The Return of Moriarty (45 page)

“Fan, love. Fan, wake up.”

She slowly opened her eyes and smiled at him. “Time to get up already?”

“Time for us, Fan. You really want that cottage and life together in the country?”

She was awake now and sitting upright, her long hair tangled and eyes still doused with sleep.

“What's happened? What…?”

He put his hand gently across her mouth.

“Get dressed quickly. Try to make no noise, I'll explain later.”

They could not take much—simply their most precious possessions: rings and pieces of jewelry, and the three hundred pounds that Paget had saved, which they stuffed into a cowhide Brighton bag he had actually purchased a year before to carry small stuff to fences (it was never safe to carry loot in a stolen bag).

There was nobody about in the kitchens or the “waiting room,” and it was not until they got outside, into the area in front of the warehouse, that they were challenged by one of Parker's lurkers.

“It's only me,” Paget said briskly when the man spoke.

The lurker stepped out of the darkness. “Oh, it's Mr. Paget. I wasn't told to expect anyone else yet.”

“Something has just occurred. Nothing to worry about. But we have a small errand to perform before the Professor is up. Watch out for anyone else though; keep sharp eyes. And well done for challenging me.”

The man touched his forelock, drifting back into the safety of the wall, while Paget and Fanny turned away, walking down the alley and through the archway, trying not to run or appear to be in any undue haste.

Now that he had set his mind to it, Paget knew exactly what he should do. There
was
no point in just running off, for someone would always be close behind—if not the coppers, then men sent from the Professor. It was a risk either way, but he was now faced with the most difficult and alien acts of his life. If things did not go right, then he would at least have the satisfaction of knowing he had made some effort to change his mode of living and bring happiness to Fanny.

They did not discover the Pagets had gone until almost half past seven, and it was eight o'clock before Ember and Parker realized the missing pair had taken their valuables with them. Parker questioned the lurker on duty at the front of the warehouse and was not long in discerning that something was exceedingly wrong.

At first the Professor could not believe there was anything the matter. He argued to himself that there had to be a simple explanation, that Paget and Fanny would be back in a short time, or at least would send some message. But when he heard nothing by noon, Moriarty became disturbed. He had always been wary, as he so often stated, of men who lost their souls to women. If Paget had been led astray, then the woman was responsible and a good man was lost.

However much he had relied on and trusted Paget, the Professor now knew that his thinking would have to be governed by the most pessimistic conclusions. Paget and Fanny were gone from the warehouse, so he could assume only one of three things: that the pair had gone into hiding, the girl, like some bleating Salvationist, had convinced Paget to give up his present way of life; that Paget was bent on joining or even leading a rival faction; or—most dubious of all—they had blown everything to the police.

At ten minutes after noon Moriarty sat in his chambers with Spear, Ember, Lee Chow, Parker, Terremant, and the Jacobs brothers. It was undeniably a crisis meeting.

“You all know that the coppers are proving troublesome,” he began. “That's bad enough, but now Pip Paget and Fanny have gone—where to I've no idea, but perhaps your men, Parker, will flush them. I have one particular job that has to be done this week, and by God, I'm going to do it, whatever else happens. After that is over we shall see. In the meantime, Spear, if you are up to it, I want you to take over Paget's duties.”

“I'll manage,” grunted Spear, “and I'll manage Pip Paget an' all if he's played the crooked cross.”

“Enough time for that when we're safe.” The Professor waved Spear's violent tone aside. “We're moving house, lads. Lock, stock and barrel. Everything out as quickly and as quietly as we can, without drawing any undue attention. Everyone and everything is to be taken to the Steventon house in Berkshire. Have you got that?”

They nodded approval.

“If there is trouble, you can all hole up there until it dies down.” He cast his eyes around the assembled lieutenants. “Now, it is possible that some of you will not see me for a while; but I will be in touch with you, and things must continue as though I was still here. I shall return as soon as it is reasonably secure: Just go about moving the valuables and weapons. Spear will organize you. Start now.”

