The Downward Spiral

by Ridley Pearson

  “We have a car waiting.”

  “Of course you would.” The man sounded disturbed by the thought. “Very well. If I doze off I urge you to wake me. Gently, for heaven’s sake, but wake me just the same.”

  We woke him twice.

  I sent Ralph a text at the thirty-minute mark. He wrote back, reminding me of our 4:00 p.m. departure time for school and that we had to return for bags and James.

  At quarter past three, the man turned the last page and sighed deeply enough he might have been snoring again.

  “As I thought: not for your age.” He closed the journal and reached to hand it back to Sherlock. But Sherlock wouldn’t take it from him.

  “That won’t do,” Sherlock said defiantly. “That won’t do at all.”

  “Young man, this is personal, private, sensitive information. I’m stunned you have it, quite honestly. I would find someplace safe, extremely safe, to lock this away, and Moria could return to it in five years’ time.”

  “We had an agreement!” Sherlock said.

  “We had an understanding,” Lehman corrected. “I have done as you asked. I have read the document. Far too quickly. Nowhere near what could properly be called a translation. Could I transcribe it? Yes, I believe quite sincerely I could. But it would be hurtful to Miss Moriarty and her brother, James. Again: let’s put this on mothballs for a few years.”

  “We’ll only find someone else,” I said, sounding a little too bratty. My inner brat revealed itself when I was denied what I was rightfully due. Without a mother, I’d suffered my brother’s heavy-handedness and Father’s deferring to James for way too long. I wasn’t about to allow some stranger to emphasize “Miss Moriarty” and get away with it.

  I had my limits.

  Thankfully, I could see Mr. Lehman reconsidering. “That would be unwise. You might find the next person inclined toward taking advantage of your father’s journaling.”

  “Blackmail,” Sherlock said.

  “Consider yourselves lucky you came to me first,” Mr. Lehman said.

  “Tell us,” I said, wondering whether to add “please” or “you old buzzard!”

  “Some of it,” he began, without further argument, “is of a personal nature, as I’ve said. An adult, personal nature. I skimmed over a good deal of this, as it’s none of my business. A full transcription will, of course, reveal these moments in their entirety. I repeat: I have my reservations about the wisdom in sharing such intimate details with persons your age. I doubt seriously I would do so.”

  “‘Some of it,’” Sherlock said, echoing the man. “What about the rest?”

  “Indeed.” Mr. Lehman looked up at the ceiling for guidance, or perhaps to organize his thoughts. His expressive eyebrows lifted and fell, his eyes themselves looking enormous behind the lenses. “There are elements of . . . suggested impropriety, frankly. Again, that is something I believe beyond the purview of any young woman, any daughter.” He focused on me. I cowered, looking down while trying to find my breath.

  “It is not my desire to continue,” Mr. Lehman said, “but I will respect your request, Miss Moriarty, and leave it up to you how much to share. Honestly, I’d be far more comfortable sharing the contents first with your priest or minister or family lawyers in order—”

  “No!” I reacted too harshly, sitting him up straight.

  “That certainly hit home,” he said, wearing his curiosity as pursed lips and wide eyes. “Why that reaction, Moria?”

  I looked to Sherlock and back to Mr. Lehman. “I don’t trust our lawyer, Mr. Lehman. Not fully. Yes, I know I’m considered just a child. I understand he’s a highly respected lawyer. But I don’t trust him. Why is it, do you think, I shared this with you, a complete stranger, rather than him?”

  “You are how old?” he asked.

  I swallowed. “Twelve and a half.”

  He shook his head. “I’m sorry, young lady. It’s just—”

  “My mother left us seven years ago. My father looked after us with a full-time governess of sorts and a wonderful man who’s more like an uncle. My father died less than three months ago under . . .” I beseeched Sherlock to jump in.

  “Suspicious circumstances,” Sherlock said.

  “‘Suspicious’ according to whom?” Mr. Lehman asked. “The police?”

  I glanced at Sherlock again provocatively. Help! My throat had constricted. I couldn’t get out a word.

