The Journey: Illustrated Edition (An Anna Kronberg Thriller) (12 page)

The Bank of England, London, 1896. (8)

We arrived and were received by a servant, who led us into a large office with windows spanning from floor to ceiling and furniture that indicated an income significantly higher than the average solicitor. Two gleaming mahogany desks formed the centre of the office and bookshelves adorned the walls, together with a picture of a grumpy-looking Queen Victoria. Seeing Sherlock’s face hidden behind a bush of black mutton chops lifted a weight off my shoulders I hadn’t known existed.
 

Two men rose from their seats, approached me with outstretched hands, and introduced themselves as Messrs Palmer and Miller.

‘Our most heartfelt consolations,’ the older said while the younger muttered, ‘Indeed, indeed.’

Sherlock clapped his hands, a canon shot that split apart the solicitors’ pretence. ‘Let us begin, gentlemen. My client is in danger and the longer she remains in London, the greater the chances are her pursuers will find her.’

‘Certainly, Mr Wright—’

‘And let us not forget the terms of our agreement,’ Sherlock cut across.

‘Absolutely not, my dear sir! We are deeply saddened by the death of our esteemed client and are, of course, bound by honour to carry out his widow’s wishes. Had we known that she was still with us…’

‘Yes. You mentioned that already.’ Sherlock rushed to my side as though I was about to faint and offered me a seat. I did my best to sort the elaborate mourning dress into the chair, together with myself, without appearing like the non-lady I was.
 

How recent was the information of my supposed death? Was it Moran’s version of reality or that of James’s family?

‘We took the liberty of letting your solicitor, Mr Wright, inspect all of your late husband’s papers. If you wish, we can show and explain everything to you—’

‘The short version, please,’ I said.

‘Very well.’ He picked through the pile of papers that lay in neat stacks on his desk, then cleared his throat. ‘It is most unusual for a man of his standing. And considering his meticulousness, I cannot fathom why… My sincere apologies, Mrs Moriarty, but there appears to be no will. Without it, all of your husband’s possessions are to be transferred to his closest male relative, or, in the lack thereof, to his closest female relative. In plain English, his sister Charlotte already inherited everything. However, by law, you are entitled to a dower equivalent to one third of your husband’s estates.’

‘If there truly is no will, as you stated, Charlotte Moriarty cannot inherit a farthing. I am with child.’

The man coughed in his hand. ‘We received intelligence of a miscarriage.’

‘Whose?’ I asked, feigning surprise and puzzlement.

‘Well, obviously the miscarriage of the heir-at-law.’ A dignified index finger rose to brush imaginary lint off an impeccable lapel. The man’s lips compressed; his eyes searched for evidence underneath the frills of my mourning dress.

‘You also received intelligence of my death, did you not? Do you believe I’m dead, Mr Palmer?’

Blood rose to his face.

‘Do you wish to consult a physician, or would you like to conduct the examination yourself?’ I asked.

‘Well…’ He trailed off, swivelled his head, and said, ‘I need proof. Considering the amount of money that will change hands, I fear I must insist.’

‘Upon my honour!’ huffed Mycroft Holmes.
 

Ignoring the affront, I rose and moved veil and frills aside, presenting the small bulge. ‘Would that be sufficient?’

‘I need to ascertain its authenticity.’

‘I thought so.’

‘Outrageous!’ barked Mycroft and pushed between Mr Palmer and me.

I grabbed the man’s hand and placed it on my stomach. The blood vessel on his throat bulged and his upper lip began to perspire. ‘You are obviously terrified of making a mistake, Mr Palmer. I wonder what troubles my late husband’s family is giving you.’ With that, I released him.
 

When he wiped the palm on his trousers, I felt an urge to kick his groin.

‘Upon clarification of this delicate subject, I suggest we proceed,’ Sherlock said coldly.

The air in the room changed at once.

‘Your late husband is, or I should say was, in the possession of a variety of estates and trust funds, plus a rather large amount of money in various bank accounts,’ Mr Palmer began. ‘As suggested earlier by your solicitor, Mr Wright, all money will be withdrawn, trust funds liquidated, and all estates sold. The money that has already been transferred to Mrs Charlotte Moriarty’s accounts will now be removed, if necessary through a court order that won’t be complicated to get. May I assume this meets with your approval?’

I signalled yes and flicked my gaze to Sherlock, who now began to speak. ‘We will provide testimony by a certified physician. Should the court be as skeptical as you about the obvious state of my client.’

A stiff nod answered his offer.

‘As for the estates to be sold,’ the solicitor continued, ‘we are unable, as yet, to give you an exact amount. It depends on the buyers’ motivation, of course. However, before we reach this issue, I have a question regarding the servants. In your house at Kensington Gardens, the servants are still under employ. Do you wish to keep them?’

‘No. Pay all of them two months’ salary. Except two: Jonathan Garrow, the coachman, and Cecile Gooding, the lady’s maid. Both shall receive five years’ salary. Then you can sell the house. It reminds me too much of my husband.’ I pushed a kerchief in my face and blew heartily.
 

The man in front of me cleared his throat, polished his monocle, and inserted it in his left eye socket. ‘Very well,’ he said, flicking his gaze to the younger man, who instantly began hacking away on a typewriter.

‘Now,’ he continued. ‘Estimating the current market value of the estates and trust funds, plus the much larger value represented by your husband’s savings, minus taxes, we arrive at the following amount.’ He stared at a piece of paper in front of him. I could see a lot of numbers, slanted and upside-down.

His mouth formed the words with great reluctance. ‘Two million and four hundred thousand pounds sterling.’ His fingertips trembled. ‘More or less. Your dower would amount to approximately three hundred thousand pounds, considering that half of Mr Moriarty’s assets are in estates. The rest will be moved to a trust fund with you as the sole trustee and will be transferred to the heir-at-law when he or she attains majority.’

Silence fell. I thought of Barry, who couldn’t even dream of such numbers, who would probably try to cram equivalents of eel pies and sheep trotters into his head. And Garret, whose freedom I could simply buy. I could buy the entire Newgate prison plus the ugly street it was built on. I could even pull sewers through St Giles—

‘Excellent,’ said Sherlock. ‘If you please, arrange for a transfer to the bank account we agreed upon.’

Everyone looked at me. I nodded.

There were papers to be signed, received, and kept. Before we left, I bