The House Of Smoke (34 page)

When dawn warmed the windows of the cottage, we rose from our sleepless bed and went to the kitchen so that I might brew tea and muster the resolve for a fresh day. The fire in the range had burned out and Elizabeth wrapped a blanket around her shoulders to keep off the chill. She sat in a chair by the table while I remade it with kindling, paper and coal.

By the time I had warmed the room and boiled water, she was fast asleep. I put the drink down beside her, kissed her lightly and went to walk in the garden to clear my head.

Life could not go on like this. My own mood was blackening. The dogs of depression sensed my vulnerability and were intent on hounding me into the dark hole that Elizabeth had already toppled into.

Selfishly, I tracked down Thackeray to the carriage workshop for some male companionship. I knew my mind was not capable of focusing fully on more than one thing so I was pleased to accept the distraction of helping him mend a broken chassis on a carriage.

I was even interested, for once, in his tales about horses and how they could only breathe through their noses because their mouths were too big to keep open. ‘Jus’ imagine wot mess that could lodge in there,’ he said with amusement. ‘An ’orse’s gob is so big it could catch a bird in it – that’s if th’ animal’s stupid enough to go runnin’ around with its ’ead up at the right angle.’

‘And a bird is misguided enough to fly into its mouth,’ I pointed out.

We laughed and bantered for a good hour and a half before we took a break from the work and walked outside for a cigarette. I was lighting a rollup when the figure of a woman appeared over the distant crest of lawn. I did not recognise her at first because of the shimmering purple coat and bonnet paired with it.

Then I did.

It was Elizabeth.

My heart raced as she slowly approached us.

‘My dear …’

‘Please don’t say anything.’ She held a hand up to halt my exuberance. ‘It is time for us to start again,’ she announced determinedly. Then added in a weaker tone, ‘Or at least, I am ready to
try
to do so.’

‘That’s wonderful.’ I had to force myself not to embrace her. ‘I am travelling into Matlock later; please let me know if you would feel able to come.’

‘I will. But do not rush me, Simeon. Let me do this at my own pace.’

She turned swiftly so I might not see the strain on her face and, to my relief, headed towards the eastern side of the lake and not back to our cottage or the chapel grounds.

‘Lady Elizabeth looks brighter,’ remarked Thackeray.

‘She does!’ I said joyously. ‘She really does.’

‘Still got time to ’elp me finish up?’

‘Of course. You have been my lucky mascot.’

We were about to head off when the sight of a peculiar-looking carriage entering the drive stopped us. We both put hands to our brows, to shield the sun and squint out a better view.

‘What on earth is that?’ I asked.

‘It’s ’orseless,’ cried Thackeray with excitement.

I had heard of such automobiles and understood there were now many of them in London, but I had never seen one, let alone been near one.

‘It’s a fast bugger,’ he added. ‘I reckons that thing’s doin’ summit round ten, maybe fifteen miles ’n hour.’

We both watched dirt drift from the dusty drive as the open-topped vehicle closed in on us. A man in a black uniform and cap brought it to a halt not far away. Several other men were now visible, one at the front and two more at the rear.

‘God’s bollocks,’ Thackeray exclaimed, amid the loud noise of the engine. ‘It’s the Devil ’imself.’

‘
Who
is the Devil himself?’

He covered his mouth with his hand because the driver had turned off the engine and it was spluttering to a stop. ‘The professor’s pig of a brother, James, that’s who. I’m goin’. Best keep out that bugger’s way.’

I had heard much about James from Surrey and a little of the jobs that she had done for him, but we had never met.

The driver and a large, well-built fellow in his early thirties disembarked. They walked to the back, where they joined a younger, clean-shaven man who, when he stood to his full height, must have been close to seven feet tall.

A final figure appeared – James Moriarty. Quite the smallest but also the most captivating of the four. He was broad-shouldered with a thick russet beard and wiry hair. Before he moved so much as an inch away from the motorised carriage, his dark brown eyes took in everything around him.

His gaze found me for the second time and he shouted, ‘You there, come over here.’

