlemen, if you please,” he growled. “Right away, and no discussion about it.”
Moriarty blinked and squinted into the light. “Give me a moment to put on my trousers,” he said, reaching for the gray prison garment folded over the cell’s only chair.
“Well, and hurry up about it.”
The taller of the two men peered at Moriarty over the warder’s shoulder. “Here, now,” he said sharply. “Take those manacles off the gentleman’s hands.”
“I don’t know as how I have the authority to do that, begging your pardon—sir,” the warder said, the “sir” stretched out and turned into an epithet .
“You have the key,” the man pointed out, “and I have the authority. Go to it!”
There was a short pause while Jacobs screwed his face up in an effort to think this over. Then he said, “Just as you say, sir. It’s your bleeding authority what says to let ’im loose, and that makes it your bleeding responsibility for whatever happens thereof, if you’ll excuse me saying so. I washes my hands of the whole matter, as you gentlemen clearly know more about these things than I, what’s been managing prisoners for these twenty-two years.”
“It’s been quite a while since you’ve last done that, I warrant,” the tall man said. “Wash your hands, I mean.”
“Say, now,” Jacobs bristled. “I will not have my position bruted about. You may have the authority, as is your claim, but it’s my responsibility. And I’m not sure as I should remove the gyves from this’ere professor.”
The other man, who was not so tall but was quite wide, as a bull is wide, took two steps forward and thrust his chin toward the warder. “What’s that you say?” he demanded in a high, gruff voice that was sharp as broken glass.
Jacobs caught his breath. Perhaps he had gone too far. “My mother always said that my mouth ’ud be the death of me someday,” he whinged, ducking his head as though to ward off a blow, clearly expecting to be treated by those above him as he would treat those below him. “I pray your worships will excuse me. Sometimes my mouth does run away with itself.”
“Get on with it, man!” the tall man said.
With a shake of his head, Jacobs maneuvered the ring of keys off his belt and sorted among them to find the proper one for Moriarty’s restraints. The manacles were bolted closed, and the key was a metal tube with a slot in the end to fit over the head of the bolt. There were a number of different patterns, and Jacobs had to try several keys before he found the one that fit. Unscrewing the bolt seemed to present a serious mental problem for him; his face twisted with concentration as he made the effort. Finally it was done, and he spat and stepped back.
Moriarty rubbed his wrists and moved his hands up and down in front of him. “Interesting,” he said. “My arms have grown so used to the weight of the irons that they feel curiously light.”
“Finish dressing, Professor,” one of the men said. “We have a way to travel.”
“Of course,” Moriarty said, pulling the trousers on and fastening them with the cord that served as a belt, then shrugging into the shapeless gray jacket. “I don’t suppose there’s any chance of my bathing and changing into clean garments before I meet with His Lordship?”
The thick man glared down at the professor. “How did you know that?” he demanded.
“What? Oh, ‘His Lordship’?” Moriarty picked up the few belongings he had in the cell and stuffed them into the pocket sewed onto the side of his canvas jacket. “Who else?”
The answer was obviously unsatisfactory, but the matter was not pursued. “Come,” the tall man said.
/> “I must retrieve my clothing as we leave,” Moriarty said. “Especially my shoes. These”—he pointed to the prison-issue canvas slippers he wore—“are unfit for travel. Particularly as I believe it’s raining out.”
“Such garments as what you were wearing when you was incarcerated would be in the Prisoners’ Personal Effects Storage and Disbursement Room,” Jacobs said, “and that don’t open today, this being Sunday and the day which the Lord has given unto us to rest and all.” He looked pleased as he spoke. Any inconvenience to a prisoner was an achievement for which to strive.
“We’ll see what we can do about providing shoes when we arrive,” the first man said. “Also proper clothing. It well may be that the need has been anticipated. What you are wearing will have to do for now.”
Moriarty shrugged. “As you say,” he said. “In that case, clearly, I’m ready.”
