Who Thinks Evil: A Professor Moriarty Novel (Professor Moriarty Novels) (2 page)

Mr. Justice Hedge pushed his glasses back into place with a forefinger and glared at Moriarty. “It would seem I have no choice but to declare a mistrial. Three days and no verdict. Unheard of.”

Barnett scribbled “unheard of” on his pad and underlined it. He would have to arrange to visit Moriarty, who had been a friend and mentor to him in the not-too-distant past, and see if there was any assistance he could offer. Anything, he thought wryly, short of arranging a prison break. That, Barnett was sure, the professor could manage on his own.

The Honorable Eppsworth, QC, appearing for the prosecution, rose and fingered the lapel of his judicial gown. “I would like to move, milord, that a mistrial be declared.”

“It would seem I have little choice,” said his lordship.

Sir Humphrey Lowenbog, appearing for the defense, rose and bowed gravely, if briefly, toward the judge. “If it please your lordship,” he said, “my client Professor Moriarty and I would be quite willing to spare the crown the expense and trouble of a new trial. A directed verdict would suffice, I would say.”

“A directed verdict?”

“Yes, milord. Of not guilty, milord.”

Mr. Justice Hedge leaned back in his judicial chair and glowered down at the bewigged barrister. “I’m glad to see, Sir Humphrey, that you have not lost your sense of humor during these proceedings,”

Professor Moriarty turned in the dock to look up at the gallery. He took a pair of pince-nez glasses from the breast pocket of his jacket and polished the lenses with a piece of flannel while he studied the faces of those who had been studying his back.

“I would like to suggest,” said the Honorable Eppsworth, “that a new trial date be set for as soon as practicable.”

“I would think so,” said Mr. Justice Hedge. “I doubt whether we could possibly get a second jury so blind to the obvious.” He slammed his gavel down on the bench before him. “This case is closed, a mistrial is declared, this jury”—he paused to glare at the jury—“is discharged. Their names will be stricken from the rolls. The clerk will set a new court date.”

Moriarty put the pince-nez back in his pocket as his eyes met those of Benjamin Barnett in the gallery. He nodded ever so slightly and turned back to face the judge.

Sir Humphrey took a half step forward. “I would like to renew the matter of bail for my client, milord.”

“Humor, Sir Humphrey,” said Mr. Justice Hedge severely, “can be taken only so far.”

Barnett closed his notebook and rose. So there would be another trial. That brief nod from the professor was surely a sign that Moriarty wished to see him, he reflected. He would visit the prison as soon as possible. If there was any way he could help, he would certainly do so. Barnett’s knowledge of Moriarty, gained from two years working with the man and being privy to at least some of his secrets, told him that Moriarty was almost certainly not guilty of this particular crime. However, guilt or innocence was not a part of this equation. There was a question of honor involved. Moriarty had done as much for Barnett once, and from an Ottoman prison at that. Barnett’s wife, Cecily, might not see it in quite the same way, he realized—women tended to think of “honor” as a man’s excuse for behaving like a child. Barnett exited thoughtfully onto Newgate Street.

[CHAPTER TWO]

MOLLIE’S

Come, give us a taste of your quality.

—SHAKESPEARE

IT HAD BEEN SATURDAY,
September 13, 1890, for four hours, but Friday took a long time dying at the gentlemen’s establishment known as Mollie’s, a three-story white brick building at 33 Gladston Square, London. The last client had been ushered out, except for a marquis and a colonel of the Guards, who were using the establishment as a residence for the night, and five loo players of various ranks and stations in an upstairs room who probably wouldn’t be staggering out into the chill, damp fog until sometime Tuesday. The maids were gathering the soiled bed linens to be washed and ironed, the glasses to be scoured, the bottles to be rinsed and returned to the vintners, and the various frilly garments and special costumes to be cleaned, examined, and repaired if necessary. The
filles de joie
were enjoying the luxury of sleeping alone.

Then suddenly there came a tapping as of someone strongly rapping, rapping at the outer door.

“A bit late for visitors,” muttered the porter. “Or a bit early, if it comes to that.” He slid open the eye slot and peered out. The orange-white glow of the gaslight above the door showed two men in evening clothes standing outside clutching their silk hats in their gloved hands: a thin young man with muttonchop whiskers and the appearance of studied solemnity; and an older, thicker one with a bushy brush mustache and a touch of humor in his ruddy face.

