In particular there were men and women seeking news in St George’s Street, once the notorious Ratcliffe Highway, centring much of their activity around the Preussische Adler, a favourite haunt of German seamen and others who did not count the police among their close friends. Their duty was to seek out news of Wilhelm Schleifstein.
But wherever they went along that evil street – to the Rose and Crown or the Bell, or, in fact, any of the sluiceries, dance and music halls, their enquiries were circumspect. The names locked in their heads included Irene Adler, the policeman – Crow – Holmes himself, as well as the other foreign villains upon whom the Professor was concentrating the main portion of his endeavours.
All day, Spear moved between Albert Square and a dozen secret places within the metropolis. Later, after dinner – served by the nervous twins, Martha and Polly, with much prompting from Bridget Spear – he too had private words with Moriarty. Already Spear had assumed tacit command of the Praetorian Guard and he brought news that in the past two hours he had spoken with a dozen or so professional men – cracksmen, toolers, magsmen, macers and demanders who were now working on their own account. His approach and progress had been careful, circumspect and not unsuccessful.
When Spear left him, Moriarty stood at the drawing-room window, a glass of brandy in one hand, looking out over the square. Out there, thought the Professor, his kingdom was once more on the move; his family people beginning to come together as his own, just as they had done before that undignified rout in 1894. Out there were also the keys that would unlock the road to disaster for the six enemies who preyed so constantly on his mind.
A slight breeze stirred the trees in the square, as though they were taking fright at the menace emanating from the drawing-room window.
Turning his attention back into the room, Moriarty looked lovingly at the piano which occupied a position of some importance – a drawing-room grand by Collard & Collard, purchased by the Jacobs brothers from a dealer who had access to these instruments, brand new, but at greatly reduced prices. The piano was a luxury which the Professor had done without for too long. As a child, music had been almost a background to his daily home life. Had not his mother given lessons? Indeed, he could remember the feeling of satisfaction it had given him at a very early age to be able to play with no small talent. He often imagined that it was the one thing which his two elder brothers envied (‘Mrs Moriarty, young Jim should really take it up as a profession and give concerts. He is so skilful.’ That was a passing comment still remembered).
It was many years, though, since he had sat at a keyboard and, since their arrival in the house he had to some extent been putting off the moment. He approached the instrument gingerly, as if it were some animal which needed taming. Once seated, he closed his eyes, stretching his mind back to the time when playing was as easy to him as breathing. If Holmes could scratch his fiddle, then he could tease melody from the black and white keys. Slowly his long fingers began to move soundlessly over the keyboard, and then, as if suddenly ready and confident, he found the notes, and began a Chopin étude: the 12th – the ‘Revolutionary’ as it had become known.
It was no ordinary performance, but one of feeling which gave the piece a unique interpretation, as though the music was an outlet for all the pent desires and frustrations, glories and madnesses within. With the music came a kind of transitory peace, and Moriarty continued to rediscover his talents until the clamour of the bell downstairs heralded the arrival of Terremant and the first punishers.
Upstairs in their comfortable bedroom, Bridget Spear faced her husband.
‘Mr Knap’s been here,’ she blurted out, one hand to her stomach. It was easier for her to use this old phrase, which denoted pregnancy, than any of the more formal, coy or simpering speeches with which young women were supposed to break the news of ‘an approaching little stranger’ to their husbands.
Albert Spear’s mouth came open and then closed again. ‘Bridget. Well, I never dreamed …’
‘Then you should have done, Bert. What do you think we was at, making pottery jugs?’
‘I’m to be a father, then?’
Trust him, thought the girl. His first thought was that he was to be a father.
‘And I a mother,’ she said coolly.
Bert Spear’s face broadened into a grin.
‘I’ll bet he comes into the world clutching the midwife’s wedding ring an’ all. It’s good news, Bridget. The start of our own family. Good news, indeed. Wait ‘til the Professor hears. He’ll be proud as old Cole’s dog.’
