Anthony Horowitz - Moriarty

‘I have no choice but to do as they ask.’

‘And if they kill you?’

‘I don’t believe they want to kill us,’ I said. ‘It would do them no good. To begin with, other officers would take our place soon enough. And although the murder of a Pinkerton’s man might be received with a certain indifference, the death of a Scotland Yard inspector would be quite another matter.

There is no way our enemy would wish to bring such trouble upon himself.’

‘Then what is his intention?’

‘I have no idea. To warn us, to frighten us—perhaps to show us the extent of his power.’

‘He will kill Beatrice.’

‘Again, I don’t think so. He is using her to reach us. You have the letter as proof of that. I know these people. I know the way they work. These are New York methods. Extortion. Intimidation. But I swear to God, they will not harm your child—simply because they have nothing to gain.’

Elspeth nodded very slightly but did not look at me again. The three of us sat at the table and so began what I can honestly describe as the longest afternoon of my life with the clock on the mantelpiece sonorously marking every second that passed. We could do nothing but wait. Conversation between us was impossible and although the little maid came up with tea and sandwiches, none of us ate. I was aware of the traffic moving outside and the sky already darkening but I must have slipped into a reverie because I was suddenly aware of a loud knock on the door, jerking me awake.

‘It is she!’ Elspeth exclaimed.

‘Let us pray…’ Jones was already on his feet although the long time spent sitting had locked his muscles together and he moved awkwardly.

We all followed him to the front door but when he threw it open there was no sign of his daughter. A man in a cap stood there, holding out a second message. Jones snatched it from him. ‘Where did you receive this?’ he demanded.

The messenger looked indignant. ‘I was in the pub. The Camberwell Arms. A man gave me a bob to deliver this.’

‘Describe him to me! I am a police officer and if you hold anything back it will go the worse for you.’

‘I’ve done nothing wrong. I’m a carpenter by trade and I hardly saw him. He was a dark fellow with a hat and a scarf drawn over his chin. He asked me if I wanted to earn a shilling and he gave me this. He said there was two men in the house and I was to give it to either of them. That’s all I know.’

Jones took the letter and we returned to the sitting room where he opened it. It was written in the same hand as the first but this time the language was even terser.

DEAD MAN’S WALK. BOTH OF YOU. NO POLICE.

‘Dead Man’s Walk!’ Elspeth said, with a shudder. ‘What a horrible name. What is it?’ Jones did not answer her question. ‘Tell me!’

‘I do not know. But I can look it up in my index. Give me but a minute…’

Elspeth Jones and I stood there together as Jones clumped upstairs to his study. We waited while he searched through the various paragraphs he had brought together over the years—Holmes, of course, had done the same. And I am sure we both counted every one of his steps as he made his way back down.

‘It is in Southwark,’ he explained, as he entered the room.

‘Do you know what it is?’

‘I do, my dear, and you must not concern yourself. It is a cemetery—one that has fallen into disuse. It was closed down years ago.’

‘Why a cemetery? Are they telling you that our daughter…’

‘No. They have chosen somewhere quiet and out of the way for whatever business it is that they wish to conduct. This is as good a place as any.’

‘You must not leave!’ Elspeth seized the note as if she could find further clues in its brief message. ‘If they have Beatrice there, you can now go to the police. You must go to the police. I will not allow you to put yourself in danger.’

‘If we do not obey their instructions, I think it very unlikely that we will find our girl there, my love. These people are cunning and give every indication that they know what they are doing. It may be that they are watching us even as we speak.’

‘How is that possible? Why do you think that?’

‘The first note was addressed to me alone. This one refers to both of us. The messenger was told there are two men in this house. They know that Chase is here.’

‘I will not let you do this!’ Elspeth Jones spoke quietly but her voice was filled with passion. ‘Please listen to me, my dearest one. Let me go instead of you. Surely these people cannot be so wicked that they will ignore a mother’s pleas. I will exchange myself for her—’

‘That is not their desire. It is Chase and I who have to go. We are the ones they wish to speak with. But you do not have to be afraid. What Chase said was right. They have nothing to gain from harming us. It is my belief that Clarence Devereux wishes to strike some sort of deal with us. That is all. At any event, there is no point in this speculation when Beatrice’s life is at stake. If we refuse to obey their instructions, they will do their worst. Of that there can be no doubt.’

‘They do not say what time they want you.’

‘Then we must leave immediately.’

Elspeth did not argue. Instead, she took her husband in her arms, embracing him as if for the last time. I will confess that I had my doubts about what Jones had just said. If Clarence Devereux had merely wished to speak to us, he would not have kidnapped a six-year-old girl and used her to drag us to a disused cemetery. He might have nothing to gain by harming us but that wouldn’t stop him doing so. I knew him. I knew how he operated. We might as well have argued with the scarlet fever as with him and once we were in his hands he would destroy us simply because it was in his nature.

We left the house. It seemed to me that the night was unseasonably cold although there was not the slightest breeze. Jones held his wife at the door, the two of them gazing into each other’s eyes, and then, suddenly, we were alone in the seemingly empty street. And yet I knew that we were being watched.

‘We are leaving, damn you!’ I cried. ‘We are alone. We will come to Dead Man’s Walk and you can do with us as you please!’

‘They cannot hear us,’ Jones said.

‘They are nearby,’ I replied. ‘You said as much yourself. They know we are on our way.’

We were not a great distance from Southwark and made our way there by cab. Jones wore a greatcoat and I noticed that he had brought with him a new walking stick, this one with a handle carved in the shape of a raven’s head. It was a suitable accessory for a cemetery. He was unusually tense and silent and it struck me that he hadn’t believed a word of what he had said to his wife either. We were heading into mortal peril and he knew it. He had known it when he invited me along.

Dead Man’s Walk has long since disappeared. It was one of those cemeteries built in the first part of the century when nobody understood how many people would live in London and therefore, inevitably, die there. All too quickly it had become oversubscribed with so many bodies crammed in next to one another that the tombstones and memorials, rather than providing the solace and remembrance that had been intended, had become a hideous spectacle, slanting at strange angles, leaning on each other, locked in an eternal struggle for space. For many years, a foul and putrid smell had hung over the place. The later graves were desperately shallow, unequal to the task, and it would not be uncommon to find rotting pieces of coffin wood or even shards of human bone poking through the soil. Inevitably, the cemetery had been abandoned. Other cemeteries had been sold off and some had become parks. But Dead Man’s Walk had been left behind, a long irregular space between a railway line and an old workhouse, with rusting gates at each end, a few mouldy trees and a sense that it belonged neither to this world nor to the next but existed in a dark, dismal province of its own.