“Closed for the night,” the porter called out to them. “Come back tomorrow—or later today, as it happens. Say along about three in the afternoon. Glad to see you gentlemen then, I’m sure.”

The young, thin gentleman brought his eye close to the eye slot. “Sorry to bother you, my man,” he said. “We’re here to retrieve Baron Renfrew. He’s late for his next, um, engagement. Has he changed his plans? Is he spending the night? Could we speak with him, if you don’t mind?”

“Baron Renfrew, is it then?” the porter asked. “Well then, come into the parlor, gentlemen.” He pulled the door open and escorted them to the front room. “You just wait here for a minute, and I’ll fetch Miss Mollie.”

No more than three minutes later Mollie Cobby, fair, buxom, fast approaching forty, and pleasant to look at from the red silk ribbons in her dark hair to the black satin slippers on her feet, came through the inner door, tying the cord of her silk wrap firmly around her waist. “What’s all this?” she cried. “The baron left these premises more than an hour ago, I believe—it might be two hours even. And what might you be wanting with him at this time of the morning, if I may ask?”

“Left, has he?” asked the younger one, pursing his lips and brushing his nose thoughtfully with the tips of his fingers.

“Sorry, miss,” said the older one with the thick brush mustache, jumping to his feet and standing as ramrod straight as a sergeant on parade. “I’m Mr. Mortimer, and my associate here’s Mr. Pellew. We don’t mean to be a bother, indeed we don’t. But the baron’s coach has been awaiting the baron in the mews, horse, coachman, and all, for these past five hours, and the baron has not appeared in its vicinity. If you could tell us just when he left, or where he was headed, we would be most appreciative. It’s our job, you see, to look after the baron, and it’s as much as our job is worth to lose track of him. Sadly, he’s not always thoughtful enough to enumerate his comings and goings before he comes and goes.”

Mollie looked at them thoughtfully. “You’re a pair of his watchdogs, then? Why didn’t you come inside all this time and wait in comfort, such as it is? Like that Mr., ah, Fetch, who follows him about everywhere.”

Mr. Mortimer smiled. “We’re his outside watchdogs, miss.”

“Speaking of which,” said Mr. Pellew, “where is the aforesaid Mr. Fetch?” He peered about the room as though he expected Fetch to spring up from some chest or cabinet like clockwork.

“Why a young, handsome gentleman like the baron needs to be guarded and escorted hither and yon is more than I know,” Mollie said. “P’raps you could explain it to me.”

“It’s just the way of things, ma’am,” Mr. Pellew said, spreading his arms wide in explanation.

“It’s his mother, you see,” added Mr. Mortimer, “and his grandmama. They don’t want to know just what he’s doing, if you see what I mean, but they don’t want him to get into any trouble while doing it.”

“Well,” Mollie said, shaking her head. “That’s as may be, I suppose.”

“You say he’s gone?” asked Mr. Pellew. “And Mr. Fetch with him? Do you know just when they left?”

“I don’t keep a watch on my gentlemen callers,” Mollie said severely, dropping primly down onto the couch and waving the two men into seats.

“Not even to receive, ah, recompense?” suggested Mortimer, cautiously settling into an overstuffed chair.

“Come now,” Mollie said severely. “Do you think we’re a gaggle of streetwalkers in here?”

Mortimer considered the question and decided not to say just what it was he thought.

“So you don’t keep track of the comings and goings of your guests?” Pellew asked, cocking his head to one side and peering at her like a sparrow inspecting a beetle.

“Only as it happens in the course of providing for their amusement,” Mollie told him. “The porter sees them in, but there’s a side door by which they may depart, if they’ve a mind to. At the end of the evening the girls tell me what, ah, services have been provided, and it’s put to the gentleman’s account.”

“So you can’t say for sure that the baron and Mr. Fetch have indeed left, is that so?”

Mollie shifted nervously in her seat. “I didn’t see them leave, if that’s what you mean, but it was some time past. I was in the upstairs hall, it must be a good hour ago, and Mr. Fetch was no longer in his chair outside the room. And when Mr. Fetch is gone from the hall, it stands to reason that Baron Renfrew is gone from the room.”

“Excuse me?” asked Mr. Mortimer.

