Anthony Horowitz - Moriarty

‘The boy had been here before.’

‘It is true that his stride could suggest a familiarity with his surroundings. Note also that he follows the most direct route to the kitchen. There was a moon, I believe, last night, but he had no fear of being seen.’

‘He knew that the household was asleep.’

‘Drugged and sound asleep. There still remains the question of how he entered the house, but my guess is that he climbed a drainpipe and entered by the second floor.’ Athelney Jones unfolded the binoculars on his walking stick and used them to examine the upper part of the building. There was indeed a slender drainpipe beside the kitchen door which would never have supported the weight of an adult—perhaps it was for this reason that Lavelle had never considered it as a breach in his defences. But for a child, it would have been a different matter entirely, and once he had reached the first floor…

‘The windows are snibbed,’ Jones continued. ‘It would be easy enough to slide a knife inside the frame. He would then have come down the stairs and opened the door to allow his accomplice in.’

‘The boy of whom we speak… it must be the same,’ I said.

‘Perry? Undoubtedly.’ Athelney Jones lowered the walking stick. ‘I would not normally associate a child with crimes as gruesome as these, but I saw him with you. I saw the weapon he carried. He came here. I followed him myself. He entered through the garden door, came into the kitchen and saw the curry being prepared. It must have been then that he made his preparations, intending to return at night with his colleague. But there still remains the one question. Why did Lavelle lie to us? Why did they all pretend the boy had not been here? They had sent him to meet us. There could be no other reason for him to have appeared in the Café Royal. But when he returned, alone, what then occurred?’

‘And why, if he was working for Lavelle, did he turn on his master and assist in his murder?’

‘I hoped you might shed some light on that. Your work in America…’

‘I can only repeat what I have already told you, Inspector. The American criminal has no discrimination and no sense of loyalty. Until Clarence Devereux came onto the scene, he worked in isolation, with no organisation or structure. Even afterwards, he remained vicious, treacherous and unpredictable. Crime in New York was often as bloody as this and as incomprehensible. Brothers could fall out over the toss of a coin and one of them—both of them—might end up dead. Sisters too. Do you see now? I was trying to warn you. The events here at Bladeston House are only the start, the first warning signs of the poison that has entered the bloodstream of your country. Maybe Devereux was responsible. Maybe our visit here—for you can be sure that he will have received the intelligence—was enough to persuade him that Lavelle had to be silenced. I don’t know. It all makes me sick. But I fear a great deal more blood may be shed before we arrive at the truth.’

There was nothing more to be gained by lingering in the garden and reluctantly we re-entered the charnel house, as it had now become. The one survivor of the household, Mary Stagg, was still in the kitchen but she had little to tell us.

‘I used to work for Mr and Mrs Bladeston,’ she explained, between sobs. ‘And I’ll be honest with you, gentlemen. I was much happier then. They were a good family. You knew where you were with them. But then Mr Bladeston died and they said they would be putting up the house for rent at the start of the year and Mrs Bladeston persuaded me to stay. She said it would help her, knowing the place was being looked after.

‘But I didn’t like the American gentleman from the start. He had a wicked temper and you should have heard his language! It wasn’t the sort of words a gentleman would use. The cook was the first to go. She wasn’t having any of it. And then Mr Sykes decided he’d had enough and he was replaced by Mr Clayton and I didn’t very much like him either. And I was saying to Annie—that’s my sister, sir—that I was thinking of handing in my notice too. And now this!’

‘Was the garden gate always kept locked?’ Jones asked, once the maid had recovered her composure.

‘Always, sir. Every gate, every window. The moment Mr Lavelle came here, he was very particular about it. Everything had to be locked and shut down and all the keys in their right place. Nobody ever came to the door, not even the delivery boy, unless Mr Clayton was there to greet them. We used to have such dinners and parties in Mr Bladeston’s time. The house was a happy place then. But in just a few months, Mr Lavelle turned it into a sort of prison—with him as the main prisoner for he seldom went out.’

‘Mrs Lavelle? Did you have any dealings with her?’

The maid flinched, and despite everything she could not conceal the look of distaste that crept across her face. At that moment I understood how difficult her position must have been since Scotchy and his entourage had arrived.

‘Begging your pardon, sir, but I’m not sure she was Mrs Lavelle. We just called her “madam” and a right proper madam she was too. Nothing was ever right for her—but she did what Mr Lavelle told her. She never went out unless he said.’

‘There were no visitors?’

‘Two gentlemen used to come from time to time. I didn’t see very much of them. They were tall, well-built with dark hair and one of them with a moustache. Otherwise, they were as alike as peas in a pod. Brothers, for sure.’

‘Leland and Edgar Mortlake,’ I muttered.

‘Did you ever hear of a man called Clarence Devereux?’ Jones asked.

‘No, sir, but there was another man they talked about all the time, not that he ever came here, and when they spoke of him, they did so in a low voice. I heard his name once and I never forgot it.’ The maid paused, twisting her handkerchief in her hands. ‘I was passing the study and Mr Lavelle was talking to Mr Clayton… at least, I think it was he. I couldn’t see and it wasn’t my place to eavesdrop. But they were deep in conversation. And that was when I heard them. “We must always be prepared for Moriarty.” That’s what Mr Lavelle said. I don’t know why it made such an impression on me—only later on, Mr Clayton made a joke of it. “You shouldn’t do that, Mary,” he said to me once, when I left the door open, “or Professor Moriarty will get you.” It’s a horrible name. I sometimes used to think of it when I was trying to get to sleep and it would turn over and over in my head. It seemed the whole house was afraid of this Moriarty, and with good reason, for you can see what’s happened now!’

There was nothing more that Mary Stagg could tell us and, after warning her not to reveal what had taken place to anyone, Athelney Jones sent her home in the company of a constable. The good woman clearly could not wait to get out of the house and I rather doubted she would ever return.

‘Could Moriarty have done this?’ I asked.

‘Moriarty is dead.’

‘He may have had associates, fellow criminals, members of his gang. You saw the way that Lavelle was killed, Inspector Jones. The way I see it, it’s nothing less than a message, written in blood, perhaps sent as a warning.’

Jones thought for a moment. ‘You told me that Moriarty and Devereux planned to meet, to create a criminal association…’

‘That’s right.’

‘But they never did meet. We know that from the coded message that we found in Meiringen. As far as we can tell, they had no business together, so why would one wish to kill the other?’

‘Perhaps Devereux had something to do with what happened at the Reichenbach Falls.’

Jones shook his head wearily. ‘At the moment, nothing makes sense. I need time to reflect and to clear my thoughts. But that will not happen here. For now, we must search the house and see what secrets, if any, the various rooms may reveal.’