He motioned for Parker and Ember to stay where they were for a moment and, when the others had gone, gave some brief and private instructions to them.

“Send Mary McNiel to me,” he ordered as the two men were ready to leave, “and, Ember, take care of the painting.” He indicated his beloved canvas by Jean-Baptiste Greuze. “I shall see you tomorrow afternoon as arranged.”

When they had gone and their footsteps were out of earshot, Moriarty began to remove papers from the drawers of his desk, putting some in a briefcase, burning others in the hearth.

He unlocked another drawer, removed the Borchardt automatic pistol, checked that it was loaded, and placed it in his coat pocket, together with some extra ammunition. Lastly, he packed his disguise material: the sticks of paint, the brushes, powders and false hair would, he reflected, play a most important part in his life during the next few days.

Mary McNiel arrived as he was closing the briefcase.

“Is it true?” she asked. “True we're leaving?”

The Professor nodded. “We're all leaving. And, Mary, my dear, you and I have particular things to do.”

He faced her, holding her eyes in his in that strange mesmeric way he had, as though the whole of his strength and will were pouring from his mind into hers.

“In the next few days you will be witness to many strange things. I shall call upon you to perform certain actions you might not wholly understand. But I need your loyalty, Mary, and your promise that whatever occurs, you will obey me instantly and without question.”

Mary felt lightheaded, as though she were about to swoon, yet most aware of the importance of what the Professor was saying. Her will seemed hardly her own, and there was no resisting her master.

“I shall do whatever you ask,” she said firmly.

“Good, then go down and get Harkness to bring the cab to the front. We go within the next five and twenty minutes.”

Moriarty stood for a short while at the window, then turned to look around the room. It was frustrating to think that circumstances forced him to leave all this, but needs must. There would be other places, as well out of sight as the warehouse—maybe even better. He shrugged into his greatcoat, picked up his briefcase, jammed his hat on his head and walked with purpose from the room.

Sunday, April 22, to Friday, April 27, 1894

(THE REALMS OF NIGHT)

“I
T'S ALL A
risk.” Paget looked thoughtfully into his mug of ale. “Everything we do—now we have left the warehouse—is a risk; so I have to do my best to see the Professor is as inconvenienced as possible—to hamper any search for us. If I can do that without bringing any harm to him, more the better.”

“But then what?” Fanny looked close to crying.

They sat, close together in the corner of the refreshment rooms at the Great Western Station at Paddington, their eyes constantly moving and searching for any of Parker's lurkers who might be about.

“Then,” said Paget, “we take the railway to the Midlands. Not a city, Fan. If we hid in a city he'd find us, sure as eggs are bloody eggs. But you know the country. I mean you know Warwickshire—”

“I can't go home, not now. You know that.”

“No, not home, but somewhere in the country. Fanny, my love, I've three hundred pound in my pocket that'll keep us going for a while. We'll put up at some inn, out of the way, where neither the bobbies nor the Professor would ever think of looking. It'll give us time, and time's what we need.” He looked at her hard, a loving and almost foolish smile crossing his face. “Fanny, I've done it for you, girl. You didn't want to stay chained there for the rest of our lives, did you?”

She sighed, a shallow breath. “No, Pip. Lord, you know I didn't want to stay there a minute longer.” She put out her hand, covering his. “But, Pip, if anything happened now when you—”

“Nothing'll happen. You just get us tickets to … where? Where's a good place that you know?”

“Warwick? Or there's Leamington Spa—Royal Leamington Spa. There's plenty of villages around there with inns, and there'd be work.”

“Then get us tickets to Royal Leamington Spa, my girl. Just wait here. Look.” He pushed the Brighton bag toward her with his foot. “Everything's in there. Everything we have, including my three hundred pound. If I'm not back by four o'clock, take it and go to Leamington.”

“But if you get held up? If you're late?”

“If I'm not here by four o'clock, then you go without me, Fan. But I'll be back before then. Long before then.”

