The Return of Moriarty (24 page)

But by the time the constable, who had been called off the street, got to his bedside, Druscovich was all but gone. The only words noted in the officer's report were, “Tell them Professor Moriarty was behind it all. Tell them, Moriarty.”

The report had obviously been only recently refiled among the documents relating to Moriarty. Crow looked at the original date: July 1879.

Druscovich? It was a name the inspector knew, and presumably a name many other members of the force knew also, yet at the time the young constable (A 363 Jackson, D.H.) and his superiors had missed the significance. Angus Crow was missing the significance now. Yet there was something nagging away, leaving him with a feeling of great unease.

Spear's heart sank. A fury raged within him for being so foolish as to fall into such a trap. The fury was also edged with concern, for Green and Butler were now obviously alerted.

“What do you want with me?” His voice was sullen.

Behind Green, Butler lounged against a small heavy table, a tankard held loosely in his right hand. Spear also glimpsed other faces, some known to him, others belonging to men he may have seen often enough but to whom he could put no names. In all there were some ten or fifteen persons in the room.

“What do we want him for, Peg?”

Peter Butler's accent was almost affected, like a man who tried too hard to better himself and was guilty of excessive imitation of the class to which he aspired.

“What indeed, Bert Spear, what indeed? We want to know what the game is, that's what.”

Spear's head was aching; it felt as though someone were swelling a pig's bladder inside it.

“What game?” he croaked from the back of his dry throat.

Michael Green took a pace forward.

“The rumors that are set about—the talk that Moriarty has returned from the grave.”

“You've heard that, have you?”

Spear hoped that it was a trace of fear he detected in Green's voice, pleased in some small way that the Peg was talking about rumor: it meant they were still uncertain.

“We hear a lot of things, and it's my mind that one of you bastards is being a sight too fly.”

“Oh?”

Spear shifted, pain shafting across his head like a sudden light thrown through a casement.

Peter Butler moved, pushing himself forward from the table.

“All this talk of the Professor's return,” he said, smooth as treacle. “Then Moran gets the devil's whisper. It's too good to be true, Bert. Moran's been takin' his ease since the Professor got his—takin' his ease and more besides. There are only four of you who'd have the brains to see him off up the stairs—you, Pip Paget, that little yellow heathen, Chow, and the weasel, Ember.” He paused to spit, turning his head.

“And there's only two of you would try it on your own,” Butler continued. “You and Paget, or you
or
Paget. So what's the game, Bert?”

“If it's you …” The Peg grinned unpleasantly, showing blackened teeth. “If it's you, perhaps we can come to terms.”

Spear could have shouted with relief. They did not believe the Professor was indeed back, preferring to imagine the whole thing had been arranged by Moriarty's lieutenants.

“What sort of terms?”

In spite of the throbbing and a rising nausea, Spear did his best to appear sly, even grasping.

“We'd be reasonable.” The Peg's voice softened. “The Professor's organization is not altogether smashed, and you've the means to put the Butler and I in top places. We'd see you right—if it is you. We'd see you with a third share, equal to Peter and myself.”

“Is it you?” asked Butler.

Spear allowed a full minute to pass, lingering for effect, keeping his eyes from meeting those of either Green or Butler. Then:

“You've more brains that I took you for. Untie me and give me a glass. Yes, it's me, with a little help from the others.”

It was not possible to divine Green's true intentions, but Spear could be certain that once he and Butler thought they had control over what remained of Moriarty's lays, they would be none too choosy about what happened to him. If the circumstances had been real, Spear thought, his life would have been worth less than a duff fawney.

The Peg motioned with his hand, and two of the other men came out of the smoke and shadows to kneel and work at the knots on Spear's wrists and ankles. One of the men smelled as though he slept in a midden.

Spear climbed carefully to his feet, rubbing his wrists, fighting the sickness and the cleaving hurt that was in his head. A hand grasped one arm, and he was led, painfully, to the table and there seated in a chair. A cup of gin with hot water was placed in front of him and, looking up, he saw he was being served by a young woman.

