by John Gardner
Arthur could see that his father, James Moriarty, was moved following the surfeit of unrelenting prayer and ceremonial that told the story of Christ’s promise to all men and women, from the glory, laud, and honour of His entrance into Jerusalem to the betrayal, death, and hope of the Resurrection.
In his head, Moriarty could hear the translated words of the Dies Irae, thudding in his brain like sombre, driving timpani beats:
Dies Irae, Dies illa,
Day of wrath and doom impending,
David’s word with Sybil’s blending,
Heaven and earth in ashes ending.
Oh, what fear man’s bosom rendeth,
When from heaven the judge descendeth,
On whose sentence all dependeth.
18
Summer Term
LONDON: APRIL 17–30, 1900
BACK ON THE evening of Palm Sunday, Moriarty had summoned Terremant to his room. In the old days, after Pip Paget had gone missing, and before his promotion, Terremant had been in charge of the punishers, that gang of hard and ruthless men used for inflicting violence, and even death, on enemies of the family.
“It’s time we started to fight back, Tom,” the Professor began. “How many of the loyal punishers can you muster?”
“Around three-quarters of them, sir.” He went on to explain that he had, in the previous week, brought back six of their toughest men—including the legendary Arno Wilson, onetime fairground and booth prize fighter, like Terremant himself; and Corkie Smith, a man almost as big as Terremant, who would go into fights wielding a small holy water sprinkler—a cudgel spiked with nails, set points to the fore—with which, it was said, he had already killed some four men in street fights. He had also won back Rickie Cohen, the tall master of the knife, who cut people with his long, razor-sharp blade—almost an equal to Lee Chow in flicking a cutter across his enemies’ faces.
“They’ll be true to you now, Professor,” Terremant told him, and on being further questioned, he said that he would trust the reunited punishers with his own life.
“Then let’s put them to the test.” Moriarty said the time was now ripe, and perhaps on the Monday or Tuesday of Holy Week, when the trade for the girls would be slack, they should take back the house that Idle Jack had filched from them up at the Marble Arch end of Oxford Street—the one Spear had gone to sniff out only a week or so ago, hidden deep among the warren of streets north of Oxford Street itself.
Terremant seemed pleased to get the chance of some real work, but later in the week he brought bad news. It had been as if Idle Jack’s people had expected the assault. Instead of a sleepy and unprepared skeleton crew of minders and cash-carriers at the house, there had been a party of what the big punisher called fighting troops. “It was as if they had been tipped off and were prepared, waiting for us,” he told the Professor on the Thursday evening. “We was pushed back like a nest of ants being destroyed by boiling water. I’ve got three men who’ll be on crutches for the next six months, and dear old Glittering George Gittins may not even pull through, he’s so damaged.”
The tall, long-haired George Gittins had been shot in the head outside the house just as he was about to charge in with a group of six toughs as big as himself. (Eventually, he recovered.)
Moriarty had Bertram Jacobs keeping his eye on The Standard advertisements, but nothing had appeared summoning Cock Robin to a meeting at the house in Delamare Terrace. Maybe they are using the Royal Mail, like me, the Professor wondered. Or, perhaps one of the reunited punishers had not been reunited enough. “Grill ’em,” he ordered Terremant. “If necessary get Danny Carbonardo in, with his extra-sharp and hot pincers. He’ll make them talk.” Even Terremant appeared to wince. He had seen Carbonardo at work before.
On the Tuesday morning after Easter, another packet of letters arrived from Perry Gwyther’s office. I urg you to beware, Professor, Georgie Porgie wrote. I know they are plotting dredful things against you. And there are strange people here, in the house. A little man with a cocked head: sort of skew-wiff. A bad un if ever I saw one. He was with Idle Jack, alone and talking last night. Over an hour, and they talked about you. Jack said, “this must finish him.” The little one is cheeky. Jack called him bum-shus, but I dono what bum-shus meens. I do no they plan sumthing teribul.
