Moriarty (2 page)

It is now common knowledge that these books are the coded journals of James Moriarty, the diabolically cunning, highly intelligent criminal mastermind of the late nineteenth century known as Professor Moriarty.

The known felon who handed the books to me, on that hot and heavy evening all those years ago, went by the name of Albert George
Spear, and his claim was that these books had been kept by his family since they were given for safekeeping to his grandfather, who was Moriarty's most trusted lieutenant.

I have already told the story, in the foreword to
The Return of Moriarty
, of how the cipher to the journals was finally broken and how those who advised my professional life quickly realized that it would be impossible to offer these extraordinary documents to the public in their original, unvarnished form. For one thing, they present grave legal problems; for another, there are incidents contained in them of such an evil character that, even in this permissive age, they could be accounted a corrupting influence.

There is also the small possibility that the journals might just be a hoax, perpetrated by Spear himself, or even by his grandfather, who figures so largely in them. I personally do not believe this. However, I think it quite possible that Moriarty, the great criminal organizer, has, in writing the
Journals
, sought to present himself in the best possible light and, with his consummate cunning, may not have told the entire truth. In some places
Moriarty's Journals
clash strongly with other evidence—most notably the published records of Dr. John H. Watson, friend and chronicler of the great Mr. Sherlock Holmes. In others it clashes with the evidence I have been able to amass from the private papers of the late Detective Superintendent Angus McCready Crow, the Metropolitan Police officer assigned to the Moriarty case toward the end of the nineteenth century and during the early years of the twentieth century.

Taking these matters into account, my closest advisors most wisely felt it was more appropriate for me to write a series of novels based on the
Moriarty Journals
, occasionally altering names, dates, and places wherever this seemed advisable. This has been done, leaving me with only two items that require further examination.

First, after the publication of
The Return of Moriarty
and its sequel,
The Revenge of Moriarty
, it became apparent that some reviewers were not as familiar with the work of Dr. John Watson as they claimed. There were those who appeared not to have heard of the fact that Moriarty had come from a family composed of three brothers, each of whom bore the name James. Now, I will admit that some Sherlockian scholars do seem to make heavy weather of this fact. Heaven knows why, because the situation is crystal clear when you examine Dr. Watson's sources. It is further clarified by the Moriarty journals in my possession.

Take Dr. Watson's written word. References are made to Professor Moriarty, Mr. Moriarty, the Professor, and Professor James Moriarty in five of the cases written up by Dr. Watson. They are
The Valley of Fear, His Last Bow, The Missing Three-Quarter, The Final Problem
, and
The Empty House
. Further, a Colonel James Moriarty is referred to in
The Final Problem;
and a third brother, reported to be a stationmaster in the West Country, is spoken of in
The Valley of Fear
.

Sherlockians, to my mind, often seem to have difficulty with the possibility of the three brothers Moriarty each bearing the same Christian name, James.
The Moriarty Journals
certainly solve that problem. As far as I can make out, James is a family name, and in the
Journals
Moriarty makes it plain that the three brothers regarded this as an idiosyncrasy, and spoke of each other as James, Jamie, and Jim. In the
Journals
, Moriarty claims that he is, in fact, the youngest brother, a criminal from an early age, who, incensed with jealousy because of his eldest brother's academic success, finally becomes a master of disguise and sees to it that his brother is disgraced and removed from the Chair of Mathematics in the small university where he is becoming ever more famous. Moriarty then tells us that he murdered his brother and, wonderfully disguised, took his place, so becoming a figure
of awe to his underworld minions. This seems to me to have a certain validity, though for once Mr. Sherlock Holmes appears to have been taken in by the subterfuge.

Second, after the publication of
The Return of Moriarty
some voices were raised in strident—in a few cases, hysterical—concern that I had re-created Moriarty as a kind of nineteenth-century
Godfather
figure, leader of a vast army, a man with an almost unthinkable knowledge of crime and the coarse language and manners of the Victorian underworld. Indeed, many seemed genuinely upset that the question of sex and licentiousness had barged into the formerly placid world of Baker Street—placid, that is, except for the drug abuse and certain unspoken vices. To those who were, and possibly are, upset, I can only apologize.