“You can get downstairs again now, girl,” the Peg said roughly.

Spear caught a glimpse of light blue eyes, holding his for a moment and felt the girl's hand brush softly against his arm. She could not have been more than twenty years of age, yet there was immense fatigue in the eyes, and lines above the nose, as though she had grown old and worn out long before her time.

“You heard him, Bridget.” Butler's tone was less sharp. “Down to the others. You're paid to keep them happy, so see you do it well.”

Bridget gave a quick nod and turned away, but Spear sensed that she was trying, in some desperate manner, to communicate with him. He shook his head and took a long sip of the gin, trying to clear his mind.

“You're with us then, Bert Spear?” Green was leaning across the table.

“It seems sense.”

“And the others?”

“They'll listen to me.”

“They'd better.”

“Let me go to them and talk.”

Green grinned his black smile. “Not so fast. You'll go when we've spoken more. When you've told us the full condition of Moriarty's family.”

“And when you go,” added Butler, “there's a pair of our family men who'll go with you.”

Spear nodded slowly. He would have done the same. All he could do now was play out the time, hoping that he was in one of Green's flash-houses which Moriarty already knew. Play out the time, hoping the Professor would strike quickly.

The gaslight in the streets filtered through the eternal mixture of smoke, grime, soot and wispy fog. It hit people's faces changing their pallid color to an even more ghastly shade, making them appear as if they were the walking dead. It also cast shadows in which lurkers skulked, watching on behalf of others or out for some villainy of their own.

There were many streets and lanes in London through which it was dangerous, if not fearsome, to travel alone at night, yet the streets did not appear to hold any particular terror for the boy Slimper.

The boy could not be more than ten years old, yet he showed no fear as he ran through the eerie alleys and lanes, far from the broad and better lit thoroughfares. He turned a deaf ear to the moans and the noises that came out of the smoke and fog. His job, he had learned as an infant, was to survive the best way he could, and his survival now meant doing as he was told, which in this instance was to run as though Satan were at his heels, over the uneven cobbles, past the ghostly wraiths of beggars, and those not lucky enough to have a room or a bed to hide in at night. He scampered under arches, through the evil smells, across the more salubrious roads, with their lighted and warm windows, swerving back into the shadow as he saw a constable patrolling the pavement.

His trousers and coat were ragged and the shirt on his back thin, giving little protection against rain or cold. But to run with haste and deliver his message meant a warm place to sleep, when he was allowed, and a glass of gin with some soup, meat and bread to fill his belly.

So the boy ran and swerved and scampered, holding the message in his head until he reached the warehouse; he was serving an apprenticeship that would make him a man apart from rich or poor.

Ember, Moriarty reflected, was not a likable specimen, what with his rodent appearance and stunted stature, and the note of a whine which crept so easily into his voice. But there was no denying the man was a professional.

He sat across the desk from Moriarty now, giving his report on the day's findings—a report that barely missed a detail, whether it was in names, places, rackets or takings.

Moriarty was pleased with Ember. “Good, as always, you've done well. Is Spear back yet?”

“Not when I came up, Professor. He's running late.”

“He had some extra work to do, but I would have expected that concluded by now.”

Moriarty leaned back in his chair and stretched to ease his muscles. Somehow waiting always seemed to fatigue him more than action, as though the nerves and muscles of his body became knotted with the unease that was always with him when others were about his business.

“I want you to pass a message out,” he continued. “Get Parker in here as quickly as is convenient. I'll need to see you all tonight.”

“We're going for them this night?”

“Tomorrow, but the plans have to be laid now and, once done, I'll want nobody off these premises until we strike. My ‘Guard' I'll trust, and the punishers downstairs, but we need others and I'll take no risks with them once we have it arranged.”

He pushed the chair back and rose, moving to the fireplace, looking for all the world like some country squire or city gentleman, comfortable in his own home. As one giving an order to a servant, Moriarty said, “Get Parker then. And send Spear up the moment he returns.”