The next morning, Wally Taplin came specially to tell the Professor that he thought someone had been watching the house. “A hansom, parked right across the road, sir. In it was a smallish man, dark, and he seemed to be smiling. Watched intently for about an hour between eight and nine.”
Moriarty told him to report it to Daniel Carbonardo and tell him to keep an eye open for a similar kind of man.
With Arthur home, it looked as though Moriarty had little time for the usual family business, though he did see everyone who had a special reason to talk to him. He also spoke with Spear, and with Carbonardo for about a half hour each day, and, in fact, kept a keen eye on everything that was going on. Not even his newfound close relationship with his son could come between him and the smooth running of his family, now that he was back in London.
Indeed, he had taken Perry Gwyther’s words to heart. Idle Jack Idell had had it too much his own way. The moment for Moriarty to reclaim his family was almost upon them, and his spirits were high. “We shall show that twopenny ha’penny Lance Jack who thinks he is the great horn spoon!” he told Carbonardo one evening. “Keep your pistol ready, and your wits about you, Dan. He’ll come for me soon enough.”
Whenever Moriarty went out and about with Arthur, Carbonardo was not far away from him: A past master at hiding himself away in the crowds, sneaking behind nearby windows, or dodging into convenient doorways, Danny watched not the Professor but those near him, knowing that when Idle Jack unleashed his killer dogs they would come panting almost silently, not with a fanfare of barks and squeals. Death had a way of arriving unexpectedly when Jack Idell was behind the man who would pull the trigger.
The Professor showed no outward sign of his concern, taking Arthur out to The Press, The Royal Borough, and The Stocks, treating him to slap-up meals and giving the boy his small glasses of Champagne at every meal.
“Ever get bullied?” the Professor asked him one day as they ate oysters, followed by roast fillet of beef with vegetables and a Spanish sauce. “Boys try to strong-arm you?”
“There is always bullying, Papa, but I can look after myself.” Arthur was bright, happy, and confident.
“Never let a bully see you are afraid of him, son.”
“No, Papa. What should I do?” He had in mind a boy called Mac-Roberts who was forever trying to pick on him and who liked to frighten and scoff at younger boys.
“First, you should always give the impression that you agree with everything they have to say.”
“I understand that. Agree with them.”
“Then, my son, if there is no other way, get even with them when they are least expecting it. Always take them by surprise, even at times when it is dangerous for you to show your true colours. When masters are about, for instance. It is also a good thing to perhaps win over one of the bully’s particular cronies. Even if you have to bribe them with money it is a good way to turn the tables on those kind of people, and also to draw suspicion away from yourself. But choose your time carefully. The bully is usually a bit of a coward underneath his bluster, so use that fact to your advantage. And if that fails, well, send for Bert Spear; he’ll fix them up for you.” He laughed at the joke, and Arthur laughed even louder. “The thing to remember is you must treat friends and enemies alike. Never allow one to know whom you favour and whom you despise.” This was a constant in Moriarty’s advice: that you should never reveal your real friends, or enemies, to anyone. Make it look as though you are the same to all men.
THE “LITTLE MAN with a cocked head: sort of skew-wiff” was, of course, Micah Rowledge, whose first job had been strangling unwanted babies; the man who had loved his work; the man who Idle Jack had said would be hired to sett
le matters with James Moriarty.
Micah Rowledge was an abomination, a horrible little man: small of stature, with his head permanently cocked to one side and a birth defect that had left him with an enduring physical handicap—a smile as insincere as a drunk’s promise, the smirk forever curling his lips, saying that he always knew better than you, the amusement supercilious and leaping into his eyes, which regarded other people, in general, as being his inferior. His hair was long, to his shoulders, dark, and kinked with waves that put a rough sea to shame. All in all, Micah Rowledge was chock-full of a superiority, ripe with arrogance: insufferable.
He was now spending much time with Jack Idell, and claimed he had the perfect method to do away with Moriarty and so do Idle Jack’s bidding.
“This has to be public,” Jack said to him, blinking his hooded eyes.
