Moriarty Page 2

  That is about as much as we know of the Reichenbach Falls. The story that I must now tell begins five days later when three men come together in the crypt of St Michael’s church in Meiringen. One is a detective inspector from Scotland Yard, the famous command centre of the British police. His name is Athelney Jones. I am the second.

  The third man is tall and thin with a prominent forehead and sunken eyes which might view the world with a cold malevolence and cunning were there any life in them at all. But now they are glazed and empty. The man, formally dressed in a suit with a wing collar and a long frock coat, has been fished out of the Reichenbach Brook, some distance from the falls. His left leg is broken and there are other serious injuries to his shoulder and head, but death must surely have been caused by drowning. The local police have attached a label to his wrist, which has been folded across his chest. On it is written the name: James Moriarty.

  This is the reason I have come all the way to Switzerland. It appears that I have arrived too late.

  TWO

  Inspector Athelney Jones

  ‘Are you sure it is really him?’

  ‘I am as sure of it as I can be, Mr Chase. But setting aside any personal convictions, let us consider the evidence. His appearance and the circumstances of his being here would certainly seem to fit all the facts at our disposal. And if this is not Moriarty, we are obliged to ask ourselves who he actually is, how he came to be killed and, for that matter, what has happened to Moriarty himself.’

  ‘Only one body was recovered.’

  ‘So I understand. Poor Mr Holmes … to be deprived of the consolation of a Christian burial, which every man deserves. But of one thing we can be certain. His name will live on. There is some comfort in that.’

  This conversation took place in the damp, gloomy basement of the church, a place untouched by the warmth and fragrance of that spring day. Inspector Jones stood next to me, leaning over the drowned man with his hands clasped tightly behind him, as if he were afraid of being contaminated. I watched his dark grey eyes travel the full length of the cadaver, arriving at the feet, one of which had lost its shoe. It appeared that Moriarty had had a fondness for embroidered silk socks.

  We had met, just a short while ago, at the police station in Meiringen. I was frankly surprised that a tiny village stuck in the middle of the Swiss mountains surrounded by goats and buttercups should have need of one. But, as I’ve already mentioned, it was a popular tourist destination and what with the recent coming of the railway, there must have been an increasing number of travellers passing through. There were two men on duty, both of them dressed in dark blue uniforms, standing behind the wooden counter that stretched across the front room. One of them was the hapless Sergeant Gessner who had been summoned to the falls – and it was already obvious to me that he would have been much happier dealing with lost passports, train tickets, street directions … anything rather than the more serious business of murder.

  He and his companion spoke little of my language and I had been forced to explain myself using the images and headlines of an English newspaper, which I had brought with me for that express purpose. I had heard that a body had been dragged out of the water beneath the Reichenbach Falls and had asked to see it, but these Swiss police were obstinate in the way of many a uniformed man given limited power. Speaking over each other, and with a great deal of gesticulation, they had made it clear to me that they were waiting for the arrival of a senior officer who had come all the way from England and that any decision would be his. I told them that I had travelled a great deal further and that my business was quite serious too but that didn’t matter. I’m sorry, mein Herr. There was nothing they could do to help.

  I took out my watch and glanced at it. It was already eleven o’clock with half the morning wasted and I was afraid the rest of it would go the same way, but just then the front door opened and, feeling the breeze on the back of my neck, I turned to see a man standing there, silhouetted against the morning light. He said nothing, but as he moved inside I saw that he was about the same age as me, perhaps a little younger, with dark-coloured hair lying flat on his forehead and soft grey eyes that questioned everything. There was a sort of seriousness about him, and when he stepped into a room, you had to stop and take notice. He was wearing a brown lounge suit with a pale overcoat, which was unbuttoned and hung loosely from his shoulders. It was evident that he had recently been quite ill and had lost weight. I could see it in his clothes, which were a little too large for him, and in the pallor and pinched quality of his face. He carried a walking stick made of rosewood with an odd, complicated silver handle. Having approached the counter, he rested on the stick, using it to support him.

  ‘Können Sie mir helfen?’ he asked. He spoke German very naturally but with no attempt at a German accent, as if he had studied the words but never actually heard them. ‘Ich bin Inspector Athelney Jones von Scotland Yard.’

  He had examined me very briefly, accepting my presence and filing it away for later use, but otherwise he had ignored me. His name, however, had an immediate effect on the two policemen.

  ‘Jones. Inspector Jones,’ they repeated, and when he held out his own letter of introduction they took it with much bowing and smiling and, having asked him to wait a few moments while they entered the details in the police log, retired to an inner office, leaving the two of us alone.

  It would have been impossible for us to ignore each other and he was the first to break the silence, translating what he had already said.

  ‘My name is Athelney Jones,’ he said.

  ‘Did I hear you say you were from Scotland Yard?’

  ‘Indeed.’

  ‘I’m Frederick Chase.’

  We shook hands. His grip was curiously loose, as if his hand were barely connected to his wrist.

  ‘This is a beautiful spot,’ he went on. ‘I have never had the pleasure of travelling in Switzerland. In fact, this is only the third time I have been abroad at all.’ He turned his attention briefly to my steamer trunk which, having nowhere to stay, I had been obliged to bring with me. ‘You have just arrived?’

