by John Gardner
“Then you’ll expedite this matter with haste, and receive payment in the usual way.”
“Certainly, Mr. Gittins. I’ll get my lads up and we’ll remove the corpse forthwith.”
“Good. Quick as you can, then.”
George looked at the body. The head was screwed to one side at an unnatural angle and the flesh had the flabby grey-white look of uncooked pastry, the lips lacking blood, the nostrils flared, and the eyes filmed over with all spark gone. Not being a squeamish man, George leaned over and closed the eyes with the thumb and forefinger of his right hand, for which Cadvenor thanked him as his two assistants came into the room carrying a litter between them.
Gittins gave a peremptory order and they all began to descend the stairs, leaving the undertaker to his work.
At the door to the street, Gittins turned to Dropsy Carmichael. “I shouldn’t go noising this abroad, Dropsy. Not if you’ve got any sense.”
“I’m not a fool, Mr. Gittins.”
“I wouldn’t have known,” and George was away from the house as though he couldn’t move quick enough, telling the others to get into the growler fast as foxes; pausing to tell Josiah Osterley to “take us back by the river, I need some air after that place.” “By God,” he said to Ember, “what a place to take poor Sal Hodges!”
“What a place indeed,” Ember agreed. “But she did not look herself, did she, George?”
“Anyone in a rush?” Gittins asked. “Any of you got appointments tonight? No? Good, we shall meander back,” and he put a foot on the box and whispered in Josh Osterley’s ear; and so they wandered off with, it seemed, no particular destination in mind until, some two hours later, when the streets were lit by the electric lighting and the odd window was illuminated by candles, the growler finally took them west of the London Docks, down Nightingale Lane into Wapping, turning east again, then off to the right down a pitch-black cul-de-sac lane to the riverside itself, where George Gittins climbed down, saying, “I must strain me taters,” and proceeded to relieve himself into the river.
“Sidney?” he called, patting Valentine’s muzzle as he returned to the growler. “Sid, get down here, up on the box with you, next to Josh Osterley. He’ll need two pairs of eyes to get back up this lane.” Indeed the lane was dark; there was not a glimmer of light for two hundred yards or so back up to the road.
So Streeter climbed up and settled himself on Osterley’s left as Glittering George Gittins went back to the coach, passing beside the driver, opening the door, then swinging himself up, one foot in the coach, left hand on the roof as his right hand went down inside his jacket and pulled out the Smith & Wesson hammerless revolver. Lifting himself up he blew Streeter’s brains out with a single shot from behind, startling the horses and shouting, “Josh Osterley, get rid of him!”
As he turned the coach around, so Osterley nudged Streeter’s body into the river and Gittins swung inside the coach.
It was almost half past seven and, back in the real world, Albert Spear was about to call on Professor Moriarty with the news of Sal Hodges’s murder.
8
At Home with the Professor
LONDON: JANUARY 17, 1900
NOW THAT TERREMANT was spending much of the time away from the house, Moriarty called in Daniel Carbonardo to watch him there, both on the premises and when he went abroad into the streets. He also had Wally Taplin, the freckle-faced boy with the smooth, neat, copper-coloured hair, living in as his errand boy. During Wednesday morning he had sent the boy over to the nearby stables where his cab driver, Ben Harkness, lived in rooms above the big shed where the Professor’s hansom was stored, next to the stable he rented for Archie.
In the late morning they drove out, Daniel sitting in the hansom with the Professor, vigilant, armed, and ready to move should anyone attempt to harm his gaffer.
They drove to the General Post Office in St. Martin’s le Grand, where Moriarty sent a telegraph to a Karl Franz von Hertzendorf at an address in the fashionable Stephansdom quarter of Vienna. The message read:
COME AT YOUR EARLIEST CONVENIENCE STOP INFORM ME OF DATE AND TIME OF BOAT AND TRAIN STOP YOU WILL BE MET AND ALL WILL BE READY FOR YOU STOP BEST REGARDS JAMES
The message cost the standard rate of 3d a word for foreign telegrams, the entire cable being charged at seven shillings and nine pence.* They then returned to the house without incident, the entire outing taking roughly one hour. Moriarty found himself so impressed by Daniel Carbonardo’s behaviour—the way he held himself, his alertness and general demeanour—that he seriously considered him for a place in his aptly named Praetorian Guard.
