Moriarty (Anthony Horowitz) Read online

  ‘I am sure we can recompense you for your time,’ Jones remarked.

  ‘I don’t want your recompents, guv’nor. I want to be paid!’

  ‘You will receive all the money that is due to you – but you must first tell me everything I wish to know. Yesterday you picked up a man.’

  ‘Yesterday I picked up several men.’

  ‘But one of them you took to Whitehall, close to Scotland Yard. It was about three o’clock in the afternoon.’

  ‘I know nothing of the hour. What’s an hour to me?’ He shook his huge head before Jones could interrupt and it seemed to me that the horse, in sympathy, did the same. ‘All right, all right. I know what man you speak of. A tall gentleman. I can tell you that because ’e ’ad to fold ’imself over to get in. Queer customer – that’s what I thought.’

  ‘What age?’

  ‘Thirty or forty.’ He thought for a minute. ‘Or maybe fifty. I can’t say. Older than he was young – that’s all. Nasty eyes. Not the sort of eyes you’d want to have looking your way.’

  ‘And where did you pick him up?’

  ‘At the Strand.’

  Jones turned to me. ‘That is of no help to us,’ he said, quietly. ‘The Strand is one of the busiest cabstands in London. It is close to one of the main railway stations and all the drivers use it because it is clear of many of the omnibus routes.’

  ‘So our mysterious passenger could have arrived from anywhere.’

  ‘Precisely. Tell me, Mr Guthrie. You took him directly to Whitehall?’

  ‘I took him as direct as the traffic would allow.’

  ‘He was alone?’

  ‘Alone as alone can be. He kept ’imself to ’imself, wrapped up in the corner with ’is ’at over ’is eyes and ’is eyes turned down to ’is collar. He coughed a few times but not one word did he say to me.’

  ‘He must have informed you of the destination.’

  ‘ “Whitehall,” he said when he got in. And “Stop!” when he wanted to get out. Well, there’s two words for you. But nothing else. Not so much as a please or a thank you.’

  ‘You took him to Whitehall. What then?’

  ‘He told me to wait.’ The driver sniffed, realising his error. ‘A third word, guv’nor. That was all it was. “Wait!” I’ve ’ad more communication from the ’orse.’

  ‘What happened?’

  ‘You know what ’appened! All London knows what ’appened. There was a bang as loud as a Japanese mortar in Vauxhall Gardens. What in ’eaven’s name is that, thinks I. But the cove, ’e don’t give a jot. ’Im and the boy just sit there as we drive off. They don’t want to stop. They don’t even look round. A toff and a messenger boy and me and I’m just glad to be out of there, I can tell you.’

  ‘Did they speak to each other, the man and the boy?’

  ‘They spoke. But I didn’t ’ear them. Not with me up front and the doors and the windows closed.’

  ‘Where did you take them?’ I asked.

  ‘Not so very far. Through Parliament Square and over to Victoria.’

  ‘To a private house?’

  ‘I don’t know what it was. But I can tell you the number. I wouldn’t normally remember. I’ve got no ’ead for numbers. My ’ead is full of numbers so why should I remember one above another? But this one was as easy as one two three. It was one two three. One hundred and twenty-three Victoria Street and if there’s nothing else, guv’nor, I’ve got some more numbers for you. Sixpence the quarter hour waiting time and I’ve been here two hours at the least. What do you say to that?’

  Jones gave the man some money and we hurried away together, striding along the pavement past Fortnum & Mason and up to Green Park. We hailed another cab and Jones gave the driver the address. ‘We have them!’ he said to me. ‘Even if they do not actually reside in Victoria Street, the house will lead us to them.’

  ‘The man in the brougham,’ I muttered. ‘He could not have been Clarence Devereux. He would never have ventured out in a coach without first covering the windows.’

  ‘The driver said that he was withdrawn, his face buried in his collar.’

  ‘Not enough, I think, for someone suffering as he does from agoraphobia. There is something else, Jones. It is very strange but I feel that the address, 123 Victoria Street, is known to me.’

  ‘How can that be?’

