The Return of Moriarty (41 page)

Moriarty glanced along the line of favored men who sat with him and the bridal pair. Spear appeared to be enjoying himself, but the bruises were far from healed and his hands would need time yet before he could use them properly. The Professor sighed inwardly. Paget was his best lad, no doubt of that, but the bright Fanny Jones had him by the balls and there was no accounting for men who became enslaved by women. If only Spear had been better recovered.

The afternoon wore on, food, drink and music flowing through the heads and bellies of the guests, generating a false sense of security. Even the punishers were relaxing, and outside the few lurkers whom Parker had placed on watch began to grow restive, bored and not a little discontented that they were banned from the festivities.

Inside people began to sing to the band and groups started to dance, until the whole ground floor of the building reverberated to the music and stamp of feet.

The woman passed through the crowded floor, pausing for a word here and there, stopping to be kissed by some old comrade, quipping a jest with others. Nobody took heed when she reached the wicket gate in the warehouse doors; nor were they concerned—even if they saw—as she slipped back the bolts and snapped the lock free.

By late afternoon the mists came in to join with the smoke in the streets, making it difficult for a man to see much more than a couple of yards ahead, distorting the sound of footsteps on the roads and cobbles, damping the echo and confusing the sense of direction.

The neat little coach drawn by a pair of grays set the two men down some three hundred yards from the archway and alley leading to the front of the warehouse. They moved without sound, shadows clinging to shadows, pressing against walls and doorways, flitting between the darker patches of mist and smoke like specters on the haunt.

Finally they reached the archway and the last yards through the lane, which brought them in front of the warehouse.

“You think she'll have got the latch off the wicket by now?” one whispered, peering hard through the murk at his companion's muffled face.

“If hot, then we have to wait,” replied the other.

Gently they glided into the open space, nearing the door, the first man pressing himself against the flaking woodwork, his hand gripping the iron hoop of the wicket latch, testing it. From inside the sounds of revelry penetrated doors, windows and walls alike.

The latch responded and the door moved a fraction.

“We go like lightning once we're inside,” breathed the one at the latch. “You ready?”

His partner nodded, and together they slipped out of their topcoats, revealing themselves to be dressed soberly in gray, with long fashionable jackets falling just below the knee. Both were bearded, almost distinguished looking, with gray streaking their hair.

The man at the door looked back, nodded again, appeared to take a deep breath, and then quickly pushed the door open. Within seconds they were inside, few even noticing them as new arrivals, so fast did they mingle with the guests.

Both men ate a little chicken and drank two or three glasses, before surreptitiously weaving their way through the chattering and happy groups, until they reached a vantage point to the right of the top table. Again they chose their moment; when Moriarty was engaged in earnest discussion with two men—whom they recognized as cracksmen named Fisher and Gay—and there was much toing and froing through the door to the “waiting room,” kitchens and the Professor's private quarters. Using stealth, as before, the pair of interlopers casually slipped through the door and moments later were padding silently up the wooden stairs to the Professor's darkened chambers.

The party showed no signs of ending: Moriarty knew well enough that if left to the guests, it would go on throughout the night. But being a man with a constant eye to the needs of his organization, he intended that all would be well finished by eight. It was seven o'clock, therefore, when he leaned over and whispered to Paget, telling him that the time had come for him to remove his bride to the privacy of the bridal chamber.

Paget had been reasonably abstemious, but still could not resist a crude gibe, pointing out to the Professor that all that was required from bride and groom had long since been accomplished. The remark was met with withering disapproval and a cold reply that left Paget and Fanny in no doubt that however they felt, this was their legal bridal night and out of respect for their marriage it was necessary for them to go through at least the motions of “the leg business,” as Moriarty put it.

“If I don't get these fuddlers out of here, the lot will be hoodman blind and there'll be no work done tomorrow. So get at it, the pair of you.”

There was much raucous laughter, jeering and cheers, as the newlyweds attempted to take their farewells, and it was almost a full half hour before they were able to complete their departure through the “waiting room” and back along the passage to the spiral stairs leading to the second floor and Paget's room.