‘He will?’
‘Of course, girl. Why it’s a family baby. He’ll truly be its godfather.’
‘Bert?’ She had gone up to him, placing a hand gently on his arm. ‘I only want good for the child. He won’t live the life we led when we were nippers, will he?’
‘With the Professor standing for him. No, girl, he’ll want for nothing.’
From below they heard the liquid sound of the piano, then, far away, the ringing of the doorbell.
At the very moment that Professor James Moriarty sat down to play Chopin Angus McCready Crow was being reunited with his bride at the house in King Street.
The detective had particularly asked her not to meet him at the railway station. Partly because he did not altogether approve of married women being seen abroad unaccompanied, but mainly because he was forever pessimistic regarding timetables, knowing full well that betwixt cup and lip there lurked all kinds of dangers, slips, nudges and jogs.
In the event, he was at his own door almost to the minute of the calculated time, his heart considerably lighter for having survived all his journeying. As he jabbed at the brass knocker, all the frustrations concerning the Moriarty fiasco disappeared from his mind, replaced by other thoughts which swamped his whole body: for he could not deny that he longed to embrace Sylvia’s ample person – and more. His desires, however, were not simply of a lustful nature. One of the things he had missed most on his travels was Sylvia Crow’s good home cooking. To his mind, nobody made a steak and kidney pudding like her; nor could they produce cakes or pies more satisfying, while her jugged hare was, Crow often maintained, a taste of paradise on earth.
As he waited for his wife to open the door, Crow was assaulted by a whole cannonade of desires. Well-remembered aromas and succulent tastes combined with the deep hidden sensualities of the bedchamber, and all those titillations which Sylvia could use with such aplomb. The swell of her breast and thigh mingled attractively with images of roast potatoes and saddle of lamb.
The door opened and Angus Crow, overwhelmed by the fancy of his senses, thrust forward to embrace Mrs Crow. Home was the sailor, home from the sea, and the hunter home from the hill.
‘Sylvia, ma beloved,’ he crooned, eyes half-shut and accent broadening as it always did in times of emotional stress.
His hands barely connected with the woman before there was a yelp and commotion.
Crow opened his eyes to see, not his fair Sylvia, but a young woman of somewhat angular aspect, dressed in black gown, white frilled apron and cap. His first reaction was to look anxiously at the door in order to ensure that he had not mistaken the number. But there it was, plain, polished above the knocker. Sixty-three.
The young woman had recovered her composure more quickly than Crow.
‘Good evening, sir,’ she said, all breathy. ‘Who shall I say is calling?’
‘Inspector Crow.’
A grunt as light began to dawn. Sylvia had always had ideas. Before their wedding she had run the small house on her own, happy to cook and make beds, clean, dust and shop with never an idle moment. It was obvious to Crow that in his absence, his wife had shattered the peace of their hearth by introducing servants.
‘Angus.’ She had waited until the girl had opened the door to receive him, then, unable to abide by the more correct observances of society, launched herself into the tiny hall. ‘Oh, Angus, you are home.’ She embraced him quickly, a wifely kiss on each
cheek, before holding him at arm’s length and addressing the girl. ‘Quick, Lottie, the master’s luggage. Get it in, girl, before all the neighbours come out to have a look.’
‘What is this, Sylvia?’ muttered Crow.
‘Pas devant les domestiques,’ hissed Sylvia, her mouth set in a welcoming smile. Then, loudly, ‘Oh, it is so good to see you. Lottie take the bags upstairs. Beloved, come into the parlour and let me look at you.’
Crow, bewildered by events, allowed himself to be bustled through into their small parlour which, he was relieved to observe, seemed to be little changed.
‘Sylvia, who is that woman?’ he bludgeoned almost before the door was closed.
‘A surprise, Angus. I thought you’d be so pleased. It’s Lottie, our cook general.’
‘Cook general, and what is that when it’s at home?’
