Moriarty (9 page)

It became the younger Moriarty's habit to prepare to become his brother by standing before a looking glass, seeing himself in the buff and thinking himself into his brother's body, drinking in his very character. This was a carefully studied process, for James Moriarty was already years ahead of his time, having evolved a system akin to that which Konstantin Sergeyevich Stanislavsky was, many years later, to offer the theatre in his masterwork,
An Actor Prepares
.

Moriarty would stand looking at his nakedness, and it looking back at him, as he emptied his mind, filtering in the character and presence of his elder brother until, even without the aids he had yet to apply, there was a subtle alteration, as though he became another person in front of his very eyes. Or were they indeed
his
very eyes?

As Moriarty looked back at himself in the glass at this moment in the ritual, he always experienced a sense of deep fear for a few seconds as the transformation was taking place in his head. This was the time when he would wonder which of them he was—the killer or the victim? It was just like that finally, at his own beginning and his brother's end; and having learned so much about disguise, Moriarty was soon able to transform himself into many other, and different, personas.

Once he had mentally prepared to become a likeness of his brother, the actual physical work became an almost automatic rite, beginning with the use of a long, tight corset to pull in his flesh so that he could take on the thin, near wraithlike proportions of the other Moriarty. This was followed by what appeared to be a more restricting device, the harness—a slim leather belt that passed around his waist and was buckled tightly. A series of crossover straps came over his shoulders and threaded through flat loops sewn into the front of the corset; from thence they passed down to buckles on the front of the belt. When these buckles were drawn tight, the effect was to pull his shoulders forward so that he could only move with a permanent stoop. Moriarty would next don his stockings and shirt before climbing into the dark striped trousers and lacing the boots with the built-in “lifts” to give him added height.

All that was left now was to use the wig and the normal colours and brushes of an actor to produce the final transformation. He usually did this sitting at a dressing table: First, he tucked his thick mane
of hair under a tight-fitting skullcap and began to work on his face with quick, firm, deft, and confident brushstrokes so that he gradually assumed the gaunt, hollow-cheeked look so easily identified with Dr. Watson's famous description of the archcriminal.
*
Even with only the skullcap covering his hair the effect was remarkable, the pallor striking and the eyes sunken unnaturally into their sockets.

Then came the final and crowning part of the disguise: a domed head covering of some pliable and thin material mounted on a solid cast. Externally the colour and texture was that of a normal scalp, and, when fitted in place over the skullcap, the effect was extraordinarily realistic, even at close quarters, giving the natural impression of the high bald forehead sweeping back and leaving only a sprinkling of hair behind the ears and at the nape of the neck. He would then make the few final adjustments and, once satisfied, he would finish dressing. Then, standing in front of a cheval looking glass, he would peer at himself from all possible angles.

Moriarty looked back from the glass at Moriarty.

The Professor always thought kindly of old Hector Hasledean, who, sadly, died in his dressing room at the Alhambra Theatre of an apparent seizure only four weeks to the day after Moriarty had mastered the art of becoming his brother.

After wholly mastering this ability of physical change, Moriarty's next step was to destroy his brother's career, his future, and his life.

Looking up at the Duchess above the warm fire, Moriarty began to
let his mind drop back to those days when, still relatively young, he set about ruining James Moriarty's life, and then taking it. A smile flickered across his face, but as he slid back the years, he was suddenly rudely interrupted by noise from below in the bare hall.

His Praetorian Guard was returning with Daniel Carbonardo. He would have to leave his reminiscences and face the more urgent present matters.

LONDON: JANUARY 16–17, 1900

T
HE TWO BOYS
, Billy Walker and Wally Taplin, had been left to their own devices down in the kitchens. The Professor had told them to rest, keep warm, and come up to his rooms when he rang the bell. The bells were on curved springs along a board, each with its printed label: one said
Drawing Room
, another
Dining Room
, and a third was tagged
Study
. There was no designation for the Professor's rooms, but he told them that did not matter. “Nobody's going to ring any of the other bells. Just come when you hear the clattering. There'll probably be some chink in it for you.” And he smiled, almost benignly, like a kindly old uncle. He was in his Professor's gear: painfully stooped, shiny bald head, the lot. The whole meshuggener, as his Jewish friends might say. The whole crazy business. In spite of the smile, both boys felt chilled, as though a freezing wind had passed over them.

