by Steve Hayes
‘Exactly.’
‘Easier said than done.’
She smiled as if knowing a secret. ‘Mr James,’ she whispered, ‘with my plan you can’t fail.’
‘I’m listenin’.’
‘Money,’ she said. ‘Money, and lots of it.’
‘I don’t follow.’
‘The Liggetts want you out of the way, right? That much is obvious. Well, suppose we offer them a way to get exactly what they want and earn themselves a reward in the process?’
It took him a moment to catch on, then he said: ‘You mean puttin’ a price on my head?’
‘Exactly. I can arrange it through my lawyer. The reward will be offered by a concerned citizen who wishes to remain anonymous. And the amount will be large enough to tempt even the Liggetts out into the open.’
‘How can you be sure?’
‘Because they’re the only ones who know that you’re here. They must do, or they wouldn’t have pretended to be you robbing the bank. And if that doesn’t convince you,’ she added as he looked doubtful, ‘how else did they know where to send the police?’
‘I reckon you’re right,’ Jesse agreed.
‘I know I am,’ Elaina said. ‘Just as I know that when the Liggetts show up to claim the reward, you’ll be waiting for them.’
Jesse grinned slowly. ‘You ain’t just a pretty face, are you?’
‘Mr James,’ she said softly, ‘you don’t know the half of it.’
He kissed her again, hard and full on the lips. ‘Let’s go upstairs,’ he said.
‘In a moment,’ she laughed. ‘First, I want to show you something.’
She led him downstairs to the wine cellar. When she turned up the gaslight he saw that the dank, stone-flagged room was filled with rack upon rack of dusty bottles. ‘Although my husband always denied it,’ she said, ‘his grandfather was said to be involved with smugglers.’
Reaching one particular rack, she reached up and touched something set far back in the shadows and to his surprise the wine rack slowly, silently swung back, revealing a small, shadow-black room.
A candle and a box of phosphor matches sat on a shelf just inside the doorway. She quickly lit the candle and held it high. As the shadows retreated, he saw that the room contained a table upon which sat a large display case, its red velvet shelves sprinkled with everything from brooches and pendants to rings, tiaras, bracelets and necklaces.
‘What do you think of my collection?’ she asked proudly.
He shook his head in wonder. ‘It trumps just about everythin’ – even Abernathy’s.’
‘Abernathy’s?’
‘General store in Kearney,’ he explained with a self-conscious shrug. ‘One day when me’n Frank were young ’uns, Ma took us into town to buy Frank a new shirt. I was real excited, ’cause it meant I’d get his old one.’
‘I know that feeling,’ she confided, her mood suddenly wistful. ‘I wore my sister’s hand-me-downs till I was twelve and got to work in Widow Tompkins’s dress-shop—’ She caught herself suddenly and said: ‘Sorry. I didn’t mean to interrupt. Go on.’
‘Well, while Ma and Frank were busy, I snuck over to the counter where Mr Abernathy kept all his candy in these big glass jars. I knew Ma didn’t have no spendin’ money, but I remember looking at them candies and thinking it was the prettiest damn sight I’d ever seen. Till this one.’ Again he looked at the jewels. ‘Must be worth a fortune.’
‘A fortune I’m willing to share with you,’ she said. ‘On one condition.’
‘Who do I have to kill?’
‘No killing,’ she said. ‘Just … a favour.’
‘Name it.’
‘It’s taken me years to assemble this collection,’ she explained. ‘I keep it locked away like this because some of the pieces were acquired in … well, let’s just say in ways some upstanding folks might frown upon. Now there’s only one piece I need to make it complete – a jewel known as the Star of Persia. I’d buy it, but it’s in the Royal Museum.’
She turned to face him. ‘Steal it for me, Jesse, and I’ll post your reward – one big enough to lure the Liggetts right into your hands.’
He was quiet for a long moment. ‘It’s a temptin’ offer,’ he said.
‘Is that a yes or a no?’
‘First I wanna know somethin’,’ he said. ‘Is that how you got all these jewels? By paying someone to steal ’em for you?’
‘Only the pieces I couldn’t buy. Does that shock you?’
‘I reckon it should,’ he replied. ‘But it don’t.’ He gave the proposition another moment’s thought before saying: ‘This museum. Where is it?’