“Don’t let that concern you,” Micah hissed, for he spoke low, in almost a whisper, dropping his voice at the end of each sentence, so making people listen even harder to catch his words. “This will be as visible a killing as you would ever want. The world will know when I have done it, and it will certainly be the end for the so-called Professor Moriarty. Within days you will be monarch of all you survey, Sir Jack. You will have no enemies, for I shall do away with Professor Moriarty completely.”
His plan seemed to fulfil all Idle Jack’s requirements: The murder would be carried out in public, the world would know who was behind it, but there would be no proof. Micah Rowledge had his escape route planned and he would disappear for several years. “Nobody will even guess where I’ll be,” he told Jack. “And if they do guess, they will never be able to find me, or get to me.”
“No,” Idle Jack agreed. “It will be as if you had never been.” He had learned much from watching the Professor’s progress in the past. That was one of the reasons why Idle Jack Idell was such a threat to Moriarty: It was as though he had evil powers and kept an idol of the Professor in his den—an idol he could manipulate, alter, and destroy.
There was a difference between Daniel Carbonardo and Micah Rowledge. Carbonardo killed professionally; Rowledge enjoyed killing for the sake of it.
On the afternoon of April twenty-ninth, the ship called Pride of the Morning sank without warning off the coast of Portugal. It was as though someone had unexpectedly opened her seacocks so that she suddenly foundered and sank taking her entire crew, with her captain, Corny Trebethik, into Davey Jones’s locker. A passing ship picked up one survivor: a Chinese employed to swab down the decks.
So, spring inexorably nudged the world toward summer, and all too soon the Easter holidays were over, and Arthur was forced to prepare himself to return to Rugby School on April thirtieth for the start of the Summer Term.
Harkness had the cab outside, and had loaded Arthur’s box into a second cab driven by Josh Osterley while the young man said goodbye to his parents. “Your father says if we leave in good time I can give you a treat, take you through Regent’s Park,” he whispered to Arthur. Regent’s Park was a little out of their way, but much loved by Arthur, who had been taken there, to the Botanical Gardens and the Zoological Gardens, as a toddler. A ride round the park, on the way to catch his train, would be a fine way to end the holiday.
“It has been my best time here, sir. The best I can ever recall, Papa.” And Arthur, on an impulse, embraced his father, who, as he turned, noted that Sal was near to weeping.
“The summer will soon be here and you’ll return for the long holiday,” Moriarty told him. “I thought we would take a short trip, perhaps to Deauville, where you can learn something of the impossible business of gaming. Learn you can rarely rake in the persimmon at the tables, eh?”
“I shall look forward to it, Papa.”
Moriarty smiled at him. “And other things also, I’ll be bound.” For he planned to see Arthur initiated into the way with women, and where better to do that than at the French resort?
The young man, looking handsome and happy, kissed his mother, said good-bye, and turned, waving at the foot of the steps, before he got into the cab.
“There, Sal.” Moriarty put an arm around Sally Hodges, who now wept openly. “He’ll soon be back. We have made a good young fellow.”
But Sal turned away, the tears flowing freely and her heart heavy with the secret she dared not reveal to him, the secret locked away inside her. She stifled a sob, disentangled herself from him, and ran to her room.
And off he went to his study, for he had much to do.
As he turned he saw Carbonardo near the front door, and, on a whim, told him to follow Harkness in the other hansom. Carbonardo ran to it and jumped in, telling Osterley to stay close behind Harkness all the way to Euston Railway Station.
“I’ll see Mister Arthur on the train, never fear, Professor,” he called, and Arthur waved from inside the cab as it pulled smartly away from the house.
It was a beautiful spring day, the sky cloudless, that deep blue that is a foretaste of summer: the kind of day they had called Queen’s weather for the past sixty years or so. Harkness manoeuvred the cab gently so that they could take a pleasant ride to Euston Station, where Arthur would travel on the London and North Western Railway’s regular morning express that stopped at Rugby. As he had promised, Harkness took a little turn in Regent’s Park.