They were dozing by the fire that heated the tall water tank as though this was the only warm place in the world, but they woke, looking at each other in alarm, as soon as they heard the footsteps from up in the hall. Billy Walker was on his feet and up the stairs leading to the green baize door in the hall before Walter could even open his mouth.

“It's all right,” Billy said, grinning with relief on his return. “They've come back. I heard Mr. Terremant doing the devil's paternoster going up the stairs; he's a right grumbler.”

Some ten minutes later, the bell clanged and clattered from the board in the passage outside the kitchen.

“We'd better both go,” Walter said, not wanting to face the Professor on his own. So they climbed the stairs and knocked at the door on the first landing.

“My good boys,” the Professor greeted them, and they knew enough to pay attention to him only. “You are to run an errand,” he said, fishing in his purse for coins. “You're to go along to the pub on the corner. You know it?”

“Duke of York?” asked Billy Walker.

“That's the one. You are to go to the Jug & Bottle and get two jugfuls of porter. You'll have to leave money on the jugs, but you're to ask for Mrs. Belcher, the landlord's wife. Say it's for Mr. P. and bring back some bread, cheese, and one of her special jars of pickles—two loaves of bread and a big lump of cheese. Tell her it's for eight hungry men. Got it?” He handed over the coins and nodded them out. “I do this out of the goodness of my heart. I've plenty of gin and brandy here, but I know you prefer to quaff porter, lads.

“Good boys, those two.” He smiled his thin, humourless smile and cast his gaze around his lieutenants. “They've done fine work for us tonight.”

“I've used both of them before,” Ember said, and the Professor nodded again.

“They told me. Said you was a hard taskmaster. ‘Mr. Ember's a very hard taskmaster,' they said.”

“Bloody hell,” William grunted as the boys made their way downstairs. “They look hard bastards when they're all gathered together.”

“Hard nuts, the lot.”

“Harder than pulling a soldier off your sister.” Billy gave a dirty little laugh.

“Speak for yourself. Didn't like the look of that Chink,” Wally whispered as they reached the door.

“No, that's Lee Chow, cuts people's cheeks out. Mr. Ember tol' me.”

“I can believe that.”

“I'd believe anything of those hard bastards.”

When they returned forty minutes later, loaded with bread, cheese, pickles, and the warmth of Mrs. Belcher's smile, they found the atmosphere in the Professor's rooms changed: cold and edgy now, where before it had been warm and friendly. Terremant stood up, cut them each a slice of bread, gave them some cheese, and told them to run along. Moriarty did not even speak to them, or acknowledge their presence.

“Didn't get any pickles,” Wally grumbled as they went back to the kitchen.

“Never mind. The Professor's a real gnostic, Wally. The genuine article.” By which he was paying a compliment to the Professor, meaning that he was full of guile, knowledgeable but good-hearted, a downy cove. (Jack Dawkins, the Artful Dodger in Charles Dickens's
Oliver Twist
, is a downy cove.)

The reason for the frigid atmosphere upstairs had been Moriarty's temper. He had given them all a right gobber hammering, mainly about the number of men and women who appeared to have left his employ and gone to try their luck with Idle Jack.

“I want you to start first thing tomorrow,” he told them, voice flat, showing no feeling. “Get out there and see all our men and ladies and examine their brains. Then come back to me and tell me who's true and who's false. Who goes and who stays.

“Spear,” he rapped, still out of sorts. “You already have my orders. Go and purchase a warehouse for me, then get a good architect and have him draw up plans to your specification. Do what has to be done. I want things to be as they were before. Just as I wish you to remember what Jack Idell is. They say that a child's way to the gallows is a pack of cards. I say 'tis Idle Jack. That perverted villain is the Jack of spades and the Jack of clubs, both.”