Once home, the Professor repaired to his room and poured himself a generous glass of a dry sherry, of which he was fond, while young Wally, good boy that he was, went and fetched him a rabbit pie from Mrs. Belcher at The Duke of York public house on the corner. The pie came hot, and the boy carried it upstairs with a cloth over the two plates—one turned on top of the other—so that it would still be warm and fresh for the Professor, who, by the time the boy arrived, had laid a place for himself at table and sat there ready to eat, a pristine white napkin tucked into his collar and a bottle of Hospices de Beaune decanted and breathing beside his right hand.
Ada Belcher’s rabbit pie was alright, not great but certainly edible, though the pastry lacked something, possibly the way a good rabbit pie’s pastry should absorb the juices of the gravy and, so enriched, melt in the mouth. The actual rabbit was done to his liking with the tender meat peppered with cloves, and an onion spiked in the same way; carrots and diced potato were also provided, and there was plenty of gravy, delicious and full of flavour, to which he needed to add only a trifle of salt and a little English mustard for the meat. The mustard he made for himself, once a week, with Mr. Coleman’s powder, sometimes, in the summer, after the French manner, mixing it with a white wine vinegar.
As a cook, Ada Belcher was almost good, though not quite great. Ada, he considered, narrowly missed the mark of perfection. The people he really wanted were those from the old days, particularly Fanny Jones; but Fanny had married Pip Paget so was Fanny Paget now, and would be to the end of Paget’s days.
James Moriarty’s fork, carrying rabbit flesh and pastry, replete with the succulent gravy, to his mouth, paused halfway up as he thought the unthinkable, drops of gravy falling back to the plate.
But was it unthinkable? Paget had denied him, and got away with it free and gratis. Though if the secrets of all hearts were laid bare, as they would be on the Day of Judgement, Paget doubtless expected to pay for his sin at some time, and it would not be difficult to make him cough and pay the final price. Oh, the idea of tasting Fanny’s pastry again sent an almost sexual shiver through James Moriarty’s body!
He sat back, relishing the flavour and thinking how much better it would be had Fanny Jones prepared and cooked the pie. At this moment he would gladly give a king’s ransom for one of Fanny’s meat or game pies, and possibly her speciality, baked apple, to follow, the centre of the apple stuffed full of demerara sugar, studded with sultanas, and laced with a pinch of ginger. In his head Moriarty was singing:
And here we sit, like birds in the wilderness,
Birds in the wilderness, birds in the wilderness,
And here we sit like birds in the wilderness,
Down in Demerara.
A remnant of his childhood.
He drank three glasses of the burgundy with his meal, and in the postprandial glow, the Professor leaned back in his favourite chair and thought again of the final days and hours when he took over his elder brother’s life.
First, he recalled how he had worked hard in taking on his brother’s outward appearance; once he had perfected this skilful method of disguising himself as the professor of mathematics, young Moriarty set the final moves into play. From the years they had spent growing up together, the youngest brother knew the darkest secrets of the true professor’s soul. Certainly he was aware of the professor’s besetting weakness: For a
ll his command of mathematics, James Moriarty was hopeless with money, forever living beyond his means. It was quickly clear to the young Moriarty that the professor had formed an attachment to a pair of his wealthiest students, and in this he may have met his nemesis.
The young men—Arthur Bowers and the Honourable Norman de Frayse—were in their late teens, both already bearing the marks of early degeneracy: the languid good looks, limp hands, weak mouths, bloodshot eyes following days of overindulgence, and a style of conversation that affected a quick, if cheap, wit.