Most of the traffic was flowing toward the West End and the City of London at that time in the morning, and there were not many cabs as yet gently clopping through the Outer Ring of Regent’s Park, so Harkness should have been alerted early to the cab coming toward them, the horse moving a little faster than normal, coming at a brisk trot.
Then, as the cab came closer, Harkness realized there was danger. He saw the small figure stand up inside the cab as Micah Rowledge pulled the twelve-gauge shotgun from the floor and pointed it directly at young Arthur. The gun had been shortened, the barrels sawn off, and he fired from the hip, pulling both triggers as the two cabs came abreast of one another, the horses both rearing and faltering at the sudden loud explosions.
Bam! Bam! as the cartridges were fired.
Arthur, seeing what was happening, had half risen, and the two blasts of lead shot caught him in the chest, ravaging his ribs, tearing into his lungs and heart so that he was thrown back in a great blossom of blood. He took two half, dreadful, fighting breaths, like the gasps of a dying fish, his head reaching up as though struggling for clear air. He died in seconds, still trying to draw air into his ruptured lungs.
Daniel Carbonardo saw what was happening and brought his pistol up, firing four shots, two at Rowledge and two at the cabbie, a small man called Lennie Adler, a man with a history of drink and infidelity to his long-suffering wife but a good cabbie who had worked for Idle Jack for almost two years, and had been chosen especially for this morning’s job.
Both Rowledge and the driver were knocked down by Carbonardo’s bullets, both hit square in the head and dead before they collapsed: Micah Rowledge trying to break the shotgun and reload, Adler attempting to whip up his horse, which took off at a near gallop and was finally stopped by a policeman close to the Botanical Gardens.
Harkness, looking down into the cab, saw Arthur’s body and knew what he must do, so he whipped up the old horse, Archie, still nervy, disturbed by the shots, and set him off at a clip, heading as quickly as he could toward Notting Hill and Cadvenor’s premises in St. Luke’s Road.
Having taken care of the business of putting Arthur’s body into Cadvenor’s care, he cleaned out the cab as best he could and drove sedately back to Westminster, not drawing attention to himself.
WHEN MORIARTY HEARD the terrible news he behaved like a man possessed: giving out a great and long wail, grabbing at his waistcoat lapels and tearing down, popping all the buttons, like biblical women rending their garments. This was not the only act with religious significance. Reverting to the Bible study his mother had made him do for hours every Sunday, Professor Moriarty howled out words learned long ago, the grief of David on hearing of the death
of his son, Absalom—“O my son Absalom,” he cried. “My son, my son, Absalom. Would God I had died for thee, O Absalom, my son, my son.”
His grief was so great, and so primeval, that Sal would not go down, near him, fearing what he might do.
That’s what Idle Jack meant, he thought in the lucid portion of his mind outside the horror of his son’s death. That’s how Jack was to bring me down, by making me mad with grief, so that I would lose hold of my precious family.
“It was as though they already knew we would be in the park,” Harkness told him when he finally went through the events of that morning. “But nobody knew, Professor. Only I asked you if I might take him for a last ride through Regent’s Park, and you told me I could do that. I told no one. So who?”
They looked at each other and both realized the truth at the same moment: It was the man on guard outside, the only one who could have known, listening at the door.
Dropping his voice, the Professor asked Harkness how the man could have got a message out.
“I saw the boy, Wally Taplin, run to the corner and give a letter to a cabbie who often loiters there.”
“Get Taplin up here.” Moriarty could barely control his speech; his throat sounded constricted and he looked most solemn when young Taplin faced him.
“Wally, you have done nothing wrong, I’m sure, but do you ever run errands for Big Jim Terremant?”
“Why, yes, sir. All the time. I take notes to Mr. Quimby, who he has bets with.”
“And where is this man Quimby?”
“Usually at the cab rank, Professor. The one by The Duke of York public house, where Mrs. Belcher is.”
“You took one of these notes this morning, Wally?”
“Yes, sir. Mr. Quimby looked upset when he read it. Took off in his cab like there was the devil himself after him, sir.”
“And this was today? This morning?”