The Return of Moriarty

by John Gardner

  “Of course I’m sorry, sir. Anyone would be sorry to offend you as I have. God knows I’ve been looking over my shoulder ever since.”

  “So you can promise me repentance?”

  “Sorrow, sir. Yes.”

  “And to go back, what did Albert Spear have to say to you?”

  “He told me that you were looking for me, and that he had found me, and that was not hard. He would have to tell you where I was.”

  “He give you any advice?”

  Paget shook his head. There was no point dropping Spear into the sewers that wait for all men to drown in.

  “So, when you looked over your shoulder for all those years, Pip, what did you eventually expect to see?”

  Paget did not know if he could explain it; he wondered if he had the words to draw the nightmares that sometimes disturbed him, even when he was not asleep. “I expected some terrible creature, sir. Some fanged hound coming at me out of the night, its teeth dripping and its eyes on fire wanting vengeance.”

  “So, I am reduced to a hound? A dog? Some mythical beast?”

  “No, sir. I was bound to you by oath. Am bound to you. I would expect you to look for a terrible revenge because I broke that oath.”

  Moriarty nodded as if in agreement.

  “Well.” He turned to Fanny, smiled at her, then looked at Paget. “Whatever happens between us, Pip, I trust Fanny will return and work for me. I have so missed her cooking, and besides, in my London house I am having my kitchen rebuilt especially for her.”

  Fanny’s head was raised, slightly cocked to one side, arrogance guttering in her eyes. “You did so many good things for me, sir. You stood by me and paid off that black-hearted butler who tried to take advantage of me and then had me thrown out of my place.* You were good to me and Pip, helped us with our marriage …”

  “I was like a father to you both, Fanny, and I wouldn’t have you forget it.” Moriarty’s voice was rising, cracking stern now.

  “If you do something terrible to my love, Pip Paget, I’ll never come near your house again, Professor,” she said with huge affirmation. “You do away with Pip and you must do away with me also.”

  A good, spunky girl, Moriarty thought. The kind of girl I need by my side. He hoped against all hopes that Sal Hodges would bear witness in the same way should Idle Jack wish her to come under his employ.

  Aloud he gave a little nervous laugh. “Pip, you would surely expect some kind of penance, some way to expiate the huge and mortal sin of your betrayal?”

  “Of course, sir. I would do anything to make it right. I am heartsore and sorry.”

  “Then maybe there is one way.” James Moriarty looked him down. The eyes that had the power to drug a man bored into Paget’s brain, making him want to telescope into himself and so disappear.

  “One of my Praetorian Guard is, even now as we speak, betraying me. I know one way of catching out this man, but I would rather find him fair, run him down by stealth within my family.” He took a long and deep draught of air. “Philip Paget, I want you to come back and take your place, your old place, in my Guard; and from there I will charge you to winkle out the traitor in our midst. If you do that, then I shall pronounce complete forgiveness and raise you to the highest position within the family. If you don’t or can’t do it, then I’ll see you crushed, and your wife with you.”

  Paget and Fanny exchanged a look, both knowing that once more they had little option. To survive, Pip had to take on the task. Quietly he said, “I shall do it, to the best of my ability, Professor,” and, without even thinking about it, he took Moriarty’s right hand, raised it to his lips, and kissed the signet ring on his finger: a sign that, once again, he was owning to the Professor as his master, his liege lord, the one he would obey and defend through thick and thin.

  Following her husband’s example, Fanny curtseyed and kissed the Professor’s ring, knowing deep within herself that this would be their last chance, that Moriarty was being uncharacteristically merciful, and that if matters went wrong again, Professor James Moriarty would leave no stone unturned to see them both crushed, obliterated from both this life and the next. She had heard it from Pip, who often told her, “He’ll have us killed and after that he will extract the worst possible vengeance on us. He will have our bodies burned so that all hope of the Blessed Resurrection will be gone for us.”