It had been a long time since someone had called to me like a servant. I strolled slowly towards him.

Moriarty unbuttoned his brown tweed jacket. A gold watch glinted in the sunlight and he lifted it for inspection. ‘Hurry up now, or I’ll have my men dig a hole and bury you where you stand.’

If anything, I slowed my pace in order to assess the possible dangers. The driver presented no threat, but the other three men did. The big young one would be strong but stupid. His older companion was a different proposition. He stood like a soldier and I took him to be a fellow Surrey had mentioned – Colonel Sebastian Moran, a veteran of several foreign campaigns and James’s principle protector.

Then there was the master himself. While clearly past his prime, he still appeared fit and powerful. He wagged a finger at me as I neared him. ‘
You
– you are Simeon, are you not?’

‘I am.’

‘I thought so.’ He smiled at his own cleverness. ‘My brother said you exuded defiance, and so you do.’

‘The professor is not here, sir.’

‘I know. His absence is why I
am
.’ His eyes darted off me. Checked left and right. Found me again. ‘Walk with me. There is a matter best discussed in private.’

As we headed inside, ‘the Devil’ as Thackeray had called him, strode into the hall, down the west wing and directly into a study, behaving as though the house were his own.

The room smelled heavily of polish and it must not have been to his liking for he immediately slid open a window. ‘Close the door.’

I did and when I turned around he was in front of the desk, leaning back against it, his hands holding the edges. The look on his face was one of great consternation. ‘Brogan and that effeminate
companion
of his have been attacked in their New York home and left for dead.’

‘My God! Who killed them?’

‘You did not listen correctly. I said
left
for dead. Their wounds were not fatal but they are gravely ill. Both are in hospital and have lost a great deal of blood.’

I grimaced as I imagined the injuries Alex and the professor must have sustained. ‘I am truly sorry to—’

‘Save your words. I need action from you, not sympathy. The attacks were orchestrated by Lee Chan. It appears that his grandfather died last week and he is now completely in charge of the family’s operations.’

I was bursting with questions. ‘How did the Chans get to the professor and Alex? I thought Sirius was with them. And surely they had plenty of local protection as well?’

‘Indeed Sirius was, and indeed they did have local men. But apparently not in sufficient numbers or excellence. Six of our guards were killed when ground security was breached in the middle of the night. Three unarmed domestic servants were also murdered and numerous other staff horribly injured.’ He took a long and slow breath to calm himself, then added, ‘Most disturbingly of all, it seems Mr Gunn had been corrupted by the Chans and helped facilitate the attack.’

‘
Sirius
?’ I was aghast. ‘I cannot believe—’

‘You
must
believe. I discovered his treachery when the Chinese, along with support from their British gangs, took almost overnight control of a number of our betting syndicates and racecourse operations. My men captured one of their ringleaders and under torture,
extreme torture
I might add, he gave up Gunn’s involvement in return for his own miserable life.’

‘And what now? Why are you here and what must be done?’

‘Revenge should never be rushed.’ He rounded the desk and sat in the professor’s chair. ‘For the moment I must take control of all affairs and act astutely on my brother’s behalf. More immediately, the chateau was looted of a great many treasures and it is not inconceivable that Chan will also seek to plunder the historic and invaluable art, jewellery and sculptures that lie within these walls.’

‘Which, I suppose, is how I am to help?’

‘Do not suppose anything. You are not blessed with either the intelligence or experience to do it. Miss Breed has been recalled and I have something else in mind for the pair of you. Something more befitting your undeniable talents.’

The gaoler who opened my door was a man in his twenties.

When he saw me standing there, bold as brass, facing him down, he almost gagged out of fear and revulsion. I was no sight for the weak hearted. Immediately, he shut the door and whistled for help.

I braced myself and waited, covered in my own excrement. My pot had not been emptied for about a day so I had smeared the entire contents over my clothes, hair, hands and even my face.

The screws would see this abominable act as disrespectful of them. In reality, it was designed to be the ultimate distraction from the soot and dirt of the chimney.

