The Revenge of Moriarty

by John E. Gardner

‘And us?’

  ‘One of the Jacobs will be meeting me. The other will await you and Bridget. We are all to rest the night in some comfort at Liverpool. We need time to talk before going on, and the Jacobs will have the latest intelligence.’

  ‘It’ll be good to get back.’

  ‘Things have changed, Spear. Be prepared for that.’

  ‘I am, but it is funny how one misses the cobbles and fogs. There’s something about London …’

  ‘I know …’ Moriarty appeared to be lost for a moment in private thoughts, his head filled with the street sounds of the capital, the smells, the texture of life in his city. ‘Good,’ he said quietly. ‘Till tomorrow, then, in Liverpool.’

  Spear hesitated by the cabin door, bracing himself, one foot forward against the constant roll of the vessel.

  ‘The loot is safe?’

  ‘As the Bank of England.’

  ‘Perhaps they’ll be asking you for it.’

  ‘They can ask away,’ the Professor’s eyes strayed towards the locker which housed the big leather trunk they had brought all the way from San Francisco.

  When Spear had gone, Moriarty opened the locker, suppressing the desire to pull the trunk out into the cabin, open it and gloat over the fortune it contained. He had no illusions regarding wealth. It brought power and was a bulwark against most of the pitfalls that besieged a man in this vale of tears. If wisely husbanded, wealth would in turn bring more wealth. His ventures in London – both legal and illegal – would be raped and plundered by now: Crow had seen to that. Well, the contents of this leather trunk would help rebuild his web-like empire, bring the recalcitrant foreign element to heel, and then, like some magic formula, would redouble themselves again and again.

  Balanced atop of the leather trunk was a second piece of luggage: an airtight Japanned trunk of the kind used by officers and government men in India. Moriarty rested his hand on this box, smiling to himself, for it contained his store of disguise material: clothes, wigs, false hair, boots, the harness which he used to give him the permanent stoop when appearing as his long-departed eldest brother, and the corset which helped to give that lean look in the same guise. There were also the paints and powders, the lotions and all other artifacts of his armoury of deception.

  Closing the locker, the Professor straightened up and looked across to the foot of the bunk and the final piece of luggage in the cabin: the big Saratoga trunk with all its trays and compartments in which he carried his daily clothes and immediate needs. Crossing to it, Moriarty took out his chain and selected the correct key, sliding it into the brass lock and lifting the heavy lid.

  Resting on top of the first neatly arranged tray lay the Borchardt automatic pistol – one of the very first of its kind – which had been given to him by the German, Schleifstein, at the meeting of the continental alliance two years before. Below the weapon lay two oblong leather-bound books, and above it a small wooden stationery cabinet containing quantities of notepaper (much of it bearing the letterheads of various hotels or businesses, all filched as the opportunity arose, for who knew when they might have a use or purpose?), blotting, envelopes and a pair of gold-mounted Wirt fountain pens.

  He drew out one of the books and a pen, closed the lid of the trunk, and walked with the roll of the ship to the small armchair which was bolted to the cabin floor.

  Making himself comfortable, the Professor leafed through the book. The pages were closely filled in a neat copperplate hand, interspersed with occasional maps and diagrams. The book was about three-quarters full, but any stranger glancing at the writing would have made little sense of it. There were, for instance, breaks in the writing only when a capital letter was required. Apart from these capitals, the longhand flowed on and on, sometimes for two lines or more, as though a gifted penman was engaged in an involved copybook exercise. Nor were there any readable words, either in standard English or any foreign tongue. This was, of course, Moriarty’s cipher: a cunning poly-alphabetic system based upon the works of M. Blaise de Vigenere* to which the Professor, with his active cunning, had added a few intricate variations of his own.

  At this moment Moriarty was not concerned with the bulk of the book. He allowed the leaves to ripple between finger and thumb, letting the last quarter of blank pages fall free until he came to the final ten or twenty leaves. These, like the first part of the book, were covered with writing, though incomplete and with a single word heading every third or fourth page.