To some, this view of Moriarty seems to be unpleasant and vulgar, as though the Sherlockian world was being violated while it sat quietly doing crossword puzzles. I have news for them: The Victorian and Edwardian underworld
was
exceptionally vulgar and unpleasant, and the text of the Sherlock Holmes cases leaves us in no doubt concerning Moriarty's place within the Victorian underworld. In
The Final Problem
, Holmes speaks of Professor Moriarty as “… [the] deep organizing power which forever stands in the way of the law.” He mentions Moriarty's involvement in “cases of the most varying sorts—forgery cases, robberies, murders….” Moreover, he describes him as “the Napoleon of Crime … the organizer of half that is evil and nearly all that is undetected in this great city [London] … a genius, a philosopher, an abstract thinker. He has a brain of the first order. He sits motionless, like a spider in the centre of its web, but that web has a thousand radiations, and he knows well every quiver of each of them … his agents are numerous and splendidly organized …” and so on in the same manner. Is there not something familiar about this
description? Something resembling a
Godfather
-like criminal family? Indeed, in the nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, to be a member of such a family was to be a villain.

To me, Moriarty's place in the criminal scheme of things is obvious, plain, and straightforward and should be accepted at its face value.

All the reader needs to know at the start of this book is that in May 1897, pursued by Sherlock Holmes and Inspector Angus McCready Crow, Professor Moriarty was forced to flee London. At the start of this work he has returned, quietly and without fuss; and we hear little of either Holmes or Crow during this episode.

I need say no more, except to declare my heartfelt thanks to the following for their great personal help in preparing this, the third book in a planned quartet: Otto Penzler, who provided the impetus for this third volume; my luscious agent, Lisa Moylett, who does magic things; Patricia Mountford, who gave me a wonderful idea, now embedded in the plot; Philip Mountford, for specialist assistance; and Jeff and Vicki Busby, for even more specialist help. Last but far from least, my daughter Alexis and my lovely son-in-law, John, plus my smashing son Simon all caused this book to be written by a generous and surprising present. They know what they did. Thank you.

LONDON: JANUARY 15, 1900

D
ANIEL
C
ARBONARDO
could not distinguish the house until he was almost upon it. Daniel killed—that was his job in life: death. He killed for chink; murdered for geld; a few sovereigns and the person named was dead, while Carbonardo disappeared like smoke on a zephyr. Yet his favourite interest, next to murder, was obtaining intelligence—putting people to the question.

It was said that Daniel had learned the trade of torture from within his family, who traced their ancestors back to the Tower of London: people who were begetters of truth, one of whom had come over in the retinue of Catherine of Aragon, daughter of Ferdinand and Isabella of Spain, first wife of Henry VIII.

Catherine of Aragon ended up in a convent; many in her retinue, including the Carbonardos, ended up broke, staying in England to
work for the royal household, where some became great exponents in the extraction of truth from unwilling tongues. That particular work, gaining intelligence by torture, threat, pain, or promise, was on Daniel's mind tonight; and he knew it all, from the rack and the boot to Skeffington's daughter, and even more esoteric methods of prising the truth from people disinclined to talk.

“She knows,” the Professor had said. “She'll give you the name. There are three of them and Spear.”

Daniel felt he had heard words similar to those many times before. “From your Praetorian Guard?” he asked, incredulous. “You can't mean your Praetorian Guard, Professor!” and Moriarty nodded, slowly. “The very same,” he muttered. “We have a traitor, Daniel. Right at the top, among my most trusted. A traitor who has burrowed, like a little animal into my organization.”

“But who would…?” Daniel began.

“To whom would some turncoat sell his soul? Who?” Moriarty chuckled.

“Sherlock Holmes?” Carbonardo asked again and the Professor laughed louder, a high, animal bark.

“Holmes? Holmes? I think not. Holmes bothers me little these days. We had our moment of conflict and I think came to a mutual understanding. I doubt if I shall ever hear again from Mr. Holmes.”
*

“Then who?”