They exited the prison through an obscure side door into a dark night and a cold drizzle that soaked Moriarty’s slippers even as he took the five steps to the waiting carriage, a great, high-sprung traveling machine of a style Wellington might have used on his way to Waterloo, with four matched bays in the traces. Moriarty took a seat facing the rear, across from his two companions. “How long?” he asked.
The two looked at each other. “The journey?” the one on the left asked. “Perhaps two hours.”
Moriarty sat back and closed his eyes. After a while the man asked, “You have no other questions?”
Moriarty opened his eyes. “Have you any answers?”
“No, not really. Not at this time.”
“Then I have no questions.”
* * *
Daylight found them well out of London and moving rapidly south along a well-kept country road. The rain was heavier and the puddles deeper, but the bays kept up a steady pace, untroubled by such considerations. A seemingly endless row of trees lined the right side of the road, and on the left were a smattering of hedges and fields. The small villages they passed through were stirring into life, and several of the early churchgoers paused and stared at the grand sight of a four-horse carriage racing by.
It was just shy of 7:00 A.M. when they reached a pair of high wrought-iron gates, which were pulled open at their approach, and the coachman snapped the horses into a fast trot for the last mile to the great house. Moriarty opened his eyes at the change in rhythm and stretched. He had slept most of the way, finding the jouncing carriage more comforting, if not more comfortable, than the dank cell. He twisted in his seat and examined the house critically through the carriage window as they approached, but just which, or whose, great house it was he couldn’t tell, not having paid as much attention as perhaps he should to the great houses of England.
The building was a wide, three-story structure of respectable age with a four-column portico shielding the front door. In its day it had probably entertained George III, and, if the architecture of what was now the west wing was to be believed, might well have welcomed Elizabeth herself, as she traveled with her court from one noble’s estate to the next to distribute among the peerage the cost of maintaining, if not running, the government.
As the carriage pulled to a stop, a man in a severe black morning coat came through the front door of the house and approached with stately tread, holding an oversized black umbrella high over his head. Two footmen accompanied him, each with an umbrella of his own. “Gentlemen,” the man said, pulling open the carriage door, “I am Mobley, manager of the household staff. Please go right on in. Breakfast is laid out in the morning room.”
Moriarty’s two escorts left the carriage and followed an umbrella-carrying footman to the door. Mobley turned to Moriarty, who was the last to emerge. “And you would be Professor Moriarty,” he said.
“So it would seem,” Moriarty agreed.
“His Lordship the duke would have me welcome you to Wythender Hall,” Mobley said, with an air that intimated that welcoming felons into his master’s house was not a remarkable occurrence. “It has been suggested that you would like the opportunity to wash up and change your prison garb into something more suitable.”
“A prescient suggestion indeed,” said Moriarty.
“Allow me to show you to your room.” Mobley turned and, umbrella high, led the way into the house. A young maid in a highly starched apron and a mob cap bobbed and curtseyed and took the umbrella from him as they entered.
The entrance hall was large and square and high, and seven broad tapestries hung from three walls. They depicted some great battle from its beginning on the first hanging, with two lines of knights in armor facing each other across a wide field, to the aftermath on the last, showing a field of tents and the wounded either being tended or slain, it was hard to tell. In between were scenes of the battle, with swarms of arrows arcing across a muddy sky, knights clanking their great swords against other knights, men bearing banners heading hither and thither, and general chaos. All done without use of perspective, so that men and horses seemed to be standing on each other’s heads, or floating in space.
Moriarty let his gaze travel from one of the hangings to the next. The tapestries had darkened through the ages, making the battle seem as though it were being fought at night, or at least through a thick fog. Nonetheless, they were beautiful, and the images were powerful reminders of what men did to each other. Mobley stopped with Moriarty and stared at the hangings himself. “Agincourt,” he said. “Some people are powerfully affected by the scenes; others scarcely notice them. No accounting, I says. The first duke was at the battle. Lost a foot. His left, I believe.”
Which first duke, Moriarty wondered, but he decided not to ask. All would be revealed in the fullness of time.