Feet thundered down the corridor. My door opened and gaolers flooded in. They pulled my chains until I fell, then dragged me across the floor and threw bucket after bucket of water on me. I could not catch my breath. Runny excrement filled my eyes and mouth, blinded and choked me.

They scrubbed me hard with long-handled yard brooms and beat me with them. One brush was jammed across my throat, while a young screw pulled off my clothes and threw them out onto the landing, retching while he did it. Then he kicked me like he was learning his trade, an apprenticeship in battering inmates.

Others cheered him on then scraped their brushes over my naked body, twisting my chains and flipping me over like a roasting boar. More icy water came my way. Metal buckets were flung and banged my head.

The young screw lifted my chin to see I was still alive, then let it fall, causing my face hit the cesspit floor like a dropped egg. As I lay there, abuse piled up on me.

‘Dirty bastard!’

‘Filthy fucking pig.’

‘You’re worse than a bleedin’ animal, Lynch.’

The shouting died down and faded into complete silence.

I lifted my head.

Johncock was stood over me.

I got to my knees and retched water.

He kicked me down again and spat on me.

I rose again, needing to retch more water or I would choke.

Johncock stamped on my planted hands. Ground his boots on my knuckles.

I bit through the pain until he stopped.

‘I warned you, Lynch. Warned you right at the start of your stay here about what would happen if you crossed my line.’ He drew back his right foot and swung it at my head.

There was no pain, just dizziness. A million bees buzzed inside my ears and swarmed my brain.

I sank into a sweet world of blackness.

The days that followed my initial encounter with James Moriarty proved tense and frustrating. He calculated that the Chans had the upper hand and would use it to brutally assert themselves.

They did.

The next week was a bloodbath. The Moriarties lost almost all their betting operations. To those caught on the ground, it must have seemed a sad surrender, for rather than sending extra men to support them, James pulled his best lieutenants out. He simply left the weakest of the lambs to be slaughtered by the most vicious of Chan’s wolves.

And then came an even bigger blow. Ten days after being badly wounded in America, Alexander Rathbone died from his injuries.

Word of the kind and gentle American’s demise passed around the house in Derbyshire. All our spirits fell. Surrey took charge: people were notified, curtains closed and black clothes worn out of respect and a genuine affection for him. It broke my heart to see Elizabeth forsake the brighter colours she had only just started wearing again and retreat into drab funereal cloth.

The following day, we all travelled to the professor’s house in Primrose Hill, leaving the residence in Dovedale guarded by an astonishing number of men that James Moriarty had mustered.

That night, in a series of carefully orchestrated attacks, James used the best of the lieutenants he had withdrawn from earlier battles to simultaneously destroy almost all of the Chans’ London and Manchester shipping businesses.

Buildings were burned to the ground and containers looted. Key figures within the Chinese organisation were murdered and their corpses dumped in the Thames and Irwell. Before first light, police in the pay of the Moriarties swooped on houses and factories in the East End of London and arrested generations of Chinese who had illegally settled in England. Two of Lee Chan’s cousins were followed to a laundry that acted as cover for their drugs trade and arrested.

The message was clear: any violence and disruption by the Chans would be met by an even more devastating response.

James chose this moment to send a personal letter to Lee Chan. It was an offer to halt hostilities, to meet on neutral territory and broker peace. ‘A form of normalised business must be resumed,’ he told us. ‘Wise heads know when to pour brandy, not blood.’

Not unsurprisingly, his offer was met with scepticism. Chan sent word back. He would only agree to such a gathering if it was at a place of his choosing and Elizabeth were placed in the custody of his men as an insurance against foul play.

The first I heard of this demand was when Moriarty walked with me to the carriages, both horse-drawn and motorised, in the yard of the professor’s London residence.

‘Preposterous,’ I exclaimed. ‘He cannot seriously expect you to expose her to such a danger, especially without the exchange of his wife.’

‘He does, and despite my protests he is unmovable on this tenet. In order to broker peace, it is imperative I comply,’ he replied. ‘The time and place has been arranged.’