Moriarty (Anthony Horowitz) Read online

  ‘The devils!’ Jones exclaimed.

  Together, we hurried across the road. By now the traffic had come to a standstill. Without even thinking that there might be a second device, we plunged into the building, fighting our way past the clerks, the constables and the visitors who were desperately trying to find their way out. The lower floor at least seemed undamaged but, as we stood there, a uniformed policeman appeared, coming down the stairs, his face blackened and blood streaming from a wound in his head. Jones grabbed hold of him.

  ‘What happened?’ he demanded. ‘What floor?’

  ‘The third floor,’ the man replied. ‘I was there! It was so close …’

  We wasted no time. We ran over to the stairs and began the long climb up, both of us aware that we had made the same journey together only the day before. We passed many more police officers and assistants, making their way down, many of them hurt, clutching onto each other. One or two of them urged us not to continue but we ignored them. As we climbed higher, we smelled burning and there was so much smoke in the air it became hard to breathe. Finally, we reached the third floor and almost at once bumped into a man whom I recognised from the conference. It was Inspector Gregson. His fair hair was awry and he was in a state of shock but he did not seem to have been hurt.

  ‘It was in the telegraph room,’ he cried. ‘A package brought by a messenger boy was placed against the wall of your office, Jones. Had you been at your desk …’ Gregson broke off, his eyes filled with horror. ‘I fear Stevens has been killed.’

  Jones’s face showed his dismay. ‘How many others?’

  ‘I can’t say. We’ve been ordered to evacuate the building.’

  We had no intention of doing so. We pressed forward, ignoring the casualties who were limping past, some of them with their clothes torn, others streaming blood. There was an uncanny silence on the third floor. Nobody was screaming but I thought I could hear the crackle of flames. I followed Jones, the two of us finally reaching the door of his office. Now it was open. I looked inside, into a scene of horror.

  The office was not a large one. A single window looked out over the inner quadrangle, as Jones had told me. The room was filled with debris for the entire wall on the left had been shattered. There was a wooden desk covered with dust and brickwork and I could see at once that Gregson had been right. Had Jones been sitting there, he would have been killed. As it was, a young man lay on the floor with a police constable – dazed and helpless – crouching over him. Jones hurried in and knelt beside the body. It was obvious that he was dead. There was a dreadful wound in the side of his head and his hand was outstretched, the fingers still.

  ‘Stevens!’ he exclaimed. ‘He was my secretary … my assistant.’

  Smoke was pouring in through the hole in the wall and I saw that the damage in the telegraph room had been even worse. The room was on fire, the flames licking at the ceiling, reaching up to the roof. There were two more figures lying amongst the wreckage. It was hard to be sure if they were men or boys as they had been horribly injured, both of them disfigured by the blast. There was paper everywhere. Some of the pages seemed to be floating in the air. It must have been the heat. The fire was rapidly spreading.

  I went over to Jones. ‘There’s nothing we can do!’ I cried. ‘We must do as we’ve been told and leave the building. Go now!’ I told the young constable.

  He left and Jones turned to me; there were tears in his eyes – though whether from grief or due to the smoke, I could not say. ‘Was this meant for me?’ he asked.

  I nodded. ‘I very much think so.’

  I took hold of him and led him out of the office. It could not have been more than a few minutes since the detonation, but already we were alone on the third floor. I knew that if the fire spread, or if the smoke overwhelmed us, we might die here – and although Jones was unwilling, I forced him to accompany me to the staircase and back down. Behind us, I heard part of the ceiling collapse in the telegraph office. We should perhaps have carried the dead secretary with us or at least covered the body as a mark of respect, but right then, it seemed to me, our own safety was paramount.

  Several steam fire engines had arrived by the time we burst out into the open air. The firemen were already running forward, trailing their hoses across the pavement. All the other traffic had disappeared. The road, which had been normal and busy just a short while ago, was eerily empty. I helped Jones walk away from the building and, finding an unoccupied bench, set him down. He was leaning heavily on his stick and there were still tears in his eyes.

