Colonel Moran lay on his side by the table, his stool overturned. He had consumed one glass of the wine that had been brought in with the basket of food, and part of the veal and ham pie had been torn away and eaten. From the remains of the pie half a hard-boiled egg started out like some grotesque accusing eye.
There was little either the turnkeys or the doctor, who came on the scene some five minutes later, could do for the colonel. He had vomited considerably and, from the attitude he had assumed on the cell floor, it was apparent that his death had been extremely painful.
“It could be Strychnos nux vomica or one of the other vegetable poisons.”
The doctor was a somewhat pompous man who moved about the cell with exaggerated care, sniffing at the wine and food, playing the detective.
Inspector Lestrade, grave and worried, arrived an hour or so later. He talked with the doctor, made a brief examination of the food and wine, then began to interrogate the turnkeys with some care. He eventually came to the warder who had been on duty at the gatehouse when the basket was brought in, and later questioned Williams, who had accompanied the girl to Moran’s cell.
Eventually, about seven o’clock, the inspector left Horsemonger Lane in a hansom, bound for the residence of Colonel Fraser in Lowndes Square.
The colonel was tall, sparse, with a yellowish complexion and brusque manner. He did not suffer fools gladly and, from the first, appeared to regard Lestrade as a simpleton.
“’Course I knew Moran. Friend of his at one time, though I cannot say that I am proud of that now. I suppose you have to trace back his career though.”
“What prompted you to send him the basket of food?” Lestrade’s mouth traced a tiny, somewhat mean, smile.
The colonel’s jaw dropped.
“Food? Basket? What in Hades are you talking of, man?”
“Your servant. The girl. She took a basket of foodstuffs to Colonel Moran this afternoon.”
“Girl? I do not have any girl. A housekeeper, yes, but at sixty you would hardly call that lady a girl.”
Fraser’s color mounted to a dangerous scarlet.
Lestrade frowned, concerned. He had not considered this turn of events, as the trail seemed to have led exclusively to Fraser.
“You have not sent any victuals to Colonel Moran?” The eyebrows raised questioningly.
Fraser exploded in a welter of expletives, leaving Lestrade in little doubt as to his vehement denial.
“I would not send Sebastian Moran a rope to hang himself!” Fraser’s voice seemed almost to buffet the shimmering glass ornaments in the large room. “Good God, Lestrade, the fellow’s let the side down—school, regiment, family. I would not be seen in his vicinity, let alone send him anything.”
“The girl said that she came from you,” Lestrade bumbled, trying to grasp at straws.
“For the last time, there is no girl in my employ, nor did I send anything to the wretched man. You have my word on that as officer and gentleman. Any more of this and I will have to speak with my friend, the commissioner.”
The wind had gone from Lestrade.
“I’m sorry, sir. It is a matter of some importance.”
“How?”
“Whoever took the food into Moran used your name, sir. It would seem that the food was poisoned. Sebastian Moran is dead.”
“And I am supposed to be an accomplice to his cheating the hangman?”
“Your name—”
“The hell with that. If you have more to say, you must say it to my legal advisers, Park, Nelson, Morgan and Gummel, Essex Street, Strand, West Central. So good day to you, sir.”
On his way back to New Scotland Yard, a crestfallen Lestrade tried to clear his mind of the events surrounding Moran’s undoubted murder. He had caught the colonel in the act of attempting murder—he was undoubtedly the killer of young Adair. He paused in thought, mentally adding the fact that Holmes had led him to Moran. Someone obviously wanted Moran dead. But why? Perhaps he should approach Holmes? He vaguely remembered that the great detective had made a reference to Moran’s involvement with the infamous Moriarty. But he, too, was dead. Perhaps another ruler of organized crime had risen in Moriarty’s place. Indeed there had been rumors of the roguish Michael the Peg in the East End, though in that morass of evil it was always difficult to penetrate to the truth. He kept coming back to the same question: Why should someone wish Moran dead? The answer was always the same: Moran had had some information. But what? Lestrade still worried at the problem as the hansom turned in through the gateway of Scotland Yard.