‘West London.’
‘I’d need to scout it out first, get to know the lie of the land.’
‘That might be risky. Your photograph’s already appeared in the afternoon editions. It’ll be everywhere by tomorrow.’
‘Then we’ll just have to take extra care,’ he replied. ‘Won’t we?’
CHAPTER 16
Blackrat’s Revenge
Although he had been raised in poverty and was poorly educated at best, Blackrat Lynch had learned one particular lesson early in life – that knowledge is power.
It was a concept he’d grasped immediately, for he’d needed both knowledge and power to survive the mean streets of East London. Thus, Blackrat had always made a point of keeping his ears open and his mouth shut – well, as shut as his buck teeth would allow – and in that way he picked up a valuable snippet here, a juicy fragment there, and developed an understanding of all the East End’s notable comings and goings.
That morning he left his lodgings in Norfolk Street and walked painfully up to the Hand and Dagger public house on Commercial Road. A recent downpour had turned the cobbles slick and oily and everywhere muddy puddles reflected the louring sky.
The minute he entered the pub, which was all but deserted at this early hour, the landlord, Gideon Butterfield, turned to him and said: ‘That’s funny, seein’ you in here.’
Blackrat leaned against the scarred counter and threw down five pennies. ‘What’s so funny about that?’ he demanded belligerently. And then: ‘Give me ’alf a pint an’ a pig’s trotter.’
The landlord busied himself pouring the half-pint first. ‘There was a bloke in here, not twenty minutes since, askin’ after them Yanks o’ yourn.’
Blackrat’s expression immediately darkened. He had yet to live down the tale of his beating at the hands of Cage Liggett, and his assorted aches, pains, bruises and swellings were a constant reminder of that humiliation. But his bitterness was quickly replaced by his natural curiosity, that ever-present need to turn knowledge into power.
‘What did ’e want, this bloke?’ he asked.
Butterfield hooked a steaming trotter out of the crock-pot on the stove and dropped it on to a none-too-clean plate, then passed it across with a knife and fork. ‘Wanted to know where to find ’em,’ he said.
‘Did you tell ’im?’
The landlord gave him a withering look. The answer to that was obvious. He’d never ratted on anyone. You didn’t last long in the East End if you did.
‘Well, who was ’e, this bloke?’ Blackrat persisted. ‘Did ’e say why ’e was lookin’ for ’em?’
‘No,’ said the landlord. ‘As to who he was, he was just a bloke. About sixty, grey hair, wore a brown cap, an old plaid jacket, grey trousers.’
‘Well, good luck to ’im,’ Blackrat growled, sipping his drink and then sawing determinedly at the steaming trotter. ‘Blokes like them Liggetts, they won’t never be found unless they wants to be found.’
He took his meal to a corner table and chewed thoughtfully. The door opened and a man named Taffy Craddock came inside. Taffy always stank of mutton fat because he worked at the local candle factory. He bought a drink, joined Blackrat, and for a while the two acquaintances played dominoes and swapped tittle-tattle. At last Taffy left, and soon afterward Blackrat followed suit.
At the combination toba
cco shop and barber’s on the corner of Plumber’s Row he bought an ounce of medium tobacco and some papers. As the assistant took Blackrat’s money, he said: ‘There was a bloke in ’ere just now, askin’ after them two Americans you ’ad that run-in with.’
Not again, thought Blackrat. But he said: ‘What did you tell ’im?’
‘Nuffink.’
‘Which way did ’e go?’
‘Down towards Whitechapel. I don’t suppose you missed ’im by more than a quarter of an hour.’
Blackrat left the shop and set off for Whitechapel. Again that thought was in his head – that knowledge was power. And knowing why this old feller was trying to find the Liggetts might give him some sort of edge he could use against them.
Although he had to favour his injuries, it didn’t take him long to spot the man he was after. He knew his patch well and could spot a stranger a mile off. And the old coot in the well-worn plaid jacket was a stranger, all right. He was just coming out of the copper shop on the other side of Whitechapel Gate when Blackrat spotted him.
Blackrat studied the man. Gideon Butterfield had been right. He was in his sixties and walked with a shuffle that was even more laboured than Blackrat’s present limp. He wore a flat cloth cap over his unruly grey hair, and his loose trousers concertinaed comically around his scuffed black boots.