  ‘Stevens,’ he muttered. ‘He had been with me three years – and recently married! I was talking to him only half an hour ago.’

  ‘I’m sorry.’ I didn’t know what else to say.

  ‘This happened before. A bomb in Scotland Yard, six or seven years ago. It was the Fenians and I wasn’t in London. But this time …’ He seemed dazed. ‘You really believe I was the target?’

  ‘I warned you,’ I said. ‘These people are ruthless and it was only yesterday that Edgar Mortlake threatened you.’

  ‘Revenge for our raid on the Bostonian!’

  ‘You cannot prove it, but I cannot see any other reason for this attack.’ I broke off. ‘Had you not come out to greet me, you would have been sitting in your office. Do you not see that, Jones? You escaped by a matter of seconds.’

  He grabbed my arm. ‘You have been the saving of me.’

  ‘I am very glad of it.’

  We looked across the road, at the firemen operating the steam pumps while others raised the ladders. Smoke was still pouring out of the building, thicker now, blanketing the sky.

  ‘What now?’ I asked.

  Jones shook his head wearily. There were black streaks on his cheekbones and across his forehead. I guessed I must look the same. ‘I don’t know,’ he replied. ‘But whatever you do, don’t tell Elspeth!’

  ELEVEN

  Dinner in Camberwell

  We took a much later train than we had intended, leaving Holborn Viaduct just as night fell and the crowds seemed to blend into the sudden darkness like ink spattered on a page. Jones was in a sombre mood. He had met Lestrade, Gregson and some of the other detective inspectors in the hours following the explosion but there were to be no decisions made until the next day. The conclusion that he had narrowly escaped an attempt on his life seemed inescapable. We had the words spoken by Edgar Mortlake as the proof of it and surely the timing of the attack could not have been coincidental. Lestrade was in favour of arresting both the brothers immediately but in the end it had been Jones himself who had urged caution. He had no evidence beyond a brief conversation that they might deny had ever taken place. He had, he said, already devised a better strategy – although he was not yet prepared to say what it was. I agreed. Clarence Devereux and his gang had run circles around Pinkerton’s for many years and would surely do the same with the British police. If we were going to reel them in, we would need to take the utmost care.

  ‘It is unlikely that Elspeth will have heard about the bomb,’ Jones said, as our train drew into an area of London known as Camberwell and we prepared to climb down, ‘and I will have to tell her for it is inconceivable that I should withhold such information from her. But the position of it! The possibility that I might have been the intended target …’

  ‘We will say nothing of that,’ I said.

  ‘She will somehow discern it. She has a way of homing in on the truth.’ He sighed. ‘And yet still I do not understand these adversaries of ours. What was it they hoped to achieve? Had I been killed, there are any number of inspectors who could have taken my place. You have met many of them yourself. And if they had really wanted me dead, there are many easier ways they could have achieved their aim. Here we are now, on a station platform. An assassin with a knife or a garrotte could do the job in the blink of an eye.’

  ‘It is possible that their intention was never to kill you,’ I said.

  ‘That is not what you said before.’<
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  ‘I said that you were the target and I still believe that to be the case. The truth is that it would not have mattered to Clarence Devereux if you lived or died. It was no more than a demonstration of his power, his immunity from prosecution. He laughs in the face of the British police and at the same time he warns them: do not come close, do not interfere with my business.’

  ‘Then he misunderstands us. After this, we will redouble our efforts.’ He said no more until we had left the station. ‘There is no logic, Chase, I tell you,’ he continued. ‘Who was the man in the brougham? What are we to make of the meeting between Moriarty and Devereux, the role of this boy Perry, the murder of Lavelle, even Horner’s of Chancery Lane? Separately, I have an understanding of them. But when I try to bring them together, they defy common sense. It is like reading a book in which the chapters have been published in the wrong order or where the writer has deliberately set out to confuse.’

  ‘We will only find out the meaning of it when we find Clarence Devereux,’ I said.

