The Revenge of Moriarty (27 page)

‘Harriet, did you know that you were deucedly attractive?' Crow's voice now breathless.

Harriet's hand found the edge of the occasional table, upon which she set down the glass.

‘There have been men who have told me so, sir. But then you are flatterers all.' As she spoke, Crow felt her push even closer, the very junction of her thighs hard against him.

He bent to their mutual will. Their lips met, and it was as though each was parched and would never be done slaking a thirst which burned their mouths, so hot was the onrush of lip upon lip, tongue upon tongue.

Angus Crow was hardly aware that it was Harriet who pulled him down onto the sofa, nor that she unbuttoned her own blouse, presenting her bust to him, uncorseted.

‘What pretty wee bubbies,' gasped Crow. ‘Wee modest crimson-tipped flowers.'

‘Oh, Mr Crow. Poetry,' she gasped, thrusting upwards to his swooping mouth and pulling at her long black skirt: assisting him in the raising of it.

‘Angus,' moaned Crow between sips at her orbs.

‘Sir?'

‘Angus.' Sup. ‘When we are like this ye must call me Angus, lassie.' Always in moments of drama and tension, Crow lapsed into his more obvious Scots accent. ‘Oh,' he moaned again, his hand touching the leg of her drawers. And, ‘Oh, what a fine garden hedge. Harriet, my dear.'

‘Dig it deep, sir … Angus. Dig deep.'

At the moment of their interlocking, Crow had a sudden vision. It was as though Mr Sherlock Holmes was standing at his shoulder, shaking his head and clicking his tongue as a sign of disapproval.

On the morning following, Angus Crow was beset by a great sense of guilt. So much so that he found it difficult to look either Sylvia or Harriet in the eye. This did not, however, stop him that night from seeking out the servant in the kitchen, when Sylvia had retired, and ploughing her briskly and with the passion of a much younger man, across the table.

In Albert Square many things of importance took place between the onset of the New Year and the beginning of March, the most singular of which was Sal Hodges' revelation to the Professor that she was with child. Since before Christmas she had pondered long on discovering the right moment to break the news, and had made up her mind that it had to be done with on his return from Paris.

Moriarty was, happily, in a good frame of mind on that first evening back, knowing that he had done all things well in France. A goose was ordered for dinner, and Bridget hounded the Pearson girls in the kitchen to make certain the meal was a fitting banquet.

A little before six, Sal brusquely ordered Carlotta up to her room, and set out to beard Moriarty in the drawing-room where he was partaking of a glass of sherry.

‘There is no easy way to say what I have to tell,' she began, glancing almost shyly at him as he stood, smiling, in front of a cheery fire freshly made up with logs.

‘Why, Sal, you've never been bashful with me. Out with it.'

She came over to him, placing a hand on his sleeve.

‘James, you will hardly believe this, but you are to be a father.'

For a second, she thought he would fly at her with rage.

‘Foolish little minx,' Moriarty roared. ‘She was to take care. It's her Latin blood, Sal, damn me if it ain't. It's the breeding in the hot climate, even if she's never been near Italy. They germinate more rapid. Blast the woman, now all my plans for Sanzionare in Rome are gone up on a balloon.'

She let the small storm run out, controlling her own patience and temper as only a woman of strong character is able.

‘No, James, you mistake my meaning. It is not the Tigress that you have ridden to a pudding. It is me.'

His stunned expression lasted all of three seconds.

‘Now, there's a relief, Sal,' he laughed. ‘If it had been Carlotta the pitch would have been queered, for she's making well that one. She will be ready by the spring, yes?'

‘Yes, James, she will be ready and trained as you wish. But I am to suckle your child.'

‘Yes, yes, Sal. You said. Do you expect marriage then? You'll not get that from me.'

‘No, James, just a little understanding and the promise that you'll own to the child.'

‘If it's a boy he'll be my pride, Sal. No boy will be better looked after, I can promise you that. It will be Harrow School and Cambridge University for him and that's a fact. Then, when he's had a good education, my family people can give him a grounding in our trades.' His face became wreathed in a huge smile, the like of which Sal Hodges had never yet seen on him. ‘He will be my heir, Sal. Think of it, heir to the criminal Empire of Europe.' He lifted her off the floor and spun her around like some young sentimental gadabout. ‘This, Sal, is the founding of a dynasty and it makes me happy. My, the place will be crawling with infants what with Bridget and yourself. Let us hope that Harry Allen is being more careful with young Polly.'