Blackrat watched him shuffle off, shaking his head slightly, maybe in frustration. With elaborate insouciance, he followed him at a discreet distance. When the old man set his left boot up on the edge of a public trough and retied the lace, Blackrat got a closer look at his features. His skin was sallow, his chin whiskery, eyes pouchy and dull. His unwashed grey hair matched his equally unkempt sideburns and mutton-chop moustache.
The old man straightened up and regarded his surroundings. The London Hospital stood on the other side of the busy road, next door to the saw mill. Nearer to hand, a dingy arched passageway led from Whitechapel Road to the clothing manufacturers located along Buck’s Row. After another moment’s consideration, the old man vanished into the passageway.
Blackrat glanced around, knowing he was never going to get a better chance to have a quiet, unobserved word with the old man. Ignoring the protest of his sore, stiff muscles, he picked up the pace and hurried after him.
The old man was about halfway along the litter-strewn alley when Blackrat caught up with him. The old man heard him splashing through puddles and began to turn. Seconds later Blackrat grabbed him by the shoulder and spun him around, and while the old man was off balance grabbed him by the lapels of his buttoned plaid jacket and rammed him back against the wall. His cap fell off and landed on the damp cobbles.
‘Here, what’s your game!’ cried the old man indignantly.
He made an attempt to break loose, but Blackrat was too strong. He thrust his face forward, his breath reeking of pork and beer.
‘You been lookin’ for someone,’ snarled Blackrat. ‘Two someones, actually, a pair o’ Yanks, brothers named Liggett – an’ I want to know why.’
The old man scowled. ‘I dunno what you—’
A newly acquired knife appeared in Blackrat’s hand, the tip of the blade drawing blood under his victim’s chin. ‘Don’t deny it, mate! Word gets around … an’ one way or another it always gets back to me. So – what’s your name?’
‘Levi Wright,’ the old man said reluctantly. And then, defiantly: ‘What’s it to you?’
‘Just want to know the name of the man I’m gonna stick like a pig if ’e don’t tell me what I want to know.’
Beneath shaggy brows, Levi Wright’s eyes lowered uneasily. He nervously wet his lips, revealing crooked yellow teeth. ‘All right,’ he said. ‘I don’t suppose it’s no secret. Bloke in the city asked me to nose around, find these Liggetts for him. Gave me a fiver on account and the promise of another when I tell him where he can find ’em.’
‘Who was ’e, this feller?’
‘I didn’t ask his name. Doubt if he would’ve told me anyway. Said he’d be waitin’ outside the Old Broad Street entrance to Liverpool Street station at six every night for the next three nights. I was to meet him there an’ let him know how I was gettin’ on.’
‘’Ow come ’e’s so interested in the Liggetts?’
‘He didn’t say an’ I didn’t ask. But I can tell you this much – he was another Yank. An’ I don’t think he was plannin’ ’em any good. He had this right mean look in his eyes when he described ’em to me. And there was somethin’ else about him that give me the willies, as well.’
‘What?’
‘He was carryin’ a brace of pistols. Oh, he didn’t know I knew, but I did. When he reached for his wallet, I saw ’em, in holsters, right here.’ He gestured to his armpits.
Blackrat felt a chill run through him. There couldn’t be that many Yanks in London who went armed and wore shoulder holsters. ‘What did ’e look like, this cove?’
‘Tall and sturdy. Decent whistle’n toot, some kinda wide-brimmed ’at.’
‘An’ ’e’s lookin’ for the Liggetts?’
‘Yeah.’
Blackrat scratched his ear, wondering what to make of it. Only one thing really made sense – that he had about as much love for the Liggetts as the Yank who’d paid this old geezer to find them for him – incredibly, the same bloody Yank who’d stopped them from robbing that countess.
‘’Ow do I know you ain’t just spinnin’ a yarn?’ he asked. ‘I still got the fiver he gave me,’ Wright said. Instantly regretting his admission, he tried to leave. But Blackrat grabbed him, demanding: ‘’And it over.’
‘You’d rob an old man?’ Wright said defiantly.
