Who Thinks Evil: A Professor Moriarty Novel (Professor Moriarty Novels) (26 page)

“You were quite fortunate, mademoiselle,” said Holmes. “What happened then?”

“My brother’s yelling woke the concierge, who came upstairs to berate me for having a man in my rooms. Jacques sent her for an ambulance, and I was taken to the hospital.”

“And your assailant?”

“I told the gendarme who interviewed me at the hospital when I was able to speak—well, I wasn’t actually able to speak, but with a writing pad I was able to convey information. This was, I believe, three days later. I had been unconscious from loss of blood and shock. They were not sure I was going to live.”

“My poor pigeon,” said the abbess.

“I told him that I had recognized my assailant, that he was a regular at the cabaret, but I did not know his name. An agent of the Sûreté was sent to the Montagnes Russes to ask the manager if he perhaps knew the man’s name.”

Holmes leaned forward. “He identified him?”

“Better. The creature was sitting at his usual table when the agent arrived. He seemed surprised, I am told, that he could be wanted for any offence. As for the rest…” She held a hand out to the abbess.

“He went willingly,” said the abbess, taking up the story, “and with many a giggle back to the police station. It was all a misunderstanding; he had done nothing wrong. His name, it transpired, was Georges Bonfils d’Eny, and he owned a draper’s shop on the avenue Weil. A search warrant was obtained for the shop and his flat on rue des Eaux, and many horrors were found. It soon became clear that he was, indeed, the Belleville Slicer.”

“Horrors?” asked Barnett. As the abbess prepared to speak, he held up his hand. “On second thought,” he said, “perhaps we had best not hear them. There is no need—”

“Au contraire,”
said Holmes. “Every morsel of information about this man, no matter how distressing, might be of use to us.” He turned to Mlle. Deschamps. “If you’d like to be excused while Madame Irene speaks of this, we will certainly understand. There is presumably nothing you can add to the story of what was discovered when you were in the hospital or otherwise not present.”

“I’ll stay,” Louisa said firmly.

“Very well,” said Holmes. He turned to the abbess. “You know what was found?”

“I do,” she said. “The
juge d’instruction
was a special friend of mine at the time. It was he who asked me to give what aid I could to Mademoiselle Louisa, who was, understandably, suffering from more than her physical wounds.”

“So you had an insider’s view of the case?” Holmes asked.

“You could say that. I did see an inventory of what was found in Monsieur d’Eny’s flat. There were—” She paused and looked at Louisa, considering, but then went on. “There were body parts from perhaps a dozen unidentified women preserved in large jars in some sort of fluid. Also several, ah, appendages that had been removed from small boys. The rest of the bodies of these unidentified victims have, to my knowledge, never been found.”

Barnett shook his head. “It must have been a horrendous trial,” he said.

“There was no trial,” the abbess said. “Georges Bonfils d’Eny was adjudged ‘incompetent to stand trial by reason of insanity’ by a special panel of the
cour d’assises
and whisked off to an asylum. As a journalist friend of mine discovered, it was not encouraged that anyone should write about this case or inquire too closely as to Monsieur Bonfils d’Eny’s current condition or course of treatment. In some six months time it became known that Monsieur Bonfils d’Eny had died—of pneumonia, I believe.”

“In what asylum did Monsieur Whosis de Whatsis reside?” Barnett asked.

“La Maison de Fous de Sainte-Anne la Belle, which is just outside the town of Brunoy, to the south of Paris.”

“Run by a religious order?” Holmes asked.

“Perhaps at one time,” said the abbess, “but in recent years it has been staffed by a group calling itself Le Sacristie de l’Agneau de Dieu.”

“Sounds religious to me,” Barnett observed.

“So you would think,” Abbess Irene agreed. “Indeed, the order claims the imprimatur of the bishop of someplace-or-other, but it is not listed in any official Church documents that I am aware of.”

“So,” said Holmes, “it seems a reasonable inference that the Belleville Slicer is still alive and practicing his craft, albeit on the other side of the Channel. But why, and at whose behest? It is at the
maison de fous
of the beauteous St. Anne that I imagine the answers to the questions are to be found. We must take ourselves thither.”