‘What if it's a girl, James?'

‘Nonsense. I forbid it. See to it that it's a boy, Sal, or I'll disown the pair of you. When did I perform this prodigious feat?'

‘By my calendar it would seem it happened on our first night here in London.'

‘No better time. Nurture him well, Sal,' he placed his hand gently on her stomach. ‘You hold within you my hope for a future.'

Sal knew better than to argue, or bring the Professor to a more realistic frame of mind. If it was a girl, then that hurdle would have to be jumped when the time came. James Moriarty was too deep within his plots and plans for revenge to listen to other arguments; and if the possibility of a son gave him more power of concentration, then she would be satisfied. Accepting the situation, Sally Hodges took herself down to the kitchen, breaking the news to Bridget Spear who was of great comfort.

Bert Spear, himself, was proving to be an exceptional Chief of Staff, and Moriarty had very little need to concern himself with family affairs. Tribute came in regularly and at a growing pace. The jewellery from the Cornhill robbery was now – all but one piece – in the hands of fences in Holland and Germany, the rewards trickling back to swell the coffers. Spear also, with the assistance of the Jacobs brothers, was well able to handle matters of discipline and decisions concerning robberies and raids which individual villains wished them to put up.

Each week, Moriarty would be driven over to Bermondsey by Harkness to see Schleifstein. The German was being sensible and accepting his defeat, not only in a philosophical vein, but also in a manner which made room for future planning. Moriarty, he accepted, had proved himself the natural leader and he now pledged himself, and those who followed him, to the furtherance of the Professor's grand design.

Moriarty, however, refused to show any sign of weakness, insisting that Schleifstein and his lieutenants should stay close at the Bermondsey place. He did – as a concession – allow certain telegraphs to be sent to Berlin so that the German could keep his people controlled. Each week they would talk, and Moriarty promised him the company of Jean Grisombre ere long, explaining exactly what he was doing in order to bring the French leader back into the fold.

‘It is clever, Professor,' Schleifstein guffawed when the whole plot was revealed to him. ‘His face. I would like to see that when you break the news. But what have you up your sleeve for our Italian friend?'

‘For Luigi – or Gee-Gee as they call him? I have a plot to catch him on each of his Achilles heels at the same moment. All men have their weaknesses, Willy. All men. It just so happens that Sanzionare has more than most.'

‘So?'

‘His avarice is more finely honed than that of many of us. Like Grisombre he loves beautiful jewels. He also loves women upon which to hang them. Most of all his woman, Adela Asconta. A jealous lady. Sanzionare is, like many of his race, a man of superstition. The Latin church has exploited the natural characteristics of the Italians and Spanish. Would you believe that Gee-Gee Sanzionare, a criminal of ruthless mould, still performs his duties to Mother Church with the assumed piety of an innocent? The escape clauses in his religion are written with that subtlety usually reserved only for the clever sharks at law. By using all these elements, I will bring him back into the grand European family of crime. A lure is what I have for Sanzionare.'

‘You say we all have weaknesses, Professor?' Schleifstein adopted a bland look of innocence – a favourite expression which had so often trapped his own victims.

Moriarty's head oscillated slightly. ‘You do not catch me with questions, Willy. To conquer in our precarious trade is to be aware of one's weaknesses; one's besetting sins. I know mine and so guard against them.'

On his way back to Albert Square, Moriarty reflected on his current weakness – this all-embracing, surging desire to dominate the European criminal leaders, and see Crow and Holmes brought low and in disgrace. The desires swamped him, sometimes so completely that he reached for excesses as a drowning man reached for driftwood. To know that was not always enough.