  “Should we tell you what’s in that journal?” Sherlock said.

  “I thought you couldn’t read it! What’s going on here?”

  “We can’t,” Sherlock said. “But it is our . . . belief . . . that Moria’s father was involved with a criminal element.” This wasn’t my belief at the time, but I let Sherlock speak, for I felt I might learn more from him in the current setting than I had from our prior discussions. There was something about his defiance I felt reluctant to challenge. “That his interests extend internationally. That for such . . . business arrangements to exist over generations of the family’s shipping business . . . the family would need to exert influence over bankers, possibly dock workers, possibly even police or politicians.” I wondered if Sherlock could see me losing color, for I felt fainter the more he spoke.

  “I can confirm,” said Mr. Lehman, “that some of the passages I read more carefully than others, seemed—only seemed, mind you—to suggest some of the same.”

  It was my turn. “Please,” I implored him.

  He opened Father’s journal and turned pages once again. This time, a casual observer. “It’s public knowledge that your father inherited the responsibility to manage the shipping company at a young age. Absolutely. He wasn’t much older than your brother at the time. James must be sixteen? Seventeen?”

  “Fourteen.”

  “Well, your father was in his early twenties. It had to have come as a heavy burden, as one can only imagine. Your family’s business is indeed international and extensive. A lot to grasp for such a young man. According to this document, it is also well diversified—a great deal of assets, the wealth spread into many other businesses—although there are few details concerning specifics. According to this, your father was all about divestiture—that is, spreading out the money. The journal is more your father’s internal thoughts, private thoughts, about various meetings and strategies over which he has agreed or disagreed with his board and associates.”

  “Within the company?” I asked.

  “So one would assume. It doesn’t mention company names so much as people. Negotiations. Those who angered him, mostly.

  “Your father,” he said, again directly to me, “faced challenges, burdens really, that few men could face alone. I will do my best to provide a written transcript. That should take a week, possibly less.”

  “At the end of the journal,” Sherlock said, “how close are we to the present?”

  “No way to tell. I expect there are likely many more of these journals. This particular one concludes with mention of a political struggle within the organization. A vying for power, a disagreement over the true policy and direction of the corporation. Your father had rivals. It’s fairly clear he took actions that may have resulted in division rather than reconciliation.”

  “The organization split?” Sherlock said.

  I didn’t like hearing Father talked about this way, as if he might be in the next room, or waiting for me back home. I’d attended his funeral, and it was still too fresh in my memory.

  “Ideologically, yes. Corporate direction. Perhaps at the very top, yes.” Mr. Lehman removed his glasses nervously and squinted as he cleaned them with a tissue. “There are passages concerning you and your brother, Moria. Clearly, your father loved you both very much and was working to construct what I could call a more legitimate platform upon which to do business.”

  “Diversifying,” Sherlock said. “Improprieties?”

  “Yes. Away from same. Correct.”

  “Allies were turning against him, or rivals?”

  “
Honestly, it’s vaguer than that. There are initials, only. Greek letters do not translate exactly to the Roman alphabet. If I knew the names and roles of the various players, perhaps I could tell you more. Then again, he may have used some kind of code in case the journal fell out of his hands. As it has.”

  “His most obvious rival?” Sherlock the investigator asked.

  Mr. Lehman twitched an uncomfortable grin. “Heth,” he said, sounding as if he sneezed. “‘Eta’ is the English pronunciation. H is the English letter representation.”

  “Eta,” Sherlock said softly.

  “The struggle was in great part with this man.”

  “Not L or C?”

  “There is no direct correlation to our letter C. Lamedh is the closest to L, written as an inverted V.”

  “My mother,” I choked out. “Did he mention Mother?”

  Mr. Lehman’s lips tightened again, this time to a yellow pallor. His bloodshot eyes hung low like a bloodhound’s.

  “I’ll take that as a yes,” I said, starved for air. “Tell me, please.”

  Sherlock did something extraordinary: he reached over and rubbed me gently on the back. I snapped my head to look at him, and I scared him off. He withdrew his hand. But I hadn’t minded it at all.