  These single words, written in block capitals, when transcribed into plain text and then deciphered into clear, were names. They read: GRISOMBRE. SCHLEIFSTEIN. SANZIONARE. SEGORBE. CROW. HOLMES.

  For the next two hours, Moriarty sat engrossed in these personal notes, adding a line here, making a small drawing or diagram there. For most of the time he worked on the pages dealing with Grisombre, and anyone who was blessed with the skill and ingenuity required to decode the cipher would have noticed that the notes included the constant repetition of several words. Words like Louvre, La Gioconda, Pierre Labrosse. There were also some mathematical calculations and a series of notes which appeared to indicate a delicate time scale. They read:

  Six weeks for copy.

  Substitute in eighth week.

  Allow one month to pass before approaching G.

  G must complete within six weeks of accepting the charge.

  To this, the Professor added one final note. Deciphered it read: G must be faced with the truth within one week of success. Have S and Js to hand.

  Closing the book, Moriarty smiled. The smile turned into an audible chuckle, and then to a laugh in which one could almost hear the discord of wickedness. In his head the plot was hatching against Grisombre.

  The elevated railway which ran through the Liverpool Docks was known locally as the dockers’ umbrella, because of the shelter it afforded dock labourers on their way to and from their places of employment. It served this secondary function well on the morning of 29 September 1896 when a lengthy period of dry weather was broken by a warm gentle drizzle.

  In spite of this inclemency, the sprawling outline of the gigantic port and docks – second only to London – was a welcome sight to the passengers of the SS Aurania as they crowded the boat and promenade decks.

  From the shore, the 4000-ton vessel seemed strangely alive, sighing steam, her red funnel flecked with white seaspray, as though breathing hard with fatigue and relief at having reached a haven after its arduous journey.

  She docked a little after noon. By then the drizzle had eased away and the overcast sky became ragged with streaks of blue, as though someone had taken a claw across the clouds.

  Bertram Jacobs arrived at the berth just in time to see the Aurania tie up, watching with undisguised interest as the gangways were swung up and the first pieces of baggage began to be hoisted ashore.

  Bertram’s brother, William, also watched, but from a vantage point some hundred-and-fifty yards distant, for the pair had set out separately that morning, obeying Moriarty’s instructions to the last letter.

  They were well set up young men who would obviously be able to look after themselves if called upon. Dressed neatly with little trace of flamboyance, they could have easily passed for sons of a middle class, respectable, family; even, in certain circumstances, as rich young men about town. They both had clear busy eyes and features in which there was neither trace nor blemish inherited from their somewhat rough and ready antecedents – for their background had been stolidly lower criminal class (their father had died in jail, a forger of unmatched talent, while they boasted two uncles who had been rampsmen of considerable brutality). The Jacobs boys had, in fact, been close family people since childhood, working first as skilled toolers and later becoming mobsmen of some importance. They were both extremely valuable to Moriarty, who had personally seen to their training, making sure that they were taught not only the rudiments of their craft, but also more unusual subjects ranging from speech to etiquette, for he saw these intelligent lads as a co
nsiderable asset.

  Neither of the brothers had any doubt as to where their loyalties lay. If it had not been for Professor James Moriarty they would not have had such a good start in life and, more recently, might have still been passing their day in the Steel, the Model* or the Slaughterhouse – where in truth the blue boys fondly imagined they were both held at this very moment.

  Bertram hung back at the edge of the crowd, now growing and excited as the ship began to disgorge her passengers. Friends and relatives greeted one another raucously, joyfully, with tears or simple sober handshakes. One Holy Joe went down on his knees making public thanksgiving to the Almighty for a safe return. Yet, in the midst of all this, Bertram Jacobs noticed, with a sly smile, that there were not a few young women on the fringes of the crowd who were obviously on the naughty, looking for likely fellows – passengers or crew – ready to spend freely. Young Jacobs wished that he was carrying cash for some of these ladybirds, for they looked tasty enough in a gaudy manner.

