The House Of Smoke (35 page)

I grabbed his arm. ‘Then you must reconsider.’

He stared at my hand. ‘I
must
do
only
what I wish. And you, my dear fellow, must remember your place.’

I took my hand away. ‘Then allow me to protect her.’

He let out a sigh of aggravation. ‘That is not your role. Tonight, you will be with me, Moran and his assistant Frederick at the peace meeting. They are my most trusted men and you are Brogan’s.’

‘And Elizabeth? Who will be looking after her safety?’

He rested a hand on the brass end of the black cane he was carrying and spoke wearily. ‘Miss Breed will attend to her. Thackeray will deliver them both and he will also be on hand to ensure their safe return. The Chans will believe Breed is Elizabeth’s maid and that will be to our advantage. Moran will also send a contingent of his men to populate the street and intervene if necessary.’

‘Forgive my impertinence, but I am not happy about these arrangements. I would much prefer it if I—’

‘Goddamn you, man! Neither your happiness nor your preferences matter to me! Understand this: Chan has stipulated his
non-negotiable
terms for the meeting and for the moment we must be seen to acquiesce. Now let us make haste.’ He pointed his cane towards the carriages. ‘We will not take the Benz tonight, as we do not wish to attract attention. I will inform you of your duties en route.’

‘No.’

‘I beg your pardon?’

‘I said no. I am not leaving until I have seen Elizabeth. Are you aware of what she has endured? What we have
both
been through?’

‘I am
quite
aware of it. My concerns at the moment are for lives that may be saved, not lives already lost.’

I swallowed my anger and strode off towards our cottage.

Moriarty shouted at my back. ‘She and Breed have already left.’

I stopped in my tracks. Had all this really been done and dusted behind my back? So swiftly? So slickly and irreversibly?

I turned and approached him. ‘Under great duress, I presume.’

His eyes narrowed. ‘Elizabeth understood that she is key to this meeting because of her perceived closeness to my brother and she very properly accepted her responsibilities. She also understood that
you
would be unduly concerned about her, even angered to the point of being impudent.’

‘Can you blame me?’

‘I forgive you. But only because I know such a reaction is born out of loyalty to her. Tonight you and your loyalty to my family will be needed. Simeon, my patience is wearing thin; may we
please
make progress?’

I knew I had no option but to board the carriage.

Once it was filled with Moriarty, the big young oaf Frederick and the older man Moran, the horses were whipped into life and we headed south-east across London to the meeting point. I was informed that the intended venue was a large, mid-terraced house in Harley Street, owned by a friend of Chan, a surgeon who worked at St Bartholomew’s.

As we travelled, the full details of James’s plan were disclosed. He told us there would be face-to-face discussions between him and Chan. The parties would then retire to separate rooms to consider their positions. At this point, Moriarty’s men, armed with pistols, knives and iron bars would climb into the house through the connected attic that served the whole row of dwellings.

‘They will kill all the gang leaders and Lee Chan. By removing the head of the foraging snake the vipers in the nest will perish.’

‘And what if your men cannot get into the attic?’ I asked.

‘They are already in. Once Chan named the venue, we purchased access from a nearby resident. The Chinaman has men patrolling the street, of course, but they stand out like sore thumbs and are not much loved by the locals. We already have twenty of our people in position.’

‘And throughout all this, where is Elizabeth being held?’

‘She and Miss Breed will be detained in lodgings in Clerkenwell, a couple of miles from Harley Street. As there is every possibility that they may be moved from there, I have men on the street, lying in wait to follow them.’

There was not much more to be said. The three of us were there to protect Moriarty. Personal survival was his paramount concern. Tonight we were to leave the killing to others and that suited me just fine.

London jolted past the window of our carriage. I saw a black motor car up ahead, driven by a flat-capped young man. It came alongside us and passed by at twice our speed, with such noise that it scared our horses into a dance.

For some time, we were delayed by a congestion of horse-drawn omnibuses, each vying for space on a tight street corner. Our coachman cursed at the state of London’s roads and grudgingly backed up the carriage to let one of them past.

The rest of the journey progressed relatively quickly and without further incident but as we approached our destination my feelings of foreboding increased.