  Followers of the One True, Holy Catholic and Apostolic Church believed that to burn the physical body made it impossible—except for those martyrs miraculously saved—to be raised from the dead and made one with Our Lord Jesus Christ on the Day of Judgement. The expunging of the flesh and excommunication from Holy Church were the two most terrible punishments that could be meted out on a Christian man or woman. Moriarty was careful; most of his key followers had been Roman Catholics, or at least held the Catholic beliefs.

  Pip Paget, one such, put on a contented look, his face suffused with goodwill. Inside, he felt nothing but dread, because he knew Moriarty, probably better than most men. The promises made by the Professor were so out of character with the man he knew that it was impossible for him to believe in the olive branch Moriarty had offered them.

  The Professor believes I have the skill and cunning to entrap whoever is betraying him within his Praetorian Guard, he reasoned. Once I have done his bidding he will dispose of me with as much emotion as he would show in swatting a fly away from his food. I am a means to an end: no more, no less. I have shown a certain weakness, a lack of complete trust, so Moriarty will never have faith in either me or my Dove, Fanny, ever again. The trick will be to outfence him and get us away from his circle of dominance before the axe falls.

  Moriarty clasped both of them in a tight embrace, then told them that there was much work to be done. “You will have to be at this address,” he said, handing Pip Paget a discreet business card that omitted his name but showed the address. “I would suggest you arrive at the back door before eight in the morning—”

  “Tomorrow?” Fanny cried. “That soon?” Then again, “Tomorrow?”

  “That is entirely your choice.” Moriarty did not even look at her. “We have a meeting of the Guard at eight in the morning. I would like you there. Go to the back door, Terremant will let you in, and Fanny, you can start in the kitchen. I shall leave money. I am known locally as Mr. P. That is the only name by which I am known. I trust you will come, and I look forward to seeing you. Good night.”

  He left behind him a kind of emptiness, as if his bulk, his quiddity, had removed air from the house. For one split second Pip Paget thought that he caught the man’s essence, a trace of French cologne, the quick burn of cognac in his throat, and an eerie sense that he could feel the white silk scarf running through his fingers. His voice also seemed to linger. “I trust you will come.”

  IDLE JACK HAD BEEN out with Broad Darryl Wood. Using a trusted cabbie, they had done the rounds of his best places—the knocking houses, drinking dens, bucket shops, and nightclubs where his word held sway. He was a little perturbed, because it was obvious that a slight trickle of men and women had begun to return to Moriarty’s camp, though it had not yet become a haemorrhage.

  Now, Jack thought hard and long about the situation. He had, some time ago, put out a plea to other leaders of criminal factions in Europe for a meeting in London proposing an alliance, just as Moriarty had done some years before. As yet none of them had responded.

  One thing was plain to him. It was necessary to crush Moriarty and so loosen the hold the Professor had on a large section of the criminal underworld.

  Broad Darryl Wood was not given his soubriquet in any reference to his physique. He was broad of neither chest nor shoulders. The fact was that Wood had been an excellent, even legendary broadsman, a card sharp, leader of the famous broad mob that had operated in some of the more louche gambling dens around Bond Street. Now he sat, dozing before the fire burning gaily in the withdrawing room of Jack Idell’s house in Bedford Square.

  Jack woke him, shaking
him hard by the shoulder, bringing a hot toddy to warm him thoroughly before going to his bed.

  “I have made a decision, Darryl,” he said, his eyes glinting in the firelight. “A momentous decision.”

  “About what, Sir Jack?” Wood was always careful to address his leader by his title. Idle Jack could be touchy when it came to what he thought of as his place in society.

  “About James Moriarty. About the so-called Professor. I have come to a decision about Moriarty.”

  “Well?”

  And as Idle Jack Idell told him what he planned, Darryl Wood’s face became as grave as the tomb. “I will not do that,” he said at last.

  “Not until the summer,” Idle Jack said with his sinister twisted smile. “Give things a chance to settle down first.”

  “I could never risk doing that, even for you, Sir Jack.” Wood looked troubled.

  “I don’t expect you to do it, my friend. I’ve already decided. I am going to get Micah Rowledge to do it.”