  William Jacobs, eyes peeled for Spear and Bridget, caught sight of Lee Chow assisting a portly, black-coated traveller with his baggage. Their eyes met, but Lee Chow registered no flicker of recognition.

  Passengers were coming off thick and fast now, and a large pile of bundles, trunks, bales and packing cases was starting to build on the quayside. Sailors and porters were everywhere, some not too careful with their language, taking little notice of protests from more refined ladies and their companions. Carts and cabs, a steam van, numerous drays, hansoms and growlers – the four-wheeled cabs – were pulled up on the dockside, coming and going the whole while. All was noise and shoving, good-natured shouts, orders, jests and activity.

  Moriarty came off shortly after half-past one, looking the picture of a slightly bewildered professional man setting foot in an English seaport for the first time. He had two porters with him, carrying the luggage, and to these he kept up a constant flow of instructions, bidding them to take care, all delivered in the clipped nasal drawl of central America.

  Bertram Jacobs pushed his way to the foot of the gangway, held out his hand and greeted the Professor quietly, leading him over to the growler which had been waiting for the past hour. He was pleased to see Moriarty flash a quick smile at the driver – Harkness, the Professor’s coachman from the old days.

  The porters stowed the luggage and Moriarty went through an elaborate charade, pretending not to know the right money for their gratuities. In the end, Bertram joined in the play-acting, tipping the men out of his own pocket.

  It was not until they were both seated inside the cab, with Harkness urging the horses forward, that the Professor leaned back and spoke in his normal voice.

  ‘So, I am back yet again.’ He paused, as though mentally examining the statement. Then – ‘Where are we quartered?’

  ‘At the Saint George’s. Ember said you wanted a little luxury and no slap-bang shops. Was the journey peaceful?’

  Moriarty nodded, smiling as if to himself. ‘Greasy weather some of the time. Bridget Spear thought she’d be popped in her eternity box before we got here. The Saint George’s is good and a little comfort will not come amiss. A day will see me back with my land legs. A day and some naked brandy.’

  ‘And a still bed?’

  ‘Not so still as you’d notice,’ the Professor chuckled. ‘I always find it hard to sleep after a sea voyage. Is Ember safe?’

  ‘He’ll take Lee Chow to London. All is arranged.’

  ‘And your brother?’

  ‘Bringing Spear and his lackin on to the hotel. They’ve a room on the same landing as yourself. Bill and me are just across the passage, so we’re all grouped close for tonight. There’s no whisper about you. Not anywhere as far as we can make out. And there were no jacks around when you came off the ship. It’s quite calm.’

  ‘Harkness?’

  ‘Lodged near the hotel stables. He’ll start for London tonight. We go on by rail tomorrow.’

  Moriarty, his body rolling easily with the motion of the cab, peered out of the window like a man eagerly sampling the sights of a new country.

  ‘The Pool changes little,’ he said, so quietly that Jacobs could only just hear him. ‘I’d swear I have set eyes on a dozen judys that worked the streets when I was here as a lad.’

  They were fast leaving the dock area with its teeming grog shops and colonies of whores, the delight of seamen the world over.

  ‘A good investment, the property down here,’ said Jacobs.

  ‘It used to be said that an acre around Liverpool Docks could bring in ten times as much as a hundred acres of the best farming land in Wiltshire.’

  ‘I can believe it. There’s many a straight furrow ploughed down here.’

  ‘And other things,’ Moriarty mused.

  A few minutes later they passed into the broad and imposing Lime Street, coming to rest outside the Saint George’s Hotel where porters and pages made much fuss of the arriving guest. Moriarty signed in using his fictitious name and giving his home address as some obscure academic institution in middle America.

  For their leader the Jacobs brothers had reserved a large suite of rooms, comprising a drawing-room, a large bedroom and a private bathroom – the best in the hotel, tastefully decorated and nicely appointed with windows looking down onto the busy and constantly engaging street below.

  The porters deposited the luggage in the bedroom and departed, pulling their forelocks as Moriarty ran the palm of his hand over the leather trunk as though it was in itself an object of great beauty.