  ‘I begin to wonder if we ever will. Lestrade was right. He seems to be a phantom. He has no presence.’

  ‘Was not Moriarty the same?’

  ‘That is true. Moriarty was a name, a presence – an entity unknown to me until the very end. That was his power. It may well be that Devereux has learned from his example.’ Jones was beginning to limp, resting heavily on his stick. ‘I am tired. Forgive me if we talk no further. I must compose myself for whatever awaits me at home.’

  ‘Would you rather I did not come?’

  ‘No, no, my friend, to postpone would only make Elspeth fear that events have taken a worse turn than they have. We will dine together as planned.’

  It had been but a short distance from Holborn to Camberwell and yet the journey seemed to have taken us ever further into the night. By the time we arrived, a thick fog was rolling through the streets, deadening the air and turning the last commuters into ghosts. A growler lumbered past. I heard the clatter of the horse’s hooves and the creak of the wheels but the carriage itself was little more than a dark shadow, vanishing around a corner.

  Jones lived close to the station. I have to say that his property was very much as I had imagined it might be: a handsome terraced house with bay windows and white stucco pillars in front of a solid, black-painted door. The style was typically English, the effect one of calm and security. Three steps led up from the street and in climbing them I had a strange sense that I was leaving all the perils of the day behind. Perhaps it was the warm glow of light that I could discern, leaking through the edges of the curtained windows. Or maybe it was the smell of meat and vegetables that wafted up from the kitchen somewhere below. But I was already glad to be here. We entered a narrow hallway with a carpeted staircase opposite and Jones led me through a doorway and into the front room. In fact the room ran the full length of the house, with a folding screen pulled back to reveal a dining table set for three at the front, a library and a piano at the back. There was a fire burning in the hearth but it was hardly needed. With the abundant furniture, the embroidered boxes and baskets, the dark red wallpaper and the heavy curtains, the room was already cosy enough.

  Mrs Jones was sitting in a plush armchair with a strikingly pretty six-year-old girl leaning against her, the policeman puppet dangling over her arm. Her mother had been reading to her but as we came in she closed the book and the little girl turned, delighted to see us. She had none of her father’s looks. With her light brown hair, tumbling in ringlets, her bright green eyes and smile, she was much more her mother’s daughter, for Elspeth Jones clearly reflected her across the years.

  ‘Not in bed yet, Beatrice?’ Jones asked.

  ‘No, Papa. Mama said I could stay up.’

  ‘Well, this is the gentleman I imagine you wish to meet; my friend, Mr Frederick Chase.’

  ‘Good evening, sir,’ the girl said. She showed me the doll. ‘This came from Paris. My papa gave him to me.’

  ‘He seems a fine fellow,’ I said. I always felt uncomfortable around children and tried not to show it.

  ‘I have never met an American before.’

  ‘I hope you will not find me very different from yourself. It was not so many years ago that my ancestors left this country. My great-grandfather came from London. A place called Bow.’

  ‘Is New York very loud?’

  ‘Loud?’ I smiled. It was such an odd choice of word. ‘Well, it’s certainly very busy. And the buildings are very tall. Some of them are so tall that we call them skyscrapers.’

  ‘Because they scrape the sky?’

  ‘Because they seem to.’

  ‘That’s enough now, Beatrice. Nanny is waiting for you upstairs.’ Mrs Jones turned to me. ‘She is so inquisitive that one day I’m sure she’ll be a detective, just like her father.’

  ‘I fear it will be some time before the Metropolitan Police are prepared to admit women to their ranks,’ Jones remarked.

  ‘Then she can be a lady detective, like Mrs Gladden in those excellent books of Mr Forrester’s.’ She smiled at her daughter. ‘You may say good night to Mr Chase.’

  ‘Good night, Mr Chase.’ Obediently, the little girl hurried out of the room.