  Micah Rowledge had the emotions of a stone. His first position, some years ago now, had been working for a notorious baby farmer. His particular job had been strangling unwanted newborn babies.

  It was said that Micah had loved his work, could not get enough of it.

  15

  Georgie Porgie

  LONDON: JANUARY 21, 1900

  SPEAR WAS NOT on time for the meeting of Moriarty’s so-called Praetorian Guard due to be held at eight o’clock on Sunday morning. He had to go to Pembroke Gardens, Kensington, to catch Perry Gwyther before the solicitor set out for church with his wife, Alice, and their daughter, Lena. Gwyther was still in his dressing gown, having breakfast—coffee, kedgeree, kidneys, and toast—in the dining room, and Spear felt out of place telling him that he was to buy the warehouse first thing Monday, and to inform the Professor as soon as it was done.

  Gwyther was a kind of wall, a barricade, between Moriarty and officialdom in its many and varied forms. The Professor often felt that, if it came to it, Perry Gwyther could prove beyond all doubt that James Moriarty had never existed.

  Spear shuffled his feet, looking down at his boots as they then talked, for some twenty minutes, about Gwyther’s recommendation of an architect: a man by the name of Iain Hunter, a large, gentle fellow, but most skilful according to Gwyther.

  “We want it just like it was last time—in Limehouse,” Spear said.

  “Fellow who designed that hung up his boots some years back,” Gwyther told him between mouthfuls of kedgeree. “Tell Hunter exactly what you want and he will do you a good job—oversee the builders and everything.”

  Spear was, therefore, not at the Professor’s house when Pip and Fanny Paget arrived just after seven, let in through the back door by Jim Terremant, who had been warned and had instructions to take them straight up to the Professor.

  Terremant thought Fanny Paget looked washed out and tired, as though she had been up all night. Which in fact she had.

  Moriarty was having breakfast with Sal Hodges, during which he outlined to her his requirements for later in the week.

  “In all probability it will be Wednesday,” he told her. “I will know later tomorrow, but, whatever day, my needs will be the same—six of your prettiest girls: young, big-eyed, and willing to have photographic likenesses taken of them au naturel, possibly with a male installed, if you follow me. Eyes the size of cow’s eyes would be good—eyes that look like a fellow could drown in them.”

  Sal smiled sweetly. “I think I shall have the right girls for you, my dear James. Who is the man?”

  Moriarty shook his head. “Not in your interest to know, but we shall be using a studio I have hired in St. Giles’s. You will want to be there, of course?”

  “I shall have to look after my girls’ interests, my dear; of course I will.”

  “And my interests, Sal, my love? What of them?” He looked her straight in the eyes and laid one hand over hers, resting on the table.

  For a moment, Sal Hodges was mystified; she did not know how to reply. “Your interests are mine, of course, James my dear,” she said eventually.

  “Then I believe we should take a bold step.” His eyes never leaving hers.

  “Yes?” she said, still mystified.

  “You have borne me a child, Sal. We live more or less as man and wife. I think we should regularize the situation.”

  “You think…?”

  “Yes.” He smiled the most wonderful smile, lighting up not just his eyes, but his whole face, crinkling the corners of his eyes and revealing the laughter lines at the edges of his mouth. The kind of smile that men and women dream of when thinking about those most private, intimate, and romantic thoughts. “I am suggesting that, when we have finally bought another warehouse, and it has been altered to my specifications, we should marry.”

  Sal dropped her right hand to her breast, her mouth shaping a letter O, as she took in a swift, almost involuntary breath.

  But at that moment, Terremant tapped on the door, ushering Pip and Fanny into the room.

  “So, Pip, you have taken the wiser course?” the Professor said. “I greet you, and salute your common sense.” Then, turning to Fanny, he told her that she was to take immediate charge of the running of the house, particularly the cooking. “I have left a purse with several sovereigns on the kitchen table,” he told her. “Terremant will show you. And, Tom,” speaking to Terremant, whom he still refused to call by his proper name, Jim, “when Spear arrives with the boy Sam, you are to tell him and Wally Taplin here that they must obey Mrs. Paget to the letter.” He turned to Taplin, who was serving the breakfast. “You understand that, Walter. You are to do as Mrs. Paget tells you. You will meet Sam shortly and he will tell you what happens to boys who do not do my bidding, eh, Tom?”