  ‘An hour ago,’ I said. ‘I guess we must have been on the same train.’

  ‘And your business …?’

  I hesitated. The assistance of a British police officer was essential to the task that had brought me to Meiringen, but at the same time I did not wish to appear too forward. In America, there had often been conflicts of interest between Pinkerton’s and the official government services. Why should it be any different here? ‘I am here on a private matter …’ I began.

  He smiled at this, although at the same time I saw a veil of something in his eyes that might have been pain. ‘Then perhaps you will allow me to tell you, Mr Chase,’ he remarked. He considered for a moment. ‘You are a Pinkerton’s agent from New York and last week you set off for England in the hope of tracking down Professor James Moriarty. He had received a communication which is important to you and which you hoped to find about his person. You were shocked to hear of his death and came directly here. I see, incidentally, you have a low opinion of the Swiss police—’

  ‘Wait a minute!’ I exclaimed. I held up a hand. ‘Stop right there! Have you been spying on me, Inspector Jones? Have you spoken to my office? I find it pretty bad that the British police should have gone behind my back and involved themselves in my affairs!’

  ‘You do not need to concern yourself,’ Jones returned, again with that same strange smile. ‘Everything I have told you I have deduced from my observation of you here, in this room. And I could add more, if you wish.’

  ‘Why not?’

  ‘You live in an old-fashioned apartment block, several floors up. You do not think your company looks after you as well as it might, particularly as you are one of its most successful investigators. You are not married. I am sorry to see that the sea crossing was a particularly disagreeable one – and not just because of the very bad weather on the second or perhaps the third day. You
are thinking that your entire trip has been a wild goose chase. I hope, for your sake, it is not.’

  He fell silent and I stared at him as if seeing him for the first time. ‘You are right in almost everything you say,’ I rasped. ‘But how the devil you managed it is quite beyond me. Will you explain yourself?’

  ‘It was all very straightforward,’ he replied. ‘I might almost say elementary.’ He chose the last word carefully, as if it had some special significance.

  ‘That’s easy enough for you to say.’ I glanced at the door that now separated us from the two Swiss policemen. Sergeant Gessner seemed to be on the telephone – I could hear his voice jabbering away on the other side. The empty counter stretched out, a barrier between them and us. ‘Please, Inspector Jones. Will you tell me how you reached these conclusions?’

  ‘Very well, although I should warn you that it will all seem painfully obvious once it is explained.’ He shifted his weight on the walking stick, trying to find a comfortable position in which to stand. ‘That you are American is evident from the way you speak and from your clothes. Your waistcoat in particular, striped and with four pockets, would have been extremely difficult to find in London. I take note of your vocabulary. Just now, you said, “I guess” where we would have said “I think”. My knowledge of accents is limited, but yours would suggest the East Coast.’

  ‘My home is in Boston,’ I said. ‘I now live and work in New York. Please, continue!’

  ‘As I came in, you were examining your watch and although it was partly covered by your fingers, I saw quite clearly the symbol engraved on the casing – an eye with, beneath it, the words “We Never Sleep”. This is, of course, the legend of the Pinkerton Detective Agency whose principal offices are, as I recall, in New York. That you embarked from there is evident from the New York Port Authority stamp on your luggage.’ He glanced a second time at my steamer trunk, which I had stood beneath the photograph of a scowling man, presumably some local ne’er-do-well. ‘As for your disdain of the Swiss police – why should you choose to look at your own watch when there is a perfectly good working clock on the wall just to one side? They have, I can see, been less than helpful.’

  ‘You are absolutely right, sir. But how do you know of my connection with Professor Moriarty?’

  ‘What other possible reason could there be for you to have come here to Meiringen? I would wager that, but for the events of the last week, you would never have heard of this unremarkable village.’

  ‘My business could have been with Sherlock Holmes.’

  ‘In which case you would have surely stayed in London and begun your enquiries in Baker Street. There is nothing here but the dead body of a man, and whoever he is, he is certainly not Holmes. No. From New York, your most likely destination would have been Southampton – which is confirmed by the folded copy of the Hampshire Echo protruding from your right-hand jacket pocket. The date on the masthead, I see, is Thursday the seventh of May which would suggest that you purchased it at the dock and were then compelled to travel at once to the Continent. And what was the news that could have brought you here? There was only one story of interest that day. It had to be Moriarty.’ He smiled. ‘I am surprised I did not see you. As you say, we must surely have travelled on the same train.’

  ‘You mentioned a communication.’

  ‘There is nothing Moriarty can say to you. He is dead. It is unlikely you could identify him – very few people have ever seen him face to face. Therefore it must be something he has that interests you, something you hope to find about his person – a letter or a parcel sent from America. I presume that this is what you were discussing with the police when I arrived.’

  ‘I was asking them to let me examine the body.’

  ‘There is a little more to add.’

  ‘The crossing?’

  ‘You were forced to share a cabin—’

  ‘How do you know?’ I exclaimed.