  ‘I cannot say. I have seen it somewhere, read it … I don’t know.’ I broke off and once again we travelled in silence until we finally arrived in Victoria Street, a wide and well-populated thoroughfare with the crowds drifting in and out of the elegant shops and arcades. We found the house we were looking for, a solid, not very handsome building, recently constructed and clearly too large to be a private home. It immediately put me in mind of Bladeston House and I saw that it had the same sense of impregnability, with barred windows, a gate, and a narrow path leading to an imposing front door. I noticed Jones looking upwards and followed his eyes to the American flag that fluttered on the roof, then down to the plaque set beside the main gate.

  ‘It is the legation of the United States of America!’ I exclaimed. ‘Of course. We have had many communications with the envoy’s staff and Robert Pinkerton stayed here when he was in London. That’s how I know the address.’

  ‘The legation …’ Jones repeated the word in a voice that was suddenly strained. He paused for a moment, allowing its significance to sink in, and I understood that our coachman might as well have taken his two passengers to the moon for all the good it would do us. ‘It is prohibited to us. No officer of the law can enter a legation.’

  ‘But this is where they came,’ I exclaimed, ‘Perry and his associate. Can it be possible?’ I reached out and grabbed hold of the railing as if I could prise it apart. ‘Has Clarence Devereux taken sanctuary within his own country’s legation? We must go in!’

  ‘It is not possible, I tell you,’ Jones insisted. ‘We will have to address ourselves to the department of the Foreign Secretary—’

  ‘Then that is what we must do!’

  ‘I do not believe we have enough evidence to support such a request. We have only the word of Mr Guthrie that he brought his passengers here and we cannot be sure that they even entered. It’s exactly what happened at Highgate. I followed the boy to Bladeston House but we still cannot say with any certainty that he ever went into the place.’

  ‘Bladeston House! You may remember – Scotchy Lavelle boasted that he enjoyed the protection of the legation.’

  ‘It was my first thought, Chase. At the time, it struck me as very singular.’

  ‘And there was an invitation in his desk. He and that woman had been summoned to this very place.’

  ‘I have it in my office … or what remains of it.’ Jones had removed anything of interest from Bladeston House, including the diary and the block of soap that had led us to Horner’s of Chancery Lane. ‘A party to celebrate business enterprise.’

  ‘Can you remember the date?’

  Jones glanced at me. He could see at once what I had in mind. ‘I believe it was for tomorrow night,’ he replied.

  ‘Well, of one thing we can be certain,’ I said. ‘Scotchy Lavelle won’t be attending.’

  ‘For either of us to go in his place would be an extremely serious matter.’

  ‘For you, perhaps, but not for me. I am, after all, an American citizen.’

  ‘I will not let you enter on your own.’

  ‘There can be no possible danger. It is a reception for English and American businessmen …’ I smiled. ‘Is that really how Scotchy thought of himself? I suppose criminal enterprise passes as business of a sort.’ I turned to Athelney Jones and he could surely see I was determined. ‘We cannot let this opportunity pass us by. If we apply to the Foreign Secretary, it will only warn Clarence Devereux of our intentions.’

  ‘You assume he is here.’

  ‘Does not the evidence suggest it? We can at least take a look inside,’ I continued, quickly. ‘And surely the risk is small. We
will be two guests among many.’

  Jones stood, supporting himself on his stick, gazing at the gate and the door that remained fastened in front of him. The wind had dropped and the flag had fallen, as if ashamed to show its colours.

  ‘Very well,’ he said. ‘We’ll go.’

  THIRTEEN

  The Third Secretary

  The American legation had been transformed for the minister’s reception. The gate stood open and torches had been arranged in two lines, blazing the way to the front door. There were half a dozen footmen, equally brilliant in their bright red coats and old-fashioned wigs, bowing to the guests as they climbed down from the phaetons and landaus which had assembled outside. With the lights glowing behind the windows, the piano music playing on the other side of the front door and the flames throwing dark orange shadows across the brickwork, it really was easy to forget that this was a rather drab building and that we were in London, not New York. Even the flag was flying.