Barnett rose. “Thank you, Abbess, for your assistance, and you, Mademoiselle. Deschamps, I admire your courage, and we are most grateful for your help.”

“Please,” she said. “Determine whether this monster is alive or dead. And … and … and if he is alive—kill him.”

[CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE]

THIS DAY’S MADNESS

Yesterday
This
Day’s Madness did prepare;

To-morrow’s Silence, Triumph, or Despair:

Drink! for you know not whence you came, nor why:

Drink! for you know not why you go, nor where.

—OMAR KAYYAM (TRANSLATED BY EDWARD FITZGERALD)

BUCKLE STREET SLUNK OFF
of Commons Road at an oblique angle, twisted around to the left, swerved to the right, and ended at a brick wall. The street was inhabited by decaying warehouses and yards filled with the detritus of long-closed businesses, discarded furnishings, and cast-off lives. Beyond the wall was a narrow yard haphazardly filled with parts for trams from a defunct attempt to create a short-line steam railroad.

The house at the left edge of the yard was boarded over and fenced in, and it had been unoccupied for three decades before Colonel Auguste Lefavre had discovered it. When Lefavre had returned to London as “Macbeth,” the house had filled the need for a secret gathering place, a supply depot, and a prison. For the past two months the madman Bonfils d’Eny, known as “Henry,” had been kept in an upper room under guard, allowed out only in brief intervals to further the baleful needs of the Sacristy and his keeper, Macbeth.

For the past three weeks the Prince of Wales had been lodged in a comfortable but secure room on the ground floor, under the impression that he was being held for ransom. He was not pleased.

“He has complaints,” said Prospero.

Macbeth looked up from his writing. “Which one?”

“The prince.”

“Which one?”

“His Highness. The real prince. Although your bloody friend Henry ain’t no walk in the park neither.”

“What’s his complaint?”

“The prince? Aside from the usual as how we can’t do this to him and the like, he wants his morning
Times,
he wants to get some exercise, he wants to see us tried in the dock as common criminals, and he wants to know why his ransom hasn’t been paid.”

“Yes. And Henry?”

“He wants to know why he’s being kept inside all day, and he wants his bit o’ skirt.” Prospero grinned. “And he wants to know why he can’t meet the prince.”

“Ah!” said Macbeth. “So he knows who our guest is, does he?”

“He may be crazy as a loon,” Prospero offered, “but he ain’t stupid.”

“See that his needs are met,” said Macbeth. “The day is almost upon us, and we need him eager, but not rabid. Tomorrow we move to the Russell Court house and clean him up for the big moment.”

“We’s got a trollop set for him now,” Prospero said. “She ain’t much, but she’ll do.”

“Ah!” said Macbeth. He pushed himself up and bounced around on the balls of his feet for a few seconds like a pugilist entering the ring. “Let us commence the evening’s festivities.”

Prospero moved ahead of him down the hall. “I don’t like this part of it, I tell you,” he said.

“Necessary to the day are the evils thereof,” pronounced Macbeth.

Prospero turned to look at him for a moment, then shook his head. “I don’t like it. Nohow.”

The girl was waiting for them by the front door where the carriage driver had dropped her. She was young and frail-looking and reasonably clean, with dark eyes and a full mouth. She wore a high-necked gown of light gray taffeta that had once been elegant, but that was several decades and many owners ago. “Say, what sort of place is this?” she asked as Macbeth led her down the hall. “It sure ain’t much to look at from the outside. From the inside neither if it comes to that,” she added, looking around.

“It suffices for our needs,” said Macbeth. “Come this way.”

She held back. “I were promised a quid,” she said, her voice showing how unbelievable she had found the offer.

“And a quid you shall have,” Macbeth reassured her. “There’s the door,” he pointed. “Your gentleman awaits.”

“Say, he don’t want to do nothing kinky, do he? I ain’t into that kinky stuff.”

“I assure you,” Macbeth said, “all he wants to do is satisfy his carnal desires.”

She looked puzzled for a second, but then her face cleared up. “’At’s all right then, innit?” she said, going to the door. She knocked cautiously and was rewarded with a giggled “Come in, my dear, come in.”

She went in.