“There
is
one.” He rested the nail of his right thumb just below his eye, then ran it down to his jaw, tracing a line down his cheek. “Angus Crow. Crow is a skilful policeman who has sworn to trap me. Indeed, it is his one aim in life. I am his one big case.” He paused, his head moving forward like the head of an old turtle, then swaying from side to side. “And of course there are others. One in particular who has used my recent absence to plunder my former organization, my family.”

Carbonardo shook his head in puzzlement, finding it hard to believe that one of the Professor's closest lieutenants could be a turncoat.

The four men who comprised Moriarty's so-called Praetorian Guard were Ember, Spear, Lee Chow, and Terremant, who had been inducted into the Praetorians following the disappearance of the fine big lad Pip Paget.

Ember was a small, foxy, unpleasant little man, who acted as a contact, running between Moriarty and the lurkers, demanders, and punishers, the street men, the patterers, the magsmen, the dodgers, whizzers, dips, nightwalkers, dollymops, gonifs, and those who specialized: the petermen, confidence sharks, fences, assassins, and jewellers.

The two main members of the Guard were the Professor's true lieutenants, the distinctive Albert Spear and Terremant—Spear with his broken nose and the telltale forked-lightning scar down his right cheek, and the big tough known only as Terremant. This pair were leading street gangers, mobsters, men who made decisions and had the
final say-so, most feared out in the highways, byways, and alleys of London.

Last, and possibly least, of the Praetorians was the evil Chinee, Lee Chow, who dealt with the Eastern foreigners and lowlifes, running opium dens and dispensing cruel justice. He was feared by all because he would do Moriarty's bidding, no matter what, and never turn a hair of his pigtail. It was known that one of his best tricks was to cut the cheeks from a man or woman, leaving the victims appallingly disfigured and unable to use their mouths as normal persons.

The Professor locked eyes with Carbonardo, who felt a nudge, partly of awe, partly fear, as he looked deeply into the dark, knowing, glittering eyeballs that had seen much evil and knew even more. Like many, Daniel tried to avoid looking straight into Moriarty's eyes, for they held a mesmeristic power that it was said could remove a man's own will and command him to do unmentionable things.

His gaze dropped, and he saw that Moriarty was smiling. A slight, cynical raising of the corners of his lips, an evil smirk that in no way crept up the face to bring warmth to the eyes.

“You think members of my closest circle, my business intimates, are exempt from duplicity?” he asked, the terrible eyes never leaving Carbonardo's face.

“Well, Professor…Well, I…”

“You have heard of Pip Paget, who at one time was counted almost as a son to me, a prime member of the Praetorians? Surely you've heard of him?”

“Who hasn't, sir? Who indeed?”

“Pip Paget saved my life, Daniel. Shot a murderous skunk dead and saved my life, yet he'd already betrayed me.” He thumped his chest with a clenched right fist. “Me!” He thumped again. “Me, who was a father to him, who had been present at his wedding, stood for
him, provided his marital feast, blessed his union with another member of my organization… my family …” His voice rose as if in anger, tumbling the words one upon another. “Seen and blessed his marriage to that little jigster Fanny Jones. Me!”
*

Carbonardo nodded. He knew the story of how Paget had sold out details of the Professor's most secret hiding place to Inspector Angus McCready Crow of the Metropolitan Police Force, and passed on intelligence that almost led to Moriarty's downfall.

“You do well to nod, Daniel. It is meet and right for those who earn their stipend through me to know of my justice.”

Moriarty paid what he called a retaining fee to Daniel Carbonardo: bunce to ensure that he had first call on the man's services. It was a generous jingle of cash, enough to enable Carbonardo to maintain his pleasant villa in the thriving and rising area of Hoxton, the house just off North New Road, five minutes' walk from the parish church of St. John the Baptist: a modest home with the name Hawthornes, though there were no bushes or greenery adjacent to the terraced property—two reception rooms and a small study; three bedrooms; a privy indoors, a luxury; a little bathing room; and a basement kitchen with area steps.