  I turned my attention to Elspeth Jones. She was, as I had at once perceived, very similar in looks to her daughter although her hair had been cut short over her forehead and gathered up in the Grecian style. She struck me somehow as a very caring woman, one who would bring a quiet intelligence to everything she did. She was simply dressed in a shade of dusty pink with a belt and a high collar and no jewellery that I could see. Now that Beatrice had gone, she gave me her full attention.

  ‘Mr Chase,’ she said. ‘I am very pleased to meet you.’

  ‘And you, ma’am,’ I returned.

  ‘Will you have some grog?’ She gestured and I saw a jug and three glasses had been set out on a brass table beside the fire. ‘It seems these wintery nights will never end and I like to have something warm waiting when my husband returns home.’

  She poured three glasses of the tincture and we sat together in that slightly awkward silence that comes when people meet each other for the first time and none of them is quite sure how to proceed. But then the maid appeared to say that dinner was ready and once we had taken our places at the table, the company became more at ease.

  The maid brought a pretty decent stew, boiled neck of mutton with carrots and mashed turnips, certainly far superior to anything I had been offered at Hexam’s, and while Athelney Jones poured the wine, his wife carefully steered the conversation in the direction that she preferred. Indeed, her skill was that she seemed natural and uncalculating but I was aware that during the next hour we never once touched on anything to do with the police. She asked me many questions about America: the food, the culture, the nature of the people. She wanted to know if I had yet seen Thomas Edison’s Kinetoscope, a device that had been much discussed in the British press but which had yet to be exhibited. Sadly, I had not.

  ‘How do you find England?’ she asked.

  ‘I like London very much,’ I replied. ‘It reminds me more of Boston than New York, certainly in the number of art galleries and museums, the handsome architecture, the shops. Of course, you have so much history here. I envy you that. Would that I had more time for leisure. Every time I walk in the streets I find all manner of diversions.’

  ‘Perhaps you might be tempted to remain here longer.’

  ‘It is not such a wild supposition, Mrs Jones. It has long been my desire to travel in Europe … something that is true of many of my countrymen. Most of us came from here, after all. If I am successful in this current investigation with your husband, perhaps I might persuade my superiors to allow me a sabbatical.’

  It was my first reference to the business that had brought Athelney Jones and myself together and, as a steaming bread and butter pudding was brought to the table by the little maid who seemed to pop up from nowhere and disappear just as abruptly, our conversati
on turned to darker things.

  ‘I must tell you something, my dear, that will concern you,’ Jones began. ‘But you will learn about it from the newspapers soon enough, rarely though you read them …’ With that, he described the events of the afternoon, the attack on Scotland Yard and my own part in what had happened. As agreed, he mentioned neither the position of the bomb nor the death of his secretary, Stevens.

  Elspeth Jones listened in silence until he had finished. ‘Were many people killed?’ she asked.

  ‘Three, but there were a great many injured,’ Jones replied.

  ‘It seems incredible that such an attack on the Metropolitan Police could be considered, let alone carried out,’ she said. ‘And this so soon after the unspeakable events in Highgate!’ She turned to me, fixing me with her bright, inquisitive eyes. ‘You will forgive me, Mr Chase, if I say that some very dark forces have followed you from America.’

  ‘I must disagree with you on one major point, Mrs Jones. It was I who followed them.’

  ‘And yet you have arrived at the same time.’

  ‘Mr Chase is not to blame,’ Jones muttered, reproachfully.

  ‘I know that, Athelney. And if I suggested otherwise, I apologise. But I begin to wonder if this should even be a police matter. Perhaps it is time for higher authorities to become involved.’

  ‘It may well be that they already are.’

  ‘ “It may well be” is not enough. Police officers have been killed!’ She paused. ‘Was the bomb very close to your office?’

  Jones hesitated. ‘It was on the same floor.’

  ‘Were you the intended target?’

  I saw him consider before he answered. ‘It is too early to say. Several inspectors have offices close to where the bomb was placed. It could have been intended for any one of us. I implore you, my dear, let us speak no more of it.’ Fortunately, the maid chose that moment to appear with the coffee. ‘Shall we remove to the other room?’