I remembered the words of the old gypsy in Milldale about sensing danger.

Never before had I felt peril to be so close.

The house in Harley Street was a handsome white-fronted, four-storey terrace ringed by spiky, black iron railings and overlooked by gargoyles and heavily muscled men.

Inside, all was opulence. A hall of grey marble led to a mighty oak tree of a staircase that branched east and west to galleried landings, rooms and passages on the upper floors.

The corridor we trod was adorned with a collection of classical nude sculptures that were, I imagined, worth considerably more than most surgeons could afford. Either the owner came from an enormously rich family or, more probably, the wealth had been amassed through aiding the Chans in their criminal enterprises.

The four of us were shown into a large reception room lit by a sumptuous chandelier. A giant golden mirror hung squarely over a marble fireplace. It wasn’t solely for decoration. It afforded anyone seated close to the large fireplace a near-panoramic view of the room.

Fine oils of country hunts and Lakeland scenes covered the other walls and created a strangely scenic backdrop for two wing chairs and large sofas covered in contrasting creams and reds.

After several minutes, the door opened. Lee Chan swept in, followed by his bodyguards. He was dressed in black out of respect for his grandfather, as were his men.

Chan bowed slightly to Moriarty, who had not dressed in black. Not for Alex. Nor for the Chans.

James reciprocated somewhat awkwardly, then, to my surprise, spoke to him in fluent Chinese.

Chan replied curtly.

Without so much as a handshake they took the chairs by the fire. Both men glanced repeatedly at the mirror above their heads, which reflected the spectacle of the rest of us, left to stand and stare at each other.

Chan continued to talk and Moriarty continued to listen. He did not blink or move. I noticed at one point he sneaked a deep breath to calm himself. I sensed his inner rage, noticed his fist, the one furthest from Chan, clench until the knuckles turned white then slowly flex and relax.

Chan finished and Moriarty responded. Neither interrupted the other. The pattern had been set and so it stayed for the following hour.

Finally, Moriarty stood. The Chinaman rose. He bowed and led his contingent out of the room.

Moriarty walked to the curtains. He twitched them open and closed – a signal to the street to set his men in action. ‘Barricade that door,’ he told us. ‘Push the furniture against it and prepare for hell to break out.’

We acted swiftly and as quietly as possible. Once Moriarty’s men descended from the attic, there would be mayhem and the Chinese would undoubtedly come for our blood.

As we waited, I wished for everything to be already over. Once I was reunited with Elizabeth we might use the cover of this current chaos to run away and start afresh somewhere. Perhaps it was not too late for us to become normal people.

Noise erupted behind the closed doors. Chinamen shouted in anger and surprise. The attack had begun. A cacophony of violence followed – raised voices, gunfire, splintering wood, crashing glass. More gunfire. Wailing. Shouting. Cries of pain.

‘We need to leave.’ Moran ushered Moriarty back to the window. He tried to lift the sash but it was stuck.

‘We
must
get out,’ cried Moriarty. ‘The police will come. I cannot be discovered here.’

‘Then we break the glass,’ said Moran. ‘Frederick, use one of the chairs.’

The big oaf picked it up like it was weightless, and hurled it through the window.

Moran kicked out the remaining shards. Moriarty took off his jacket and covered his head, presumably to hide his identity, then climbed through the broken frame. Moran was but a beat behind him.

I heard fighting on the street as well. Presumably Moriarty’s men had tackled whatever guards Chan had posted there.

Frederick was staring at me as though he had forgotten what to do and needed me to instruct him. ‘Go on,’ I urged. ‘
We
need to get out as well.’

He took a pace towards the window and I wondered if he was too big to fit through. ‘Out you go! You can make that.’

The big oaf grabbed me by the throat.

I was too shocked to react. His thumbs dug into my neck. It felt like his nails would pop through my skin. Years of training saved me. Instead of trying to force his huge hands from my neck, I grabbed his arms, gripped the cloth of his jacket and swung myself down and between his legs.

He lost his grip and his footing, crashed forehead first into the floor and broken glass.