‘Angus, she is our servant. After all, we have a position as a married couple, and you heading for an important post at Scotland Yard …’
‘What important post?’
‘Well, you are bound to be promoted and …’
‘There is no reason for you to think for one moment that I shall be promoted. If you want the truth, I have failed miserably on my present assignment, and I’ll be lucky if I am not pounding the beat by this time next week. What in the name of heaven made you bring anyone else into our little home. Our little …’ he hesitated, ‘Our little love nest?’
Sylvia started to cry. It usually worked. ‘I thought you would be pleased. It raises the tone.’ Sniff. ‘It takes away some of the drudgery.’ More sniffing and a knock at the door, at which sound the tears disappeared. ‘Enter.’ No quaver in her voice.
‘Dinner is served,’ proclaimed the geometrical Lottie.
Dinner lowered Angus Crow’s spirits even further. Before going through to the dining-room, he had tried to soothe his wife by telling her that of course he did not want her to become a drudge, and that he was a little tired, what with the journey and everything. But the dinner was an unhappy experience as it was obvious from the start that Sylvia had taken no part in either its preparation or cooking. The soup was watery, the beef overdone and the greens soggy, while the pastry of the apple pie defied description.
After dinner, Crow brooded, drank a little, listened patiently to his wife’s monologue regarding the problems and trials she had endured during his absence. At last, not able to bear it longer, Crow announced that it was time for bed, leaving no doubt as to his meaning and intentions. At least, he concluded, she cannot have a servant to take her place in the connubial couch. Nor for that matter would she desire it. Sylvia had always been enthusiastic and knowing in that department.
Mrs Crow’s eyes once more filled with tears. ‘Angus, it is not my fault,’ she wailed. ‘I have no power over the phases of the moon. I am so sorry, my dear, but there’s a padlock on the pleasure garden.’
Angus Crow could have wept. His failure to track down the Professor had been bad enough and he had successfully cloaked the reality of this with thoughts of the pleasures of his homecoming. As it was, he retired to his favourite chair in the parlour and began sorting the pile of letters which had arrived during the sojourn in America.
They were mainly tradesmen’s accounts and short notes from relatives, but at the top of the pile lay one note delivered by messenger that very morning. He recognized the hand instantly and tore it open. His assumption was correct, for the heading showed that it was from 221 B Baker Street. It read:
Dear Crow,
I do not know if you have yet returned from our erstwhile colonies. If not, this will await you. You will obviously have more recent news than I. However, certain matters not unconnected with our friend have today been revealed to me. I would, therefore, be grateful if you would get in touch with me at your earliest convenience.
Your sincere colleague,
Sherlock Holmes
‘You know of Moriarty’s so-called Praetorian Guard?’ Holmes stood with his back to the fireplace, looking down on Crow who sat comfortably in the wicker chair.
‘I do indeed.’
He had made arrangements quickly on the following day. Holmes was to be alone during the late afternoon and, at a little before five, Crow presented himself at the front door.
Mrs Hudson offered her master’s apologies, saying that Mr Holmes had stepped out for a short while and had instructed her to see that the Inspector was comfortably provided for until his return.
When Holmes reappeared, some fifteen minutes later, Crow was settled with a tray of tea, muffins and a large quantity of Mrs Hudson’s home-made strawberry jam.
‘Pray don’t stir yourself, Crow,’ Holmes began the moment he entered the room. ‘Good of you to wait. I believe you are a little thinner in the face. I trust your digestion has not been put out by American hospitality.’
Crow observed that he was slightly flushed, and carried a number of small parcels which he deposited on the table. One, the policeman could see, was sealed with wax and bore a chemist’s label. Charles Bignall, APS, Orchard Street.
Holmes appeared tired and a shade nervous, explaining that he had hoped to be back before five. However, they were now together, and the consulting detective wanted to hear what progress Crow had made in America.