“We will go this way,” Mobley said, indicating a side door. “Up the service stairs, if you don’t mind. The duke would prefer if his houseguests are not made unduly aware of your presence.”
“Understandable,” Moriarty commented, looking down wryly at the state of his apparel. He followed Mobley through the door.
“Ask for me if you require anything,” Mobley said as they reached the second floor and started down a long, wide hall. “This”—he stopped by a door and pushed it open—“is to be your room. The bath is directly across. Hot water is piped up to the tub from a boiler in the basement.”
Mobley stepped aside, and Moriarty entered. There on the bed were two suitcases, which seemed to be his own. They were open, and a large man was busy putting things away in a bureau next to the window.
“Mr. Maws!” Moriarty said, both surprised and pleased to find the ex-prizefighter who was now his butler waiting for him.
“The same, gov. Good to see you out and about.”
“How long have you been here?”
“Minutes only. Perhaps five, perhaps ten. Some spiffy gents came to the house and said as how we should get a kit together for you of what you’d need if you was out of prison, and I said as how I’d come along with them, and so here I am.”
“And it’s glad to see you I am,” Moriarty told him.
“I tried to visit while you were at Her Majesty’s pleasure,” Maws said, “bring you a clean shirt and such, but the authorities would have none of it.” He sat down on the edge of the bed. “We got your communication, what you passed on to Mr. Barnett,” he said. “We was wondering where the writing materials came from.”
Moriarty nodded. “The ‘paper’ was a bit of the silk inner lining of my waistcoat,” he explained. “The ‘ink’ was a mixture of soot and iron oxide—rust—with a taste of water and a wee bit of blood as a binder. The ‘pen’ was a pin.”
“You’re an ingenious man, Professor Moriarty,” said Mr. Maws.
“Elementary,” the professor said, “and did Barnett act on my suggestions?”
“O’ course. He and the mummer repaired to the Fox and Hare and interviewed the publican.”
“Respectfully?”
“According to the mummer, they got ’im snookered.”
“Ah! And?”
“He thinks they have useful information what you can ponder,” Mr. Maws said.
Moriarty nodded. “Good work.”
“I’ve brought an assortment of garments for you to pick among once you’ve washed and brushed yourself up a bit,” said Mr. Maws. “And a razor and such. You look as if you could put a razor and such to good use.”
“Indeed I could, Mr. Maws,” Moriarty agreed. “Indeed I could.” He stripped off his prison grays, dropped them on the floor, and wrapped himself in his Chinese silk robe, which was laid out on the bed. “Dispose of those things,” he said and crossed the hall to the bathroom.
[CHAPTER EIGHT]
PROBLEM CHILD
In misery’s darkest cavern known,
His useful care was ever nigh,
Where hopeless anguish pour’d his groan,
And lonely want retir’d to die.
—SAMUEL JOHNSON
“THE SITUATION IS … sensitive … unique … without precedent,” said His Grace Albert John Wythender Ardbaum Ramson, sixteenth Duke of Shorham, sinking heavily into the only chair in the room that would hold his bulk, “and presents a great potential danger to the monarchy and the empire.” He shook his head ponderously from side to side. “I’ve never seen anything like it. Never expected to. Who could have foreseen such a thing? Who?”
“‘Sensitive’ is a good word,” agreed Clarence Anton Montgrief, fifth Earl of Scully and hereditary holder of the baronetcies of Reith and Glendower. “Sensitive,” he said again, savoring the sound. “We have great resources at our command here,” he told Moriarty, “resources you cannot begin to imagine. And they are of no use against … whatever it is that’s happening here. We need, we must have something—someone—different. Someone acquainted within the unseen worlds of mendacity, deceit, treachery, and falsehood that lurk in the corners of the realm. Someone who can travel about freely in the underworld of the illegal and illicit, and who is trusted by these men who trust no one.”
“You need,” suggested Moriarty, “a criminal to deal with other criminals.”
Who Thinks Evil: A Professor Moriarty Novel (Professor Moriarty Novels) Page 7