Spear gave a solemn grunt of agreement, signifying that he would do as asked, his mouth full of cheese and pickles.

“And as for you, Daniel Carbonardo, I suspect you'd like to even the score with Idle Jack Idell.”

“I suspect we
all
would.” Daniel didn't crack his face, all too cognizant of Moriarty's fury with Idle Jack's attempt to displace him, setting himself up in direct opposition to the Professor.

“Well, go out and do him, then. As publicly as possible.”

“That's all very well, guv'nor, but there're two problems.”

“They are?”

“Who peached on me; and where can I get Idle Jack when he's a sitting duck? He seldom goes abroad alone. Idle Jack's not idle about his protection.”

“The first's a matter of deduction, Daniel. I told you what to do. So, it stands to reason that the one who betrayed you must be someone you told. I certainly told nobody of where you were to go, or what you were to do. Not even these good fellows here. So … Well…?”

“I told no person.”

“I think you did, Daniel. Not the details. Not what educated men would call the minutiae, but you signalled your intentions to at least two people. Sam, the boot boy at the Glenmoragh Private Hotel. You asked him about a certain Mrs. James, you asked him to slip the locks on the door; you also spoke to Mr. Ernie Moat, the manager. People come and people go, Daniel. You doubtless tipped young Samuel the monish for his pains. And you know, Danny Boy, money doesn't just talk, it sings, and more ways than one. Veritable arias the monish sings. And if I was to put money on who sold you to Idle Jack, I'd put it on your boot boy.”

Carbonardo frowned, shook his head, and breathed out noisily. “Then he should be taught a lesson.”

“Quite correct.” Moriarty was jaunty now. “Terremant, my friend, help Daniel out, would you? Lay hands on this Sam and give him the thrashing of his life. Then offer him a job with us. Get him out of that hotel.” Turning to Daniel, he now addressed the other problem. “You say Idle Jack takes care of himself when he goes out?”

“The two rampers that took me, yes. They guard him practically everywhere. I'll need to get him alone if I'm to take him once and for all. I'd not like to fail with those two bullies around.”

“Ah!” Moriarty raised a finger, and his face took on the look of a man who had just solved some weighty problem. “I think we may have the answer. Lee Chow, you little warped Chinese, go down to the kitchen and bring the boy back—the one who lurked so long outside the lady's boardinghouse where they took Daniel. The boy, Walker.”

Lee Chow stood, bowed, and shuffled out. He always did the bow because he knew the round-eyes with whom he worked thought it quaint and oriental. He returned a few moments later with Billy Walker, who looked white-faced and trembly, wondering what he was in for, full of fear.

“My boy,” Moriarty said, almost stroking the lad with his voice. “My good boy. When they brought this gentleman out of the house tonight, where you lurked well, got soaking wet, and observed everything?” He indicated Daniel Carbonardo, who, it must be said, looked a fright with his bruised face, split lip, and the dried blood around his mouth where the tooth had come out.

“Yes, sir?” The boy's voice was shaking in a high register.

“The man who treated Mr. Carbonardo here so roughly. Tell me, what did he look like?”

“Hard, sir. Hard like the Rock of Gibraltar. I wouldn't like to be on the bad side of him. He's muscled all over, with a shaved head. Bullet-headed.”

“Clever boy.” Moriarty smiled and nodded with pleasure, leaning toward the lad. “Now, he conversed with a cabbie after seeing Mr. Carbonardo into the cab?”

“Indeed he did, sir. I heard him.”

“And what did he say?”

“Told him to take the gentleman back to Hoxton, sir. To his own gaffe, he said.”

“And did the cabbie acknowledge him? Call him by a name?”

“Yes, sir. He called him ‘Sidney,' sir.”

Bert Spear made a noise of disgust and then said, “Sidney Streeter. He worked for me, Sid did. All-round ramper. A tough cove.”

“That cockatrice! I recall him,” Moriarty spat out, running his right thumb down his cheek, nail against the skin. “Spear, before you look for the warehouse, go with friend Terremant and have a word with Streeter. If he's any sense left he'll come back and work for me.”

“Do we want him, sir?”