Moriarty immediately signaled to Terremant, and those punishers who were not already too tipsy to comply began the task of speeding the parting guests on their way.

It was plain that a good number of those residing within the warehouse had made arrangements with ladies they had met during the celebration. There would be more people than usual sleeping within these walls tonight.

The atmosphere, combined with the drink, had taken its toll, and even Sal Hodges was flushed as she approached the Professor's table, bending low and whispering in his ear:

“You said you'd like to dance a jig with me, then why not tonight? Get rid of little fairy-Mary, and I'll give you a prick in the garter you won't forget for a long year.”

Moriarty smiled with undisguised lechery. “Sal—” he leered—“it has been too long since we played the two-handed put.”

He glanced around to catch Kate Wright's eyes, signaling for her to join them.

“Get young Mary out of the way.” He spoke low. “Let Terremant or one of the others have her tonight; then make up the fire and light the lamps in my chambers.”

The housekeeper registered mild surprise, then grinned, nodded, and turned away, pushing past Spear, who was being helped up by the tenacious Bridget.

As the slow procession of wedding guests made its way from the warehouse, Pip Paget clutched his new bride to him in their bed.

“I reckon I love you, Fan,” he whispered. “How does it feel to have it legal?”

She lifted her head, kissing him gently on the cheek.

“I didn't really notice that time, dearest. Try again and I'll pay more attention.”

They both giggled.

Later he said, “Truly, Fan, how will you like it, being here permanent with a husband?”

She was silent for a long minute. “I'll like it fine, having you and looking after you, Pip. But it worries me, all the things you have to do. Is it truly to be permanent? I'm sometimes at sixes and sevens in case you get taken like Spear. Or worse, by the coppers. I got the horrors after going to Horsemonger Lane, and I couldn't bear it if they put you in one of them places.”

Paget had no answer, and did not dare reveal what was in his heart.

It was only a few minutes later that the loud knocking came at their door, and shouts along the passage.

The warehouse was almost cleared by the time Mrs. Wright came down to tell the Professor that his chambers were warm and ready.

“I put out a pretty cambric nightgown for you.”

She looked archly at Sal Hodges, who could not but smile in return.

The Professor rose, gave Sal his arm, and escorted her through the “waiting room” and up the stairs.

He knew something was wrong the moment they stepped inside the door: the smell, a sense made sharp through years of guarded actions. This second of knowledge gave the Professor a tiny advantage, allowing him to leap forward from the threshold, so that the two men—poised on either side of the door, knives held high and ready to strike the blows as he entered—were momentarily set off balance.

By the time they recovered themselves, Moriarty had made an agile spring over his desk, his hand moving fast toward the drawer in which lay the Toledo steel dagger presented to him by the Spaniard, Segorbe. He would rather have gone for the Borchardt automatic pistol, but that was prudently locked away.

Moriarty faced them, the dagger held low and straight in his right hand, legs apart and slightly bent at the knees—the classic position of the knife fighter.

“You're flushed at last then,” he hissed, with traces of excitement from the back of his throat.

Behind the beards he could clearly recognize the countenances of Michael Green and Peter Butler, who were now moving, firm-footed, crabbing away from each other, in a pincerlike action that would bring them to either side of the desk.

Moriarty backed away, to give himself more space and room for maneuver, conscious that the fireplace was behind him. He countered by moving to the left, in an effort to bring the door of his bedchamber in line with his left hand.

They came on, clearing the desk: Butler in a crouch, Green smiling, tossing the knife from hand to hand, a ploy calculated to confuse the victim. Moriarty's eyes moved from one to the other as he kept backing.

Then there came a crash from the stairs.

The moment's hesitation and Moriarty's bound forward as they entered the room had given Sal Hodges time to act. Her brain, slightly slowed by the champagne, did not react as quickly as it would have done in other circumstances, so a small edge of time was lost. It took a second or two for her to grasp the situation, turn on her heel and descend the stairs.

She had almost reached the bottom when she saw Kate Wright standing in the middle of the “waiting room” floor, like a statue, still and listening.