A private room had been booked for Moriarty and his guest, and Alton was already waiting at the Café Royal when the Professor arrived a few minutes after seven. It was early for diners and few people were in the restaurant when the two men met. Moriarty spoke only perfunctorily, to bid Alton good evening and motion him through the downstairs rooms and up the staircase.
Though only a senior turnkey at the ’Steel, Alton had the appearance of a well-dressed man-about-town, a fact owing in no small measure to his long association with Moriarty and the Professor’s organization. He was a slim man of medium build, with a strangely gentle face, which he had attempted to harden with a short, graying, beard—a failure, as the beard emphasized the hint of kindness omnipresent in his large gray eyes. But the look belied the man, for Roger Alton could be ice cold, hard as granite, and at times as unfeeling as tortoiseshell.
The pair, looking as unlikely as Don Quixote and Sancho Panza, threaded through the glittering ground floor of this, the most notable London restaurant of its time, past the marble-topped tables and ornate gilt and velvet trappings, up the stairs and through into the private room, the door held open for them by a grave and bowing majordomo.
Moriarty, making no reference to Alton, ordered the meal: a relatively simple repast of mock-turtle soup, scollops of salmon and tartar sauce, ribs of beef with horseradish and potatoes, and Parisian tartlets. There were also the trimmings of French salad and cheese, a full white Burgundy with the salmon, a light red with the beef.
The two men ate in near silence, exchanging only the most necessary scraps of conversation. It was not until they were well into the beef that Moriarty rose, checked that no waiter lingered near the door, and then addressed Alton with a certain formality.
“You have two of my people under your care.”
Alton allowed himself a smile.
“I’ll warrant more than two.”
“Two in whom I am interested. Brothers: William and Bertram Jacobs.”
“William and Bertram. I know. Three years apiece. Accomplices of Bland. What do you want, Professor?”
“They have to come out. I am under an obligation to their mother.”
Alton sighed, worry running small furrows across his brow, as if some invisible tiny harrow had been dragged suddenly and deeply over the flesh.
“You know the ’Steel, Professor. It will be like getting gold from a matchgirl.…”
“And you are under an obligation to me, Alton. In this instance we have to get gold from a matchgirl. With your help it is possible.”
Alton turned down the corners of his mouth.
“They are both in the Misdemeanor Prison, what used to be the female ward. It is close there.”
“And you fear the hue and cry?”
“If they can be got out at all, there will be trouble. Investigation. The governor rules the warders and turnkeys with almost the same severity as the prisoners. If two are missing…”
“What if they are not missing?”
“That is not possible.”
“Trust me, friend Alton. All things are possible, believe me. The Jacobs boys can be out and in at the same time, with your help and some silence.” He treated the turnkey to one of his rare and thin smiles. “Listen, and then give me your advice.”
For a full hour the two men continued their conversation, pausing only when a waiter came into the room to replenish the brandy glasses. They spoke in low tones, an
earnest urgency reflected in their faces. Alton nodded a great deal, and when their talk was over, they were both smiling.
On their way out, Moriarty and Alton had to walk through the main room downstairs. Now it was filled with diners and people meeting for an evening of convivial conversation, wit and champagne; the chandeliers threw off a sparkle and glitter that seemed almost to be reflections of the company, the elegant clothes of the women and the impeccable dress of the men complementing the furbishings of the room.
A small stir appeared to be taking place near the main doors. Moriarty could see a plump, portly man in his early forties talking to the manager. The man had a somewhat foppish appearance, made more obvious by his thick sensual lips and pasty complexion. Moriarty recognized him at once, for his name was a household word in that spring of 1894. He was accompanied by two slightly younger men, and, as Moriarty passed them, he heard the portly, affected one say to the manager, “If he does arrive, tell him that Oscar has gone to the Cadogan Hotel.”