  “I’ve already told him, but I don’t think the little bug …boy believes me, Professor.”

  “Disabuse him, then. And I shall want to see the boy, Sam, after we have held our meeting. Go now; you also, Fanny; and you, Wally. Go with Mr. Terremant.”

  Terremant was somewhat bewildered, and had been from the moment he had found the Pagets on the doorstep. “Very well, Professor,” he burbled, betraying the fact that he could not understand how this could be—Paget being welcomed back into Moriarty’s household. It made no sense to him. After all, it was less than a week ago that Moriarty had spoken disparagingly of Pip Paget, a speech that had been whispered among the gang, more or less verbatim:

  Pip Paget saved my life. Shot a murderous skunk dead and saved my life, yet he’d already betrayed me. Me, who was a father to him, who had been present at his wedding, stood for him, provided his marital feast, blessed his union with another member of my organization … my family … It is meet and right for those who earn their stipend through me to know of my justice.

  “As soon as friend Spear decides to put in an appearance we’ll start our meeting.” Moriarty’s words were laced with sarcasm, and he gave a dismissive gesture of the hand, leaving no doubt that he wanted to be alone with Paget.

  “I will help you take the breakfast things down, Mr. Terremant,” Sal Hodges said, brightly starting to assist in clearing the crockery away in a manner that made Taplin, Terremant, and Fanny Paget move to help.

  Terremant felt sinful stirrings of lust as he brushed past Fanny Paget, catching a tiny trace of the clean, clear scent she wore. It reminded him of the lemon aroma he had often caught when in the vicinity of well-bred ladies in Paris—different from the cologne worn by the Professor, and certainly more affecting than the cheap perfumes used by the girls he was often close to in the Professor’s houses. Fanny Paget put about her a veritable scent of heat and Terremant appreciated it, as indeed did his loins; it was the most robust case of Irish toothache he had experienced for many a long day. Go on at this rate, he thought, and he would have to visit Delilah, the slim, little dark girl with the amazing thighs who worked in Sal Hodges’s House. She would pull his tooth for him and no mistake.

  Yet it
set Terremant thinking as to how a gamekeeper—because that, he understood, had been Pip Paget’s work lately—could supply his wife with a delicious French perfume. He could do with some of that himself; those perfumes were worth gold as gifts to some of the perfect ladies who worked Moriarty’s houses. He would have to put down a lure, perhaps.

  Then, within the hour, Bert Spear arrived downstairs with the boy Sam, whom Terremant had last seen when they had lifted him from the Glenmoragh Private Hotel the day he and Spear had given the lad the hiding of his life. He was pleased to see that young Sam was quiet and respectful, and that he moved forward to shake hands with Wally Taplin when they were introduced one to the other.

  This did not stop Terremant giving the pair a short homily on the way they would be expected to behave. “And you’ll do everything and anything Mrs. Paget instructs you,” he ended. “And if you don’t I’ve no doubt she’ll inform me, or Mr. Paget, and the Professor will require me to dispense his particularly harsh punishment, same as they do it in them public schools. Understand me?”

  “Yes, Mr. Terremant,” the boys chorused, like pupils conning a lesson by rote in one of the board schools.

  “Old Terremant’s bark is worse than his bite,” Wally told Sam when they were left alone a moment later, after Fanny Paget had slipped off down the shops on her own. “Clip around the ear occasionally, but nothing worse to speak of.”

  “I would not like to risk it.” Sam sounded most serious, and explained the circumstances of his error, and its aftermath, that night when the boys were becoming good friends, now sharing one of the smaller rooms down in the kitchen area.

  “You mean Mr. Spear flogged you?” Wally could hardly credit it.

  “Mr. Spear and Mr. Terremant both. I still bear the weals,” and Sam lifted his nightshirt and showed Wally Taplin the stripes and bruises remaining on the cheeks of his backside.