  “Attorneys,” Mr. Lehman said, “are trained to be careful with our words.”

  “Please.”

  “Yes, there are passages concerning your mother. It is . . . she was . . . one of the conflicts I mentioned. Honestly, this is where I’m terribly uncomfortable, and believe it in all our best interests to leave it at that.”

  “Seven years, Mr. Lehman,” I said, “and I still don’t know what happened.”

  “I can tell you this: your father agonizes over what would be enough to break any man. Several pages’ worth. I told you: I skimmed it. None of my business.”

  “It’s my business. Please . . .”

  Mr. Lehman and I entered a staring contest of sorts. I was the first to blink, but to my surprise he opened the journal, flipped pages, and read silently, his oversized eyes reminding me of a kitty wall clock I’d once owned.

  “He reminisces briefly about the fate of other Moriarty women. Your mother’s situation being somewhat comparable. A great-aunt lost at sea during a transatlantic crossing. Another who went mad and was sent off to Australia for treatment.”

  “Mother was not mental,” I said.

  “I didn’t say any such thing.”

  “You’re saying she didn’t choose to leave us? That she was forced to?”

  “There’s not nearly enough to draw any such conclusions. The last thing I want, Moria, is to put thoughts like that in your head. The details are lacking.”

  “But it could be,” I suggested.

  “It could be many things. Anything,” Mr. Lehman said.

  Sherlock showed no emotion whatsoever, a situation that angered me.

  The news confirmed what my heart had always wanted to hear. It set off a torrent of thought and emotion. James and I had considered a thousand different possibilities for Mother’s leaving us: disease, abuse, anything to defend the bond a child feels for her parent.

  “Maybe,” I said, “he told her to leave. For her safety! Maybe that’s why he could never tell us.”

  Mr. Lehman looked sad. I could tell he regretted having said anything.

  “Maybe he wanted her back!” I practically shouted. “Maybe they killed him for it!”

  Sherlock said, “Moria.”

  Just my name. Like a slap on the face. Wake up!

  “Sorry,” I said.

  We looked at each other, sharing grave expressions.

  “The other sheet?” Sherlock asked.

  “I’ll work on it. Numbers, mostly. As you’ve said.”

  “Take precautions,” Sherlock advised the man. “There are some bad men about. We’ve mentioned you to no one. Any trouble that comes, you will have brought upon yourself.”

  “Good heavens but you two are interesting,” Mr. Lehman said.

  Sherlock reached over and took my hand.

  “Not terribly,” Sherlock said. “But we are interested.”

  Mr. Lehman liked that. “Even better.”

  “And we’re good friends,” I said, moving Sherlock’s cold fingers with my own.

  Sherlock let go of my hand as if I’d pinched him.

  Lehman smiled. “Yes. I can see that.”

  CHAPTER 47

  TUESDAY EVENING, THE COMMON ROOM BUZZED. Being back at school had begun to feel more normal, the events of the weekend finally left behind.

  To the right of the bay window, I saw Sherlock having a curious moment with Ruby Berliner, his head tilted down nearly into her hair as Ruby looked straight ahead.

  Ruby nodded. A year ahead of me in school, Ruby ran cross-country and had the figure of a sixth-form senior. She wore her blond hair long, rarely in a ponytail, cascading over the soap-ad complexion of a Swedish fashion model. She had artistic talent and brains, was president of James’s class, and though a quiet girl, could hold her own in a dining room conversation. I didn’t hate her, but I didn’t have to like her.

  Sherlock spoke some more. The way his shoulders moved I would have sworn he’d given her something, but there were too many bodies blocking my vision for me to know for sure.

  Ruby looked up—they were far too physically close for my comfort level—and said something, and then he spoke to her again. I wanted badly—so badly!—to march over and interrupt, but I showed the utmost discipline by restraining myself. Gold star for Moria.