Moriarty and Alton passed through the doors and into the bustle of Piccadilly.
Jonas Fray and Walter Roach were both big men, made in the mold Moriarty liked to have around him. But they were fickle men, men who ran with hares and hunted with hounds, men whose greed outstripped fear, hoisting them to the power-ridden euphoria in which they bathed, fondly believing they were outside the law—of the criminal jungle as well as that of the land.
It was in just such a state of mind that they left The Nun’s Head, on the lip of Whitechapel, just off the Commercial Road, early that evening. They had spent the late afternoon together with a number of like villains, planning, and to some extent celebrating the news concerning Colonel Moran. There had been ten of them in all, including their undisputed leader and his lieutenant—Michael Green, otherwise Michael the Peg, and Peter Butler, known as Peter the Butler or Lord Peter.
Both of these men were desperate, ambitious, ruthless and full of a guile and cunning that marked them as born leaders of the criminal fraternity. For more than a year now they had worked stealthily toward building up an organization, which they fondly believed would eventually rival Moriarty’s network at the height of its powers. Yet it spoke much for the loyalty of Moriarty’s family that so far not a whisper had reached them concerning the return of the Professor to his old domain. The mood during the afternoon had been jovial, luxurious even, Colonel Moran’s arrest on the previous day having given all of them a sense of victory, a preliminary round won in the battle for domination.
Michael the Peg had lounged in a big, if somewhat tattered, leather armchair in the large chamber above the taproom of The Nun’s Head, his heels resting on the table around which his trusted men sat, tankards and glasses in front of them.
The Peg was a small man, compact, with muscular shoulders and a face that looked as though it had been flattened by some maniac wielding a plank; the nose flared like that of a mongoloid, his skin a yellowish sallow tinge. These distinctive features could be attributed to a chance parenthood—the mating of a young dockside whore and a Chinese deckhand, on account of which Michael Green’s early days had been colored by a background of poverty, lies, drunkenness, brutality and every unspeakable crime in the calendar of knavery. From the moment he could walk, Green had been forced to fight for himself, to think and act with speed, to face threat with threat, to cheat and steal until it had become second nature. His training ground centered on the streets of London, with occasional sorties into the country for the purpose of theft; and in these dealings he had, through the years, made a reputation as a skilled and vicious man—his nickname reflecting the considerable talent he had developed in the matter of disguise.
Peter Butler was of different ilk, for he had come to villainy by a more circumlocutory route. Born of countryfolk in the village of Lavenham in Suffolk—a clutch of Tudor houses whose inhabitants still lived out their time in feudal terms—Butler had entered the service of a local landowner at the age of ten and risen through the varied strata of pantry boy and scullion to second footman by the time he was seventeen.
At eighteen, Butler had gone with his employers to London for the Season, and it was there that he first met up with what was euphemistically termed “bad company”—in this case the Swell Mob, who in turn introduced him to some of the best cracksmen in the business. They were all men who knew how to exploit a trusted servant—for Peter had certainly been that. In a few short months the young footman found himself on the periphery of robbery and violence, knowing that he was an important lynchpin, in that he was supplying information regarding the movements of fashionable society: the houses that were empty in the monkery, the jewels that were left in London houses on nights when their owners were out at soirées and balls.
By the end of that Season, the young man’s whole way of life had changed; he became suspect and was forced to leave service and live among his newfound cronies in the great St. Giles Rookery—the so-called Holy Land of passages, slums and filth that was the hiding place of so many criminals in the mid-century, straddling, as it did, New Oxford Street, and stretching from Great Russell Street to St. Giles High Street.
It was there that Peter Butler’s reputation grew. His slight but accurate knowledge of society and the ways of the great houses began to pay off. He could pass with ease as a trusted servant and later, as his abilities developed, as a young country gentleman in town for a spree: hence, the nicknames that came to be part of his stock-in-trade—Peter the Butler, and Lord Peter.