Young Moriarty had both the young men marked. Bowers’s father was squire of a small village in Gloucestershire, while de Frayse’s father, the baronet Sir Richard de Frayse, was not beyond playing at the high-and-fast London life himself. The boys seemed already set in their ways, spending the bulk of their time with the professor of mathematics, sometimes staying out until the following morning and having little aptitude for the kind of studies that should have consumed their professor.
Through carefully cultivated friends, young Moriarty, judging when the time was ripe, spread the word that both Bowers and de Frayse were being corrupted by the older academic, and the whispers quickly reached the ears of their families—young Moriarty saw to that.
It was Sir Richard who reacted first, obviously concerned lest his beloved son be lured into the web of destructive pleasure and libidinous ways that were so obviously dragging himself toward eternal damnation. Sir Richard descended on the university and, after spending an uncomfortable hour or so with his son, arrived, wrathful and spleen-choked, at the Vice-Chancellor’s lodgings.
The situation could not have been bettered, for the older man had acted true to form, even stretching himself further into trouble than his younger brother had estimated.
In all, the professor had funded his nights of eating, drinking, gambling, and, presumably, debauchery by borrowing heavily from the two young men. When all was made known, the mathematician owed some three thousand pounds to de Frayse and a further fifteen hundred to Bowers. The Vice-Chancellor’s anger was horrible to see. Moriarty’s name was blackened in the groves of academe and he was asked to leave the university forthwith.
Naturally, rumours abounded: The professor had been discovered in flagrante delicto with a college servant; he had stolen money; he had abused and struck the Vice-Chancellor; he had used his mathematical skill to cheat at cards; he was a dope fiend; he was a Satanist; he was involved with a gang of criminals. The only truth that was un-decorated was that Professor Moriarty had resigned.
The younger Moriarty chose his moment with care, arriving innocent and unexpected at the professor’s rooms late one afternoon, feigning surprise at the boxes and trunks open and the packing in progress.
His elder brother was a broken and beaten man, the stoop more pronounced, his eyes sunk even deeper into his head, his gait slow and stumbling, and his hands unsteady. Slowly, and not without emotion, Professor James Moriarty unfolded the sad story to his youngest brother.
“I feel you might have understanding at my plight, Jim,” he said, once the terrible truth was out. “I doubt if Jamie ever will.”
“No, but Jamie’s in India, so there is no great or immediate trouble there.”
“But what will be said, Jim? Though nothing will be publicly revealed, for the sake of the university, there are already stories. The world will know that I leave here under some great cloud. It is my ruin and the destruction of all my work. My mind is in such a whirl, I do not know where to turn.”
The young Moriarty faced the window lest any sign of pleasure could be read on his countenance.
“Where had you planned to go?” he asked quietly.
“To London. After that …” The gaunt man raised his hands in a gesture of despair. “I had even considered coming to you down at your railway station.”*
The younger man smiled. “I have long given up my job with the railways.”
“Then what…?”
“I do many things, James. I think my visit here this afternoon has been providential. I can help you. First let me take you to London; there will be work for you to do there, to be sure. Courage, brother; have faith in me, for I have the power to unlock doors for you.”
So, later that evening, the professor’s luggage was loaded into a cab and the brothers set out together for the railway station and London.
Within a month there was talk that the famous professor’s star had fallen. It was said that he now ran a small establishment tutoring would-be army officers, mathematics now playing a greater part in the art of modern warfare.
For some six months following his resignation, people knew that the former professor of mathematics seemed to go faithfully about this somewhat dull and demanding work. He conducted his business from a small house in Pole Street, near its junction with Weymouth Street, on the south side of Regent’s Park—a pleasant enough place to live, handy for skating in the winter, friendly cricket in the summer, and the interest of the zoological and botanical societies all year round. Then, with no warning, the professor closed his small establishment and moved, to live in some style in a large house off the Strand.
These were the known facts about the professor’s movements directly following the disaster that overtook him when he was driven from the high echelons of academic life. The truth was a very different matter, as it marked the most important, ruthless moves in the career of the Professor Moriarty we now know as the uncrowned king of Victorian and Edwardian crime.