  James faced a different set of circumstances. Surrounded by his dim-witted friends, Thorndyke, Eisenower, Rubins, and Santos, he was otherwise keeping to himself when in fact everyone in school with half a brain (this excluded the four in his company) knew he was waiting for Alexandria Carlisle to arrive.

  Before she did, however, he spotted Headmaster Crudgeon, accompanied by a tall man with slate-gray eyes, a man who fit my description of Detective Superintendent Colander. They stood just past the coat room, though the visitor kept his coat on, a full-length black raincoat, belted at the waist—again, matching my description. Surveying the room, Crudgeon spotted James just as James picked out Lexie among the arriving students.

  Lexie looked as if she’d been crying. Her pace slowed as she entered a room with so many people.

  For James, it was like two trains heading for each other on a single track. The detective, Colander, wanted James—of that, there was no doubt. In James’s mind, the man’s interest had to do either with the fashion museum break-in, or, in some extraordinary twist of reality, with James’s spying on Lexie’s father. In either case, James had to keep Lexie from any of it, or worse, from becoming part of an investigation. He had to prevent Lexie from being considered guilty by association, something she didn’t deserve.

  Lexie approached, crying again, but silently. Had Colander and Crudgeon gotten to her first? he wondered.

  “I’m so glad to see you,” she said, tears welling in her eyes.

  Colander and Crudgeon were closing in.

  “Why would I want to speak to you?” James said coldly, loudly enough for Crudgeon to hear. He’d checked with his pals, all of whom laughed at once.

  “What?” she said, reeling.

  James raised his voice even louder. “Do you honestly think I want to talk to you? As if!” More laughter. James winked at her, trying to signal her, but she dropped her head, sobbing now. She’d missed his clue.

  “We . . . talked . . . about . . . this . . .” she groaned, looking up now, while drowning in tears.

  “Lex!” he said sharply, under his breath. But too late. Crudgeon was upon him. “Get lost!” he said to her.

  Lexie turned, ran directly into the detective, and then slipped past and fled out of the common room at a run, some maids-in-waiting hot on her trail.

  “James, Detective Superintendent Colander. Detective, James Moriarty.”

  The two shook hands, James trying
to keep his eyes from following Lexie. It wasn’t easy.

  “I wonder if I might have a minute,” Colander said.

  James looked to Crudgeon, hoping for some support. Crudgeon said, “I explained that keeping a boy at Baskerville from his meal was like starving a bear. You never know what you’re going to get.”

  “The cloakroom, perhaps?”

  “Sure.”

  Many eyes, including mine, followed the three of them out of the common room and into the entrance hallway.

  The coatroom, a line of racks and hangers, went nearly empty, as none of the students bothered with outerwear, regardless of weather.

  Colander made no small talk. “Where is it, James?”

  “Sir?” James said.

  “Not the answer I’m looking for, son. Where is the necklace? And,” he said, “consider your words very carefully. Interpol agents like myself are authorized to, with the cooperation of local authority, detain individuals of all ages in the United States. Especially, specifically, when it comes to acts of terrorism.”

  “Terrorism?”

  “Consider as well the number of closed-circuit security cameras established in this city, footage from which is recognized as prosecutable evidence.”

  “It’s important, James,” Crudgeon said, “that you understand the superintendent is not charging you with anything at this time.”

  James had long assumed Crudgeon was a member of the Directory. If so, was Crudgeon playing headmaster or Scowerer, given that James had gone to the museum under Lowry’s direction? Certainly, Crudgeon would not want James arrested. What message was Crudgeon trying to send?

  “I’m sorry if I’m being dense,” James said to the superintendent, “but I don’t know what you’re asking. I don’t know if you know, but my father died recently. His estate is being handled by our family attorney, Mr. Lowry. I’m supposed to call him when I’m approached by strangers.”

  Colander did not appreciate any of that. “The fashion museum, son. Saturday night. Last chance.”

  James swallowed dryly. Crudgeon’s face revealed no hint of what he should do.

  Dinner was called in the common room.

  “I have Mr. Lowry’s number in my room. Headmaster, wouldn’t the office have it as well?”