‘Way I see it, I’m doin’ you a favour,’ Blackrat said. ‘See, I got no love for them Liggetts either, so I’m gonna tell you where your friend with the pistols can find ’em. An’ in return, you’re gonna give me that fiver you’re ’oldin’. That’s fair, ain’t it? I mean, you’ll get another one when you tell ’im where to find ’em.’
‘How do I know you ain’t just spinnin’ a yarn?’
‘You don’t,’ said Blackrat. ‘Now ’and over that fiver.’
Reluctantly Wright pulled a crisp white five-pound note from his trouser pocket and gave it to Blackrat, who quickly tucked it away.
‘All right, ’ere it is,’ he said. ‘The Liggetts meet up at the Poacher’s Pocket, in Cable Street, most nights. You can’t miss ’em. They run with a little bloke who’s always sniffin’, a red-’eaded Irishman and a big mulatto. If they ain’t there, then they’ve got an old barge moored just past the fish market. It’s a rickety old rust-bucket, don’t look occupied, but it is. I know – I followed ’em back to it the other night. They never even knew I was there.’
Levi Wright digested the information. ‘You better not be havin’ me on,’ he warned.
‘I ain’t. An’ you better not tell anyone that you ’eard this from me, got it?’
‘Don’t worry. I know how to keep a secret.’
‘I ’ope so, ’cause you’ll be sorry if you don’t. Oh, an’ when you tell this Yank where to find the Liggetts, ask ’im to put an extra bullet in each of ’em for me. If ’e’s the bloke I think he is, ’e’ll do it, too.’
He turned and hurried off along the alley without looking back … and as Levi Wright watched him go, he underwent a curious transformation. His hunched shoulders slowly straightened, a faint smile chased away his hangdog look, and as he reached up and pulled the false top set of yellow, crooked teeth away from his own, Sherlock Holmes thought: If that man can be believed – and in this instance I believe he can – then I have them.
He allowed himself a brief, humourless smile. His presence here today as ‘Levi Wright’ had served its purpose admirably. Though it had failed to flush the Liggetts themselves from hiding, it had given him what he believed to be solid information as to their whereabouts. All in all, it had been a good morning’s work.
He bent and retrieved his cap, then left the alleyway with the old man
’s shuffle now replaced by his usual brisk, purposeful stride. It was time now to return to Baker Street and decide upon his next course of action. As he doubled back into Whitechapel Road, he knew that no hansom would stop for him in his present sorry state, so he caught the dark-green Bayswater tram instead and found a seat at the back of the vehicle to consider what he had learned.
They run with a little bloke who’s always sniffin’, a red-’eaded Irishman and a big mulatto, his informant had told him. Three men. Three men plus the two Liggett brothers … The five men who had robbed Crosbie & Shears? Almost certainly.
It was then, as they passed the corner of Farringdon Street and Ludgate Hill, that Holmes heard the newspaper boy’s cry:
‘Read all about it! Daylight robbery at the Royal Museum! Rare gemstone stolen by Jesse James!’
CHAPTER 17
The Star of Persia
Some hours earlier …
The Royal Museum on Victoria Tower Walk was the very embodiment of British reserve. It stood two storeys tall, with a fussy terracotta façade and high, wide stained-glass windows, and cast a long, spired shadow out across the River Thames, beside which it had been constructed in 1837.
Once through its majestic, varnished-oak doors the atmosphere became musty and studious, for it was a magnificent storehouse filled with all manner of botanical, entomological, mineral and paleontological specimens, fossils, sponges, rare paintings and age-worn sculptures, an exhaustive array of medieval ironwork, arms, armour, enamels, brasswork, pewter … and of course precious jewels.
None was more impressive than the Star of Persia.
Presently on loan from the government of Tehran, the Star was said to be one of the original crown jewels plundered by the Afghans in 1719. Smaller than its better-known counterpart, the Koh-i-Noor, it was nevertheless a spectacular jewel – a fine white diamond of some forty carats that would fit in the palm of an average-sized man’s hand.
On the stroke of ten that morning an ancient doorman shuffled to the doors, a ring of thirty keys hanging from one liver-spotted hand. Laboriously he sorted through the keys, one at a time, until he found the one he sought. It would have been quicker to keep the keys separately, of course, but they had always been on this one ring, and sorting through them had become a ritual he had fallen into many years before.