I rolled to my feet, caught my breath and headed to the window. My hands were on the ledge when he grabbed and pulled me back. Again he snatched at my throat. This crazy imbecile was set on killing me. I stepped outside his reach and piled a powerful left into his belly. Air whooshed from his mouth and he doubled up.

I hit him with a hearty right-hander; his eyes glazed over and he rocked, staggered to his left, then collapsed. I was out on the street before his body had settled on the floor.

No sign of Moran, or Moriarty. They had gone, but the street was far from empty. The noise of the fight sounded like hell being emptied. Police vans were everywhere. I had no choice but to run towards them.

The Old Bill poured from their carriages. Whistles cut the night air. A copper snatched at me as I tried to pass by.

I slapped my hand in his chest and pushed him away rugby-style.

Another rozzer swung his stick at my head.

I blocked it with my left arm, cracked him with my right fist. I sprinted to the end of the road and turned into a part of town I knew well. This was a labyrinth of alleyways, a rookery that encompassed the old Knights Templar buildings to the south of the meat market. I slowed to a walk and disappeared into the shadows. The darkness stank of piss and gin.

I was not alone. I could hear others. Smell them. Sense them. Hairs bristled on the back of my neck.

Sitting in the shadows were the skeletal forms of more than a dozen homeless men and women, sheltering from the elements. I dug into my pocket, took out a handful of change and dropped it noisily. ‘There’s plenty of clink there. Anyone asks, I was never here.’

They clambered for the coins while I disappeared beyond them.

I still had enough money to hail a cab to take me to Clerkenwell. It was only a short distance away and I prayed this was where Moriarty and Moran were headed. Hopefully, they had already secured the safety of Elizabeth and Surrey.

Five minutes later I saw their carriage on the street corner. Alarmingly, there was no sign of the men Moriarty had promised would provide protection.

I paid my driver and made my way to the one house that was completely lit up. The curtains were drawn. Two silhouettes stood out against the cloth of a downstairs front room. From their shapes and sizes I was certain they were Moran and Moriarty.

I rushed to the front door, opened it and froze.

There was blood on the wooden boards in the hallway. Blood on the walls. Blood on the door handle in front of me.

‘Elizabeth!’ I rushed into the front room.

Moriarty and Moran were together in the corner, both on their knees. Hunched over something. They craned their necks my way. Looked shocked to see me.

‘Simeon …’ Moriarty’s tone was disturbingly soft as he rose. ‘Dear boy, I am sorry …’

I didn’t understand what he meant. Then I saw where Moran’s gaze was fixed, what their bodies had been masking In the corner, in front of them, was Elizabeth. And blood. A whole ocean of blood. Her throat had been cut. Her head was tilted back. An obscenely gaping wound showed the inside of her neck, the rawness of her throat, the root of her tongue.

I ran to her, fell to my knees.

Her eyes were white with death.

‘My darling. My angel.’ I lifted her head. Closed that gaping neck wound. Lunatic thoughts told me she could still be saved by my presence, my touch, my love. I pressed my cheek to hers. ‘My sweetness!’ She was cold as glass. ‘My sweet, sweet lady.’

Moriarty tugged my shoulder. ‘You have to leave her. We
mus
t go.’

I could not. My mind had lost all reason and my limbs would not surrender my love.

‘Come on, man!’ Moran tried to prise her out of my arms.

‘Get the fuck away!’ I struck out wildly. ‘Touch her again and I
will
kill you!’

He took a step backwards and grabbed Moriarty’s arm. ‘It’s no use. We
must
leave.’ Without a further word they fled.

I sat with my back against the wall and held Elizabeth close to me. The action made her sigh. I knew it was only air escaping dead lungs but the illusion of life was enough to break my heart. I rocked her and wept. Cried like a child while I hugged her preciously tight. Her head lay against my chest and her soft hair brushed my face as exquisitely as it had done a thousand times.

A long silhouette fell into the room, followed by another and another. The shadowy figures gathered into a dark, thin army and moved in on me.

‘Jesus, Mary an’ Joseph,’ exclaimed a gruff old voice. ‘What in God’s name ’as gone on ’ere?’