As well as the tribute, and the lion's share of robberies, small and large, the other trading commodity came regularly into Albert Square: intelligence, culled almost from the very cobbles of the streets, the woodwork of the four ale bars, the rancid dribbling of the gutter. That great network of lurkers, which had been at its zenith before Moriarty's last enforced exile, was once more arranged and recruited so that news came on quiet whispers, first to Bert Spear and then to the Professor himself. Late in January, for instance, there was word that Grisombre had spent two days in London, returning to France with a particular companion – the short, bushy-bearded, eccentric painter of portraits, Reginald Leftly. With that news, Moriarty's heart sang, for it meant the plot was hatching as sure as eggs under a good hen. It was ever thus. One had but to make suggestions, set people in juxtaposition, and human nature with its frailty, desires, lusts and quirks, would do the rest.

In early February, Sal Hodges came with more news which set the Professor into a mood of evil glee.

‘Our fair lady at the Crow household has reported,' she told him, almost nonchalantly as they were divesting for the bed.

‘Indeed,' he paused, one hand to his waistcoat buttons.

‘The news could not be better.' Sal began to chuckle. ‘The man is incensed with love for her. She says that he can hardly keep his hands from her bodice even when his wife is near.'

‘A prisoner of lust,' the Professor joined in the laughter. ‘A man in that condition has no conscience. So many have come toppling because of a pair of bright eyes, a smooth bust and the sweet breath of carnal desire.'

Sal, coyly unbuttoning her gown, looked at him from under half-closed lids. ‘Have you no conscience, James? I would like to think so. Come, before I am too swollen with your pup, show me that sweet breath.'

Amidst all the comings and goings, the Professor found time for quiet, snatched hours spent with his cards. He also disciplined himself – probably more than at any other time in his life – to work upon his disguises. Some were easy – particularly the transformation, which he could now effect in a matter of minutes, which turned him into the living image of his gaunt, bald and hollow-eyed, ascetic academic brother. Yet, each evening he worked steadily at what was to be his greatest impersonation. In front of the mirror, behind the locked doors of his bedchamber, Moriarty plied his arts, altering his body and physiognomy to that of a man well known in all walks of life, recognizable by rich and poor alike, and famed throughout the world. By the end of February he had achieved an amazing likeness.

On 7 March, a day earlier than he had led Jean Grisombre to understand, the American, Jarvis Morningdale, together with his secretary, arrived with much baggage at the Grosvenor Hotel. No messages awaited him, though on that first night as a guest, he received at least three callers.

On the following day, 8 March, a telegraph arrived from Paris. It was handed in to Mr Morningdale's suite of rooms at ten o'clock in the morning, just as the American was taking his breakfast. The message read –
The lady is willing to see you
. It was signed,
Georges
. Half an hour after the telegraph arrived, Morningdale's secretary left the hotel. If anyone had been following they would have seen him hail a cab on the corner of Victoria Street and Buckingham Palace Road, then set off in the direction of Notting Hill. Eventually the secretary arrived at Albert Square where he let himself into number five. He stayed in the house some two hours, leaving to rejoin his employer at the Grosvenor. This time he carried a long flat case.

In the meantime, Jarvis Morningdale had been down to the main foyer of the hotel. He was, he told the clerk on the desk, expecting an art dealer from Paris. He was possibly going to buy some paintings and would like the hotel to arrange for a pair of easels to be sent up to his suite.

The easels were taken to the rooms during the afternoon, Morningdale himself supervising their erection at opposite ends of the drawing-room.

During the late afternoon, the manager of the Grosvenor Hotel, up in his inner sanctum, glanced through his current guest list. The name Jarvis Morningdale caught his eye. It was a name which he had seen recently: not simply when Mr Morn-ingdale's secretary had booked the accommodation. He had seen the name on some piece of official correspondence. The manager worried about that name for the rest of afternoon.

At a little after five o'clock, three men enquired for Mr Morningdale at the reception desk. The clerk asked if Mr Morningdale was expecting them and they assured him that he was.

‘Oh, you must be the gentlemen from Paris,' said the clerk with a greasy smile.

The largest of the men – a somewhat menacing figure with a jagged scar running down one cheek and dissecting the corner of his mouth – returned the smile.

‘No,' he said. ‘We are from the Donrum Detective Agency. Mr Morningdale is expecting to look at some rather valuable paintings in this hotel sometime this week. We have been hired to make certain the works of art come to no harm. It is in your interest as well as his.'