At least he hoped he would be. Just as he prayed none of Parker's men were already hunting. Getting away into the country was really the only hope they had, and a good distance from Steventon also, where Moriarty had the other house. There was nowhere Paget dared take Fanny in London; nobody he could even think of trusting. It was a case of going it alone and trying to put pressure on the Professor—at least enough to keep his head down until he and Fanny were clear. If it worked, then he reckoned a year would see them in a new life, settled and comfortable. He'd grow a beard, that would help, and they'd try and dodge all the old things. Time would inevitably cool the trail. In a year or so they would be safe.

But now it was a case of remaining safe for another few hours. Putting his head deep inside the lion's mouth before leaving London.

Paget took a hansom to Scotland Yard, screwing his courage to the limit and asking the cabbie to wait while he strode over to the porter's window, looking for all the world as if he had every right to walk into the place and give orders.

“Inspector Crow.” Paget sounded urgent, as though authority were on his side—a ruse learned from watching the Professor in action.

The sergeant at the desk looked at him, suspicion grained into every line of his face through years of dealing with dubious characters.

“He won't be in today.” The sergeant had a surly voice, as though he resented having to work on Sunday. “You'll have to come back tomorrow.”

“I can't do that. This is an urgent matter; family business, I've traveled all night to get here.”

“Well, he's not in today.”

“Where can I find him? Any ideas?”

The sergeant looked him up and down, still uncertain. “Urgent, you say?”

“Greatly so. Matter of life and death.” It
was
as well, thought Paget.

The sergeant turned away to consult a ledger. “Well …” His frown was deep. “I'd rather you didn't tell him I said so, but you might find him at his lodgings: number sixty-three King Street. What did you say your name was?”

“I didn't, but I'm his cousin, Albert Rookes. With an E.”

“Oh! Well, that would be all right, I'm sure, sir. You try sixty-three King Street.”

It was a full ten minutes before the sergeant began to wonder about Inspector Crow's cousin being called Rookes, with an E.

“I'll pay you what I owe you now, and give you five shillings besides, if you'll wait,” Paget told the cabbie when they pulled up in front of 63 King Street. “I have to take a message from here, so you'll have to drive like the devil when I come out. There'll be another five shillings in it.”

The cabbie nodded, touching his hat. “I'll be here, guv'nor.”

Paget descended from the cab and walked cleanly up to the door of Crow's lodgings. He put one hand inside his coat, wrapping his fingers around the butt of his revolver. With the other hand he pulled the bell.

Harkness drove Moriarty and Mary McNiel to a public house off Leicester Square that opened on Sundays and served roast luncheons. They ate in silence—beef and potatoes—Moriarty pausing to talk only when the food was cleared. He gave Mary a few simple yet precise instructions. Then, once the account was settled, took her outside, ordering Harkness to drive to the Alhambra, where he was already half an hour late for his daily appointment with Dr. Night.

The stage-door keeper, who appeared to live on the premises and had got to know the Professor well during the last few days, gave them a cheery smile.

“He's waiting for you up on the stage, sir. You've the run of the place this afternoon. Nobody else here on a Sunday.”

Night, or Wotherspoon, or whatever else he wished to call himself, was on stage with the plump Rosie, who looked peeved at having to come in from her lodgings in Clapham on a Sunday afternoon. Moriarty noted the look and wondered at the ways of a woman who was quite willing to take the extra money Dr. Night was paying her, yet obviously begrudged the time she had to give for it.

Things had fallen out well though. Moriarty had not intended to put this part of his plan into action much before Thursday evening, but the change in matters made the moves essential now. Moriarty smiled. At least he would be able to disappear from police and public alike without a trace. A truly magical feat.

“Ah, there you are, there you are.” Wotherspoon came forward with outstretched hand.

“I am sorry we have been delayed,” Moriarty said pompously. “Business, even on a Sunday, you know, always business.”

“And a lady as well.” Wotherspoon raised an eyebrow, not quite happy about Mary McNiel's presence.