  Athelney Jones and I had arrived together, both of us in tailcoats and white tie. I noticed that he had exchanged his usual walking stick for another with an ivory handle and wondered if he had one for every occasion. He looked nervous, for once unsure of himself – and I had to remind myself how much of a risk he was taking, coming here. For a British police officer to enter a foreign legation under false pretences and in pursuit of a criminal investigation could be the end of his career. I saw him hesitate, contemplating the open doorway. Our eyes met. He nodded and we moved forward.

  He had retrieved the invitation that he had taken from Bladeston House. Fortunately it had survived both the explosion and the fire although, on close inspection, it was slightly singed. ‘The Envoy Extraordinary and Minister Plenipotentiary, Mr Robert T. Lincoln, requests the pleasure of the company of …’ The words were written in perfect copperplate and to this had been added: ‘… Mr Scotland Lavelle and guest.’ We were fortunate that the woman whom we had known, all too briefly, as Hen had not been named. We had decided that if we were questioned, I would claim to be Scott, Scotchy or Mr Scotland, as he now seemed to be. Jones would be the anonymous guest and if asked would give his own name.

  But in fact, neither of us was examined in any way. A footman glanced at our invitation and waved us through to a wide entrance hall, lined with books that were obviously artificial – they did not pretend to be otherwise – as well as two plaster replicas of classical Greek goddesses, one at each end. The party was taking place on the second floor. It was from here that the piano music was coming. A thickly carpeted staircase led up, but in order to begin the climb, the guests had to pass a line of four men and a woman who had positioned themselves purposefully so as to be able to greet each and every one of them.

  The first man I barely noticed for he was standing with his back to the door. He had grey hair and drooping eyelids and there was something so dull and self-effacing about him that he seemed completely unsuited to be part of a welcoming committee. He was also the shortest of the four of them – even the woman towered over him.

  It was clear that this lady was the wife of the envoy. Though in no way beautiful, with a prominent nose, pale skin and hair packed too tightly into curls, she was still undeniably regal, greeting all those who approached her as if she alone were the reason they had come. She was severely dressed in brown wool twill with puffed out gigot sleeves and a ribbon around her neck. As I took her hand and bowed, I smelled lavender water.

  ‘Scotland Lavelle,’ I murmured.

  ‘You are very welcome, Mr Lavelle.’ The monarch herself could not have said it with less enthusiasm.

  Her husband, standing next to her, was more genial, a large, square-shouldered man with deep black hair which swept across his head in two contradictory waves. The smile on his face was fighting a losing battle with the seriousness in his eyes and his every movement seemed formal to the point of being stilted. His cheeks and indeed his mouth were obliterated by a huge beard and moustache which stretched all the way to his ears and which I might almost have described as lopsided and even unkempt. I had seen him addressing the people at the front of the line and it occurred to me that both he and his wife were concealing something, with greater or lesser success. They had been touched quite recently by some sort of sadness and it was still with them, here in the room.

  I found myself standing in front of him and once again repeated my false name. By now I was getting used to it. He seized my hand in a powerful grip. ‘I am Robert Lincoln,’ he said.

  ‘Mr Lincoln …’ The name was of course well known to me.

  ‘It is a great pleasure to welcome you to my London home, Mr Lavelle. May I present to you my councillor, Mr White?’ This was the third man in the line, also bearded, about ten years younger than the envoy. That gentleman bowed. ‘I hope the evening is both enjoyable and useful to you.’

  I waited until Athelney Jones had made his introductions and together the two of us climbed the stairs.

  ‘Lincoln …?’ he asked.

  ‘The son of Abraham Lincoln,’ I replied. How could I have forgotten that this descendant of one of America’s most famous families had been sent to the court of King James? A seat had actually been reserved for Robert Lincoln at the Ford Theatre on the night his father had been assassinated and the sympathy that many people felt for him had been translated into enthusiastic support. It was said that Lincoln might himself run for president at the time of the next election.

  ‘This imposture will be the undoing of me,’ Jones muttered, half seriously.