If not entirely content, Moriarty was a shade more at ease. From the many people who had come to ask favors and pay their respects he knew he still had a bold following; yet the intelligence regarding the extent of Green's and Butler's advances had come as a shock. It was pleasant to know from Lee Chow, Paget and Ember, that his tentacles continued to hold and reach far in spite of the fool Moran's imprudent husbandry.

So Moriarty waited, the clock ticking off some forty minutes before there was word of Spear.

It was Paget who came with the news, knocking hard at the chamber door and disturbing the Professor, who was sitting down to lamb chops with Mary McNiel.

“There's a boy, the boy Slimper, downstairs. He's come from Parker's men.”

The Professor's head turned slowly to and fro, a dark glittering light, reflected from the gas brackets, sharp and deep in his eyes, the face alert and dangerous.

“Trouble?” he asked softly.

Paget glanced toward the McNiel girl.

“You may speak in front of her.” Moriarty did not raise his voice.

“You'd best see the boy, he'll not speak to anyone else. Parker has him trained well and there seems to be urgency.”

The head turned twice more, then paused, eyes resting upon Mary McNiel.

“Go down to Mrs. Wright and wait.”

Mary McNiel knew better than to pout or wheedle as she might have done with some of the marks in Sal Hodges' house. She rose obediently and left without a murmur.

“Get the brat up here,” spat Moriarty.

Young Slimper was breathless, both with the running and the mission, yet he gave his message lucidly, wasting no words. Parker had set him as runner for the three lurkers watching Green's flash-drum in Nelson Street. During the late afternoon they had seen both the Peg and the Butler arrive together with half a dozen mobsmen and bullies. Then, less than thirty minutes before, a “growler,” driven hard, had arrived at the door and three men lifted from it another man who appeared to be stunned. By chance more than their management one of the lurkers had glimpsed the unconscious man's face as the yellow light from a nearby lamp fell on it. The man was Spear, and young Slimper had been unleashed like a hound to carry the news.

“The lurkers are still in Nelson Street?” Moriarty asked sharply, knowing the answer before the boy gave it, for none of Parker's men would leave such a situation. “And the back is watched as well as the front?”

“Yes, sir.” Slimper had control of his breath now. “There's Patch at the back, and Toph with Blind Sam at the front. It was Blind Sam as saw Mr. Spear's face.”

“You hungry, boy?” A note of unaccustomed concern from Moriarty.

“A little, sir. More cold than hungry.”

Moriarty nodded to Paget. “Take him down to Kate Wright. Let her get some fodder into him, and a hot glass of something.” He turned back to the lad. “Mr. Paget'll take care of you, and Mr. Parker will be here soon; he'll have messages for you to run.”

“Thank you, sir.”

The boy beamed with pride, for this was only the second time in his life that he had seen the Professor, and the first he had ever spoken with him.

“Mark me, lad. You are a good boy and there'll be an extra sovereign in this for you. Never forget that I look after all my people, and if they work well for me they are cared for and rewarded.”

Moriarty had all the tricks needed to inspire loyalty, and with those few simple words, together with what appeared to be an act of kindness, he knew that he had purchased another soul.

Some fifteen minutes later Parker arrived at the warehouse. Moriarty was short with words and explicit with orders. The three lurkers at the drum in Nelson Street were to stay on watch. They would be joined by another three. Slimper was to be sent back, together with another boy. If Green or Butler, or both, left Nelson Street, they were to be followed. Should Spear be removed, he would be followed.

“You'll make fast, Parker. Tighten the net. I'm to be informed of any movements, whatever the hour. You understand?”

Parker understood and hurried off to do the Professor's bidding before returning, as instructed, for the council of war, which was to be held that night.

Inspector Crow woke once in the night and in the warm, soft arms of Mrs. Cowles, smiled, burying his naked body close to her flesh.