“Mr. Fetch, like a faithful dog—perhaps that’s why he’s called Fetch, do you suppose?—always waits outside his master’s door. I have no notion of what he fancies he’s guarding his master from, but he’s quite earnest about it. One of the girls once offered to entertain him in her room while he was waiting, as an act of kindness, you might say, but he would have none of it. Very serious and dedicated, Mr. Fetch. Nancy was quite put out. No one had ever turned her down before; it’s usually her what does the turning down. So we give him a comfy chair and a bit of fizz from the gasogene, with just a touch of brandy to take away the nasty taste, as he says, and there he sits until the baron emerges.”

Mortimer nodded. “I see,” he said.

“So, since Mr. Fetch is gone, the baron likewise must have emerged.”

“But you didn’t actually see him leave?”

“I can’t say I did, no.”

“Did anyone?”

Mollie sighed. “It’s quite late. Most of the girls are asleep.”

Mr. Pellew sat primly on the red plush sofa behind him and began absently playing with one of the tassels that formed a fringe around the sofa’s edge. “With which young lady was the baron spending the evening?” he inquired. “Perhaps we could speak with her.”

Mollie pushed herself to her feet. “Needs must as wants will, I always say.” She sighed once more and shook her head sadly and left the room.

Half a minute later they heard her scream.

Mortimer and Pellew jumped to their feet and rushed upstairs, followed closely by the porter, who brandished a great oak cudgel that had mysteriously appeared in his hand. The screams stopped as they reached the long, dimly lit hallway, but doors were opening and the young ladies of the establishment, their flannel nightgowns held tightly around them against the draft, were peering cautiously out. At the end of the hallway one of the loo players, cards in hand, had emerged from the cardroom and was sniffing the air cautiously. Fire was a constant worry in these old buildings. Seeing nothing of that sort amiss, the man retreated back into the cardroom with one last aggravated sniff and a muttered “Women!” and slammed the door.

Several of the girls had gathered around one of the open doors. Mortimer paused to turn up the gas on a wall sconce near the door, and bright white light from the mantle filled the hallway. The bedroom was a rectangle about fourteen by twenty feet, holding an oversized bed, a nondescript night table, a drop-front bureau in the style of Queen Anne, a rose-colored wardrobe with a frieze of somber angels painted around the top, and a washstand with a porcelain washbasin. A colored etching of a schooner in a windstorm, an oil painting of a cow, and two framed mirrors hung on the walls, which were otherwise covered with a flocked wallpaper in a tulip pattern.

A girl lay stretched out on the bed, and Miss Mollie was bending over her. The light from the hall bouncing off the mirrors onto the walls and ceiling cast weird reflections around the room and kept most of it in deep shadow as the men entered, and for a second it seemed that mysterious half-seen entities were gliding about in the unlit corners.

A shaft of light illuminated the face of the girl, a pretty, freckled-faced young redhead. She lay on her back, naked, with a sheet thrown over her middle for modesty, her hands and feet spread apart and tied with some sort of thick satin cord to the four bedposts. Some trick of the lighting seemed to cast a dark shadow across the sheet.

“I didn’t know our master was a devotee of the Marquis de Sade,” remarked Mr. Mortimer quietly.

“Let us not dwell on this,” said Pellew, turning away and gazing earnestly at another part of the room. “Untie the girl, Miss Mollie, and I’ll see that she gets an extra two—no, five—pounds for her, ah, trouble.”

“Rose, she called herself,” Mollie said without looking up. “Because of her coloring, if you see what I mean; red hair, red cheeks. Rose.”

“
Called
herself?”

One of the girls in the hall lit a second gas mantle, which threw more light on the bed. Mortimer stepped closer and peered over Mollie’s shoulder. Rose’s eyes stared sightlessly at the mirrored ceiling. Her mouth was open, her lips shaped into an oval O—an eternal silent scream of horror. A deep gash splayed open her too-white skin from her throat down between her breasts and disappeared beneath the sheet. What had seemed a dark shadow across the middle of the bed was a pool of slowly congealing blood.

“Well, I’ll be…,” began Mortimer, taking an involuntary step backward, his hand across his mouth. After a few moments of silent gulping, he managed, “What a horrible thing! Horrible!”

Pellew turned back and stepped closer to the bed to examine the carnage. “Awful, indeed,” he said. “Tragic. Such concentrated fury attacking this poor girl. I haven’t seen anything like this since—well, for some time.” He turned to Mortimer. “You don’t think this could be the work of … our master … do you?” he asked in an undertone. “There were … rumors … at the time, I remember.”