  ‘We are in,’ I replied. ‘And, so far, without any difficulty.’

  ‘I cannot find it in my heart to believe that a criminal organisation could be hiding itself in the sanctuary of an international legation. Such an idea does not bear thinking about.’

  ‘They invited Scotchy,’ I reminded him. ‘Let’s see if we can find the fat boy and the man from the brougham.’

  We passed through an archway and into a room that stretched the entire length of the building with floor-to-ceiling windows that might have provided views over the gardens at the back had they not been heavily curtained. There was a crowd of some hundred people already gathered together with a young man at the piano playing the syncopated rhythms which, I imagined, would have been unfamiliar to Athelney Jones but which I recognised as originating from the streets of New Orleans. A long table stood with glasses and what looked like bowls of fruit punch, and waiters were already circulating with plates of food … raw oysters with cucumbers and radishes, fishballs, vol-au-vents and so on. It amused me to see that many of the dishes carried labels advertising the ingredients; among them were E. C. Hazard’s tomato ketchup, Baltimore vinegar and Colburn’s Philadelphia Mustard. Later on, one of the tables would be displaying Chase and Sanborn’s finest coffee. But then this was a business gathering and so perhaps the legation staff considered these notices to be part of the etiquette.

  There was not a great deal we could do. This was the room in which the reception was to take place and there was no question of our creeping around the legation in search of Clarence Devereux. If he was here, there was a chance we might stumble across him – or at least across somebody who knew him. If not, we had wasted our time.

  We drank some mint julep (Bourbon from Four Roses, Kentucky, the label read) and mingled with the other guests. There were soon a couple of hundred people present, all of them in their finest evening dress, and I noticed the little man from the door among them. He was angrily dismissing a waiter who had approached him with a plate of curried sausages. ‘I do not eat meat!’ The words, expressed in a high-pitched voice, seemed somehow ungracious and out of keeping with the affair. Then, finally, the envoy, his wife and his councillor came up from the entrance hall, signalling that the assembly was complete. From that moment on, wherever Robert Lincoln placed himself, a small crowd gathered round him, and such was his command of the room that Jones and I were unable to escape being drawn into one such circle.

  ‘What is t
o be done with this business of seal hunting?’ someone asked him. With his whiskers and beady eyes, it struck me that there was something seal-like about the interlocutor himself. ‘Will we go to war over the Bering Sea?’

  ‘I think not, sir,’ Lincoln replied in his quiet way. ‘I am quite confident that we will be able to negotiate a settlement.’

  ‘But they are American seals!’

  ‘I am not convinced the seals think of themselves as American, Canadian or anything else. Particularly when they end up as somebody’s handbag.’ The envoy’s eyes twinkled for a moment. Then he turned and suddenly he and I were face to face. ‘And what brings you to London, Mr Lavelle?’ he asked.

  I was so impressed that he had remembered my name – or, at least, the name I had given him – that I faltered and Jones had to answer for me. ‘We are in business together, sir. Company promoters.’

  ‘And you are?’

  ‘My name is Jones.’

  ‘I am delighted to see you here.’ He nodded at the younger man standing next to him. ‘My friend, Mr White, believes that we should look to Central and South America as our natural trading partners. But it is my belief that Europe is the future. If I or my staff can be of any assistance in your enterprise …’

  He was about to move on but before he could so do, I suddenly blurted out: ‘You could indeed help us in one respect, sir.’

  He swayed on his foot. ‘And how is that?’

  ‘We are seeking an introduction to Clarence Devereux.’

  I had spoken the words deliberately loudly and was it my imagination or did a certain hush descend on the room?

  The envoy looked at me, puzzled. ‘Clarence Devereux? I cannot say I know the name. Who is he?’

  ‘He is a businessman from New York,’ I replied.

  ‘In what sort of business?’

  But before I could answer, the councillor stepped in. ‘If this gentleman has registered his address with the legation, I am sure one of the secretaries will be able to assist you,’ he said. ‘You can call at any time.’ Gently, without seeming to do so, he led the envoy away.