After he had lived in Pole Street for some six months, on one chilly autumn evening, the professor, having dined early on boiled mutton with barley and carrots, was preparing for bed when a sudden loud and agitated knocking took him to his front door. He opened it, revealing his youngest brother, Jim, dressed in a long, black old-fashioned surtout and with a wide-brimmed felt hat square on his head, the brim tilted over his eyes. In the background, the professor saw a hansom drawn up at the curb, the horse nodding placidly, and no cabbie in sight.
“My dear fellow, come in …” the professor began.
“There’s no time to waste, brother. Jamie’s back in England with his regiment, and there’s trouble. Family trouble. We have to meet him immediately.”
“But where…? How…?”
“Get your topcoat. I’ve borrowed the hansom from an acquaintance. There’s no time to lose …”
The urgency in young Moriarty’s voice spurred on the professor, who trembled with nervousness as he climbed into the cab. His brother set the horse off at a steady trot, going by unaccustomed side streets toward the river, which they crossed at Blackfriars Bridge.
Continuing along side alleys and byways, the hansom proceeded down through Lambeth, eventually turning from the streets to a piece of waste ground, bordered by a long buttress, falling away into the muddy, swirling water of the Thames, much swollen at this time of the year. The cab was drawn up some ten paces from the buttress edge, close enough to hear the river, and the distant noise of laughter and singing from some tavern on the far river bank, together with the occasional barking of a dog.
Professor Moriarty peered about him in the black murk as his brother helped him down from the cab, his topcoat flapping open where, in his haste, he had not buttoned it.
“Is Jamie here?” His tone was anxious.
“Not yet, James, not yet.”
The professor turned toward him, suddenly concerned by the soft and sinister timbre of his brother’s voice. In the darkness, something long and silver quivered in the younger man’s hand.
“Jim? What…?” he cried out, the word turning from its vocal shape and form into a long guttural rasp of pain as young brother James sealed the past and the future, the knife blade pistoning smoothly between the professor’s ribs, three times.
The tall, thin body arched backward, a clawing hand grasping at Moriarty’s surtout, the face contorted with pain. For a second the eyes stared uncomprehendingly up at young James; then, as though suddenly perceiving
the truth, there was a flicker of calm acquiescence before they glazed over, passing into eternal blindness.
Young Moriarty shook the clutching hand free, stepped back, and peered down at the body of the brother whose identity he was so cunningly about to assume. It was as though all the kudos of the dead man’s brilliance had passed up the blade of the knife into his own body. In the professor’s death, the new legend of the Professor was born.
Moriarty had stowed chains and padlocks nearby against this moment, so first he emptied the cadaver’s pockets, placing the few sovereigns, the gold pocket watch and chain, and the handkerchief into a small bag made of yellow American cloth. He wound and secured the heavy chains around the corpse, then gently tipped his departed brother off the buttress and into the water below.
For a few silent moments Moriarty stood looking out across the dark river, savouring his moment. Then, with a quick upward movement of his arm, he flung the knife out in the direction of the far shore, straining his ears for the plash as it hit the water. Then, as though without a second thought, he turned on his heel, climbed into the hansom, and drove away, back to the house off the Strand.
On the following afternoon, Albert Spear, accompanied by two men, went to the small house in Pole Street and removed all traces of its former occupant.
Young Moriarty had murdered his brother, disposed of his body, and ever since had posed as him in the world. He felt no remorse, rarely thought of his older sibling, and certainly never spoke of him. This was the first time in years that the manner of his brother’s death had even come into his head. He was able to immediately banish the memory once more, so that it was as if the older Moriarty had never been.
He sighed deeply, got up, and crossed the room to pour himself a small glass of brandy, for Ada Belcher’s rabbit pie had caused him to think that his stomach lay upon his chest. Settled again in his chair, glancing up at Georgiana, Duchess of Devonshire, his mind slipped onto one of the more pressing matters of the moment: the loyalty of individual members of his so-called Praetorian Guard. Now, without delay, he allowed his thoughts to roam over the four men closest to him.