  ‘I have a small surprise for you, Professor,’ Bertram grinned once the porters had gone. ‘If you’ll pardon me for a moment.’

  Moriarty nodded and set to uncorking the bottle of fine Hennessy’s brandy which had been brought up with the baggage. He felt tired and out of sorts, the result, he presumed, of the strain and the sea voyage.

  His old spirits returned quickly, when Bertram opened the door and ushered Sally Hodges into the room.

  ‘It is good to see you back.’ Sal Hodges held out her hands and moved towards the Professor, taking his hands in hers and kissing him tenderly on both cheeks.

  Sally Hodges held a special place in Moriarty’s society, for she had been an important member of his staff – his whore mistress in charge of street women and brothels – including the famous Sal Hodges House in the West End; also a provider of young women for his personal use; and, at not infrequent intervals, his favourite mistress.

  Now, in her middle thirties, she was a striking woman with hair of a flame copper and a superbly proportioned figure which she always set off to the best advantage, as indeed she did at this moment in the blue velvet gown which graced her body in a manner which, while modest, gave more than a hint of the lascivious pleasures which lay beneath.

  Moriarty stepped back, as though examining her, a brief smile playing on his lips.

  ‘Well, Sal, so you have been faithful to me.’

  ‘It has not been easy, James.’ She was one of the few confidants who could call him by his first name with any impunity. ‘The old days are gone. You know that. I now have only one house in London and there’s been no controlling the street girls since you’ve been away.’

  ‘But …?’

  ‘But I shall be proud to warm your supper for you on any night you may choose.’

  She took a step towards the Professor, who backed away a mite, for he did not like to show much extravagance towards women when in the presence of his lieutenants. At that moment there was a commotion in the passageway outside, heralding the arrival of William Jacobs and the Spears.

  There was much handshaking, and some kissing and whispering between the women. This was followed, naturally, by the pouring of liberal doses of brandy.

  When all was quiet, and Bridget Spear seated, still looking green about the gills, Bert Spear raised his glass towards the Professor.

  ‘I give you our safe arrival,’ he toasted.

  As the murmur of assent died aw
ay, Moriarty looked around the faces of his small band.

  ‘A safe arrival,’ he repeated. ‘And triumph over those who have crossed us.’

  ‘Amen to that,’ muttered Spear.

  ‘Confusion to them,’ said Bertram Jacobs, glass poised.

  ‘Let them pass blood and rot,’ William Jacobs spat out.

  The women nodded agreement and they all tossed back their brandy as if their lives depended upon it, Bertram refilling the glasses as fast as they were emptied.

  Presently, Sal Hodges, taking her cue from Moriarty, drew Bridget Spear to one side, suggesting that they should leave the men to business.

  Moriarty looked from one Jacobs brother to the other, once the women had left.

  ‘Well,’ he began. ‘What arrangements have you made?’

  Bertram Jacobs acted as spokesman. ‘The house is ready: that’s the best news I can give you. It is what they call a desirable residence, near the Ladbroke estate in Notting Hill, so it’s well situated. There’s plenty of room for all and a small garden and conservatory at the back. We have put it about that you are an American Professor who does not take kindly to socializing. You are here to study, though you will be spending some time on the continent.’

  ‘Good,’ Moriarty’s head was oscillating slowly. ‘And the furnishings are complete?’

  ‘All you need.’

  ‘And my picture?’

  ‘The Greuze was exactly where Ember told us. It’s hung in your new study and you will set eyes on it tomorrow.’

  Moriarty nodded. ‘And what of our people?’

  The Jacobs brothers looked grave, the smiles fading from their faces.

  ‘Sal’s already told you her side,’ Bertram frowned. ‘The girls have all split up, or are working in twos and threes. The same applies in all business. Our old demanders have set up for themselves; the street people go their own way. Without anyone to control it, the best cracksmen put up their own screwings, and the fences are doing business direct. There’s no order any more.’

  ‘Then no one person has taken control?’ Moriarty’s voice dropped to almost a hushed whisper.