In the late 1880’s Butler had met Green, and at the meeting, on a well-planned robbery in Hertfordshire, both men immediately recognized each other’s potential, sharing, as they did, ambitions to be leaders of an élite criminal society. It was not a unique fusion of evil, rather something that has happened many times among that antisocial element who live outside the law, and will doubtless happen many times again before Earth runs out its course.
Over a period of two and a half years Green and Butler managed to build up a ferocious if small, band of hardened criminals; yet they were not able to move into the area of power they most lusted after—the world of large pickings and large-scale manipulation that drew the best, the toughest, into its web. True, they were able to control a number of tradesmen in the East End; they ran about a hundred street women (soldiers’ and sailors’ girls mainly), and a couple of houses that attracted a handful of middle-class clients. But real control was denied them, for that regal land was well under the dominant heel of Professor Moriarty, and both the Peg and Lord Peter had enough sense not to cross such a dangerous path—until news spread of the Professor’s untimely death.
Even then they had the prudence to bide their time for the better part of a year before taking positive action; they passed the months by sniffing out the power structure of what remained of Moriarty’s family, testing its strength, gleaning every useful piece of information, examining the best strategy of infiltration.
When the moment was ripe, they started the seduction of Fray and Roach—the first pair of weak links, malcontents who, once Moriarty’s iron control was removed and superseded by Moran’s uncertain hand, were open to all manner of pressures, briberies and promises.
“Colonel Moran is a soak who cares only for himself and the gaming rooms,” the Peg told them. “The Professor was a living lesson to us all. Nobody will see his like again.”
Fray nodded, while Roach mumbled something about Moran not having the respect of those who had once counted themselves as part of Moriarty’s family.
“No respect and no fear.”
The Peg made no bones about the strength of fear as a weapon to gain both respect and control. He had long held a most healthy fear of Moriarty, and now that the evil genius had disappeared, his imagination roamed around the pleasant dream of replacing the Professor as the man most likely to draw out that respect and fear once accorded to Moriarty.
“You would both do better with me now,” he announced boldly.
Fray looke
d uncertain. Roach shuffled his feet.
“There’s still much loyalty among the Moriarty people.” His eyes did not meet the Peg’s. “Anyone who joined you now might risk much.”
“And anyone who is offered a place with me now and does not take advantage might risk more.”
The two men again shuffled, their eyes meeting for a moment—a flashing signal of danger. The edge of Michael Green’s voice betrayed his potential: less subtle than Moriarty’s overt evil, but forceful and frightening nevertheless. Greed, power and fear fused in the men’s minds, and from that moment there was little doubt about their allegiance.
Fray and Roach became the hard core of Michael the Peg’s organization, and during the weeks that followed he began to attract or terrorize others—not men who had been firmly planted within Moriarty’s band, but fringe bullies, bludgers, mutchers (that verminous class who stole from drunks), palmers, toolers and the regular assortment of criminal dregs.
Green’s and Butler’s operations started in a small way, putting the age-old pressures on lusheries, which, through Moran’s bad husbandry, were not being covered by Moriarty people: small burglaries, fencing, and a dozen other rackets.* They also began to control a string of whores operating on the fringes of Moriarty’s area, and within the year there was at least one house in the West End catering to a better class of trade.
At the meeting during the afternoon of Colonel Moran’s death, Green and Butler had both been in an ecstatic mood, for they were able to announce to their lieutenants that yet another house had been procured, this time in St. James, and after much negotiation arrangements were now complete for the shipping in of a number of country-bred girls ripe for breaking and training in the arts of select whoredom. The handful of men who were privy to Green’s and Butler’s methods became elated at this news. After all, they knew who would be required to do the breaking, and to men as degraded as Fray and Roach there was no better sport than separating a young, prime, country dumpling from her virginity.
The Return of Moriarty Page 12