Angus Crow went through each stage of his investigations, ending with his abortive attempt to get the Professor’s collar in San Francisco, laying great stress on the frustration of being so near, and yet so far, to a capture. It was not until he had completed this monologue that Holmes asked about his knowledge concerning the Praetorian Guard.
‘There were,’ Holmes continued, ‘originally four men who were members of this particularly evil band. A heathen Chinee called Lee Chow; a wretched, slimy little fellow known as Ember; a rampsman by the name of Albert Spear, and a rogue called Paget. Since the Spring of ’94 there have only been three.’
‘I know about Paget,’ said Crow dryly. ‘There seem now to be two others besides. Two I cannot yet put names to. Also there is little doubt that Johnny Chinaman, Ember and Spear were all with our man, at one time or another, in America.’
‘Well,’ Holmes regarded the detective with an expression of gravity. ‘I have it on good authority that Ember, at least, is back in London. On the night before last he was seen in several places where you and I might well have to fight for our lives. I have somewhat more irregular methods of keeping an eye on such places. Ha-ha.’ His laugh had little genuine humour to it.
‘So.’
‘It has been my experience that wherever members of the so-called Praetorian Guard go, the Professor soon follows.’
Crow could do nothing but agree with him, his frustration seeming even more pronounced, for Holmes had made no comment regarding the American adventure and it seemed plain that it had been of little use. However, Angus Crow left Baker Street light of heart. Perhaps their quarry was nearer now than he had dreamed. Tomorrow he would put a bold front on things when he reported to Scotland Yard. As for now, his heart descended rapidly, he must return to King Street and the social pretensions of his wife. He would have to be most canny if that little problem was to be solved without too much friction.
The days which followed were ones of intense activity at Albert Square. The task of rebuilding the Professor’s criminal family was a slow and careful business, but not a day passed without some progress being made or some old follower discovered and brought back into the fold. It was all accomplished with much stealth and, as often as not, without the name of Professor James Moriarty being mentioned aloud.
During this crucial time, Moriarty left the daily arrangements in the competent hands of his lieutenants – now much assisted by the muscular power of Terremant and his punishers – while he spent the time issuing orders and seeing to his finances: visiting fences and creating new bank accounts in hitherto unheard-of names. He played the piano a little each evening, read the newspapers, cursed the politicians as imbeciles, and occasionally indulged in his only
other hobby, the art of conjuring.
Each night he would sit for a good hour in front of a mirror, a copy of Professor Hoffman’s famous work, Modern Magic, open on his lap and a pack of cards in his hands. He considered that his progress was fair, having mastered most of the sleights described. He could make the pass in five different manners, change cards, force them and palm cards with reasonable dexterity. When Sally Hodges spent the night at Albert Square she now became used to acting as a guinea-pig for new tricks with the cards before getting down to old tricks between the sheets.*
As the financial side of Moriarty’s plans progressed, he dealt with several urgent and pressing matters and Sal Hodges figured prominently in these. Two more houses were purchased in the West End and, by the second week in October, Sally was herself supervising lavish decorations and a staff of elegant, enthusiastic young women. By the end of the year those investments would, the Professor was certain, be showing a profit.
Moriarty also spent long hours poring over the notes he had to hand on the four continentals, and on Crow and Holmes. The lurkers had tracked down Irene Adler quite quickly, discovering through their foreign counterparts that she was living alone, and frugally, in a small pension on the shores of Lake Annecy. The Professor appeared well pleased that she was short of money and within a day of the discovery ordered that a man be found who could be trusted and would pass easily as either English or French. Though he was to be used first on business uncompleted with the Adler woman.
Within twenty-four hours, Spear brought in just such a person: a former schoolteacher who had fallen on bad times and even served a stretch in the Model for theft. His name was Harry Allen, and the other members of the Albert Square household were surprised to find that the Professor insisted on his being moved into the house without delay. He was a young and personable fellow who soon made himself useful around the place and seemed to take a great liking to Polly Pearson.