The screams didn’t start for about ten minutes. They were eating supper in a small room down the hall, and the sounds were muted and distant through the walls. They affected not to hear. After the second scream Prospero pushed his chair back. “I have eaten enough,” he said. “I think I’ll go outside. Smoke a cigar. Take a walk.”

Macbeth stood up, his jaw tight and the muscles in his neck twitching slightly as he struggled to remain impassive. “You think this is simple?” he demanded. “We are attempting to overthrow an entrenched monarchy, or at least create such discord that all of Britain’s gaze will be internally fixed for the next two years, and we have but one tool. It is imprecise. It is distasteful. But it’s what we have. A few lives are lost, mostly meaningless people the world will not miss. Think of the cost in lives if Britain goes to war with France. Weigh that against the life of this
cocotte.
”

“I think I’ll take a walk,” Prospero said.

It was less than two minutes before the screaming stopped.

A few minutes later Henry’s door was pulled open and he peered into the hall. He giggled.
“Je suis fini,”
he announced.

Macbeth stood up and felt in his waistcoat pocket for some coins. Counting out one pound’s worth, he tied them into an oversized handkerchief and went to get a couple of men to help him do what had to be done.

[CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO]

WHO THINKS EVIL

It is a fact that cannot

be denied: The wickedness of others

becomes our own wickedness because

it kindles something evil in our

own hearts.

—CARL JUNG

MYSTERIOUS DISTURBANCE AT COVENT GARDEN OPERA HOUSE
ROYALTY PRESENT

SPECIAL TO THE EVENING CALL

TUESDAY, 30 SEPT., 1890

The Call has just received information regarding a disquieting event that occurred four evenings ago at the famed Covent Garden Opera House. While the evening’s opera was in progress an unknown assailant made his way into the backstage dressing rooms and attacked Mlle. Mathilde van Tromphe, the opera’s prima donna, with a large knife, causing a grievous wound on her neck. The timely arrival of Sergeant Albert Cottswell of the Metropolitan Police caused the aggressor to break off his attack and prevented this appalling incident from becoming an even greater tragedy. Sir Vincent Poberty, a local surgeon, came up from the audience to assist, and Mlle. van Tromphe was taken to St. George’s Hospital, Hyde Park, and released to recuperate in her flat. She is expected to make a complete recovery, although it is not yet known whether she will be able to sing again. The singer stated that she did not know her attacker and can think of no reason for his actions.

According to our informant, His Royal Highness Prince Albert Victor was present at the performance, and was actually backstage at the time of the attack, but he sustained no injuries and was apparently unaware that the outrage was taking place. It is not entirely clear just what His Royal Highness was doing at Covent Garden that evening, as his visit was not on the published Palace schedule, and was not announced beforehand.

When asked to comment on the affair, a Palace spokesman said that the Palace had no knowledge of the incident. He further stated that the prince declined to give an interview.

The opera being performed was ‘Mefistofele,’ a retelling of the Faust legend by the Italian composer Arrigo Boito, which has not been seen on the London stage for over twenty years. Mlle. van Tromphe was singing the role of Margaret. The assault took place after the third act in the singer’s dressing room, where she was resting and awaiting the final curtain to take her curtain calls. The call from the stage for assistance caused some comment, coming as it did in the middle of the act, but no one in the audience was aware of just what had occurred, although there was some remarking about the fact that Mlle. van Tromphe did not come out to take her final bows, a fact almost unprecedented in the annals of the theatre.

Interviewed at his station house the next morning, Sergeant Cottswell stated that he was only doing his duty and he was pleased that Mlle. van Tromphe would recover. He declined to answer any further questions, averring that it was for others to say what had happened.

There is some talk about earlier outrages of a similar nature that are alleged, by a source who wishes to remain anonymous, to have taken place at various locations about London in the past month.

BODY FOUND IN THAMES

The mutilated body of a young woman was pulled out of the Thames at the foot of Narrow Street, Limehouse, early this morning. The police surgeon estimates that it had been in the water no more than a day. This is the latest in a series of such finds over the past month. None of the women has been identified, the action of the tides and the river creatures having added to the original disfiguring sufficiently to make the bodies unrecognizable, although it is believed that they were all women of the streets.