  ‘Your fingernails and teeth suggest to me that you do not smoke but I can still detect a strong smell of tobacco about you. This tells me that although your employers must surely have chosen the best man for whatever job this is – they have, after all, sent you halfway across the world – they were not prepared to pay for a single cabin. It cannot have been very pleasant for you, sharing with a smoker.’

  ‘It was not.’

  ‘And the weather made it worse.’ He lifted a hand, waving away my question before I could ask it. ‘That is a nasty cut on the side of your neck. It cannot have been easy shaving at sea, particularly during a storm.’

  I laughed out loud. ‘Inspector Jones,’ I said, ‘I am a simple man. I have achieved what I have achieved by diligence and hard work. I have never come across techniques such as these before and had no idea that British police inspectors were trained to use them.’

  ‘Not all of us were,’ Jones replied, quietly. ‘But you might say that I received special instruction … and I learned from the best.’

  ‘There is just one last thing. You still haven’t explained to me how you know of my status and my living arrangements in New York.’

  ‘You wear no wedding ring, which might not be conclusive in itself but – you will forgive me – no wife would permit her husband to leave with such stains on his cuffs nor with shoes that cry out to be reheeled. As to the apartment, that is again simply a question of observation and deduction. I notice that the fabric of your jacket – the right sleeve – has been quite worn down. How could this have occurred unless you had become accustomed to climbing several flights of stairs, rubbing your arm against a metal banister? I would imagine your office has an elevator. An old-fashioned apartment block might not.’

  He stopped, and I could see that all the talking had tired him for he rested more heavily on his stick. For my part, I was gazing with an admiration that I made no attempt to disguise and might have stood there for a while longer had the door not suddenly opened and the two police officers reappeared. They spoke rapidly in German and although the meaning was unclear, their tone was friendly enough, and I gathered that they were now ready to escort the Scotland Yard man to wherever the body lay. This proved to be the case. Jones straightened up and began to move towards the door.

  ‘Can I have a word?’ I said. ‘I am sure you have your instructions, Inspector Jones, but it may just turn out that I’m able to help you. Everything you said to me – that extraordinary demonstration just now – was absolutely right. I’ve followed Moriarty here because of a communication that was made three weeks ago and which may have serious consequences for you and for me. It is true that I cannot identify him, but it is of the utmost importance that I’m at least allowed to see the body.’

  The man from Scotland Yard paused, his hand clenched around the top of the walking stick. ‘You understand, sir, that I am here following orders given to me by my superiors.’

  ‘You have my word that I will not interfere in any way.’

  The two Swiss policemen were waiting for us. Jones came to a decision and nodded. ‘Er kommt mit uns.’ He turned to me. ‘You can join us.’

  ‘I am truly grateful to you,’ I said. ‘And I give you my word that you won’t regret it.’

  We left my luggage at the police station and crossed the village, following the main road past a scattering of houses. All the while Jones and Gessner spoke in German, keeping their voices low. At length we arrived at the church of St Michael, a queer little building with its bright red roof and rather top-heavy bell tower. The policemen unlocked the door for us and stood back as we stepped inside. I bowed my head in front of the altar but Inspector Jones, I noticed, did not. We came to a flight of steps leading down to the crypt and he indicated that he wished to continue with me alone. Gessner needed little persuasion: even in the coolness of the church with its thick stone walls, the smell of death was already apparent.

  The body was as I have described it. When living, the man who lay stretched out in front of us would have been unusually tall though with stooped shou
lders. I could imagine him a librarian or perhaps a lecturer in a university, which, of course, James Moriarty had once been. His clothes, black and old-fashioned, clung to him like seaweed – I fancied they were still wet. There are many ways to die but few leave a nastier imprint on the human frame than drowning. His flesh was heavy and foul. Its colour was hideous to describe.

  ‘We cannot be certain that this is Moriarty,’ I suggested. ‘You were quite correct when you said that I could not identify him. But can you?’

  Jones shook his head. ‘I never set eyes on him. Nor did any of my colleagues. Moriarty lived in the shadows most of his life and made a virtue of it. It is possible that in due course we will be able to find someone who worked with him in his capacity as a professor of mathematics, and be assured that I will set about just such an investigation on my return. For the present, however, I will say this much. The man in front of us is the right age and the clothes he is wearing are undoubtedly English. You see the pocket watch? It is silver-cased and clearly marked, “John Myers of London”. He did not come here for the pleasures of the countryside. He died at the same time as Sherlock Holmes. So I ask you again. Who else can he be?’

  ‘Has the body been searched?’

  ‘The Swiss police went through the pockets, yes.’

  ‘And there was nothing?’

  ‘A few coins. A handkerchief. Nothing more. What is it you were hoping to find?’

  I had been waiting for the question. I did not hesitate. I knew that everything, certainly my immediate future, hung on my answer. Even now I can see us, standing alone in the dark crypt with the body stretched out before us. ‘Moriarty received a letter on the twenty-second or the twenty-third of April,’ I explained. ‘It was written by a criminal very well known to Pinkerton’s, a man in every respect as wicked and as dangerous as Moriarty himself, inviting him to a meeting. Although it would appear that Moriarty is dead, I still hoped I might find it about his person, or if not, then perhaps at his place of residence.’