Sal shouted, “Kate. Kate. Quickly. The Professor. They'll murder him.”

But Mrs. Wright, instead of taking quick action, advanced softly toward the stairs, lifting her right hand, which held an empty candlestick.

Sal was two steps from the bottom of the wooden stairs when the game became clear, but by this time Kate was gathering speed, her arm fully back to strike with the candlestick.

“Shut your mouth, you whore, he's only getting his due. Let them stick him proper,” mouthed Mrs. Wright.

“Bitch snake,” screamed Sal, hoisting her skirts high and lashing forward with a silk-enveloped leg, the delicate toe of her boot meeting hard on the forward-moving Kate's stomach.

Kate let out a grunt as the kick went home, falling backward as Sal, now off balance, toppled, to come crashing and sprawling across her.

Upstairs Moriarty's hand found the doorknob, and with a quick twist he stepped backward. At that moment both Green and Butler sprang, but the Professor was too quick; he turned sideways and sprang away, leaving the two men almost jammed in the doorway.

With a quick glance behind him, Moriarty took two backward strides into the room, bringing him close to the bed, which was turned down, the cambric nightdress—all frills and lace trimmings, just as Kate Wright had described—laid across one pillow. With a sweep of his left arm Moriarty had the nightdress in his grasp, turning as Peter Butler lunged forward, his knife connecting, not with Moriarty's ribs, but with the soft material that had been destined to cover Sal Hodges' nubile body.

The knife was well entangled, and with a quick and hard pull, Moriarty had Butler off balance. The Toledo blade jabbed forward, a straight movement from the shoulder, the razored steel slicing into Butler's stomach like a kingfisher through water.

Butler had time for one scream, shrill and short, descending to a gurgle as he pitched back, Moriarty following through and throwing him from the blade.

On the “waiting room” floor, Sal Hodges grappled with Kate, both women with their skirts in disarray, showing legs, garters, even Sal's lace trimmings around the legs of her white drawers, as they grunted and puffed, rolling, pummeling and struggling for the one handy weapon, which was still grasped tightly in Kate Wright's hand.

In the bedroom Moriarty and Michael the Peg circled each other, Butler now silent on the floor.

“Come along then, Peg, my bold lad,” Moriarty was smiling, flushed with the success over Butler.

Green remained placid, crouching low, with knees bent ready to spring, trying to position himself so his back was not to the door, for the sounds from downstairs were becoming louder.

Sal clung to Kate Wright's hand below the wrist, to stop the woman from wresting clear and using the heavy candlestick as she intended. Sal's other hand fought for her adversary's throat, but Wright was having none of it, scrabbling and scratching at Sal's hand with her own free paw. Then with a mighty effort Kate drew herself clear, throwing Sal Hodges back and rolling away. Sal knew she was all but done, as she twisted on the floor in a last attempt to meet Kate, who was up and bearing toward her, the candlestick once more raised. In a final gathering of agility, Sal grabbed for the woman's boot. Her hands felt the leather around the ankle, and she heaved backward.

Kate Wright let out a harsh cry, the candlestick fell, hitting the stone an inch or so from Sal's head, as her attacker, legs pulled from under, went down with a heavy crash.

Sal was on top of her in an instant, this time pressing home the advantage, her small bunched fists smashing into the housekeeper's face.

Green was thrown by the crash and cry from below; for a fraction of a second his concentration wavered and Moriarty, poised on the balls of his feet, leaped forward for the kill.

But Green was still too quick for him, turning and thrusting back with his own knife so that Moriarty's blade ripped harmlessly at his sleeve.

The two men recovered their balance, facing one another again, panting heavily, their eyes shining like two animals at variance over a mate.

Sal did not know if Mrs. Wright were conscious or not. She lay still though, for long enough to allow Moriarty's madam time to take to her heels. She ran as if all hell were after her, through the connecting passageway, tripping and stumbling up the iron twisting stairway toward the door she thought belonged to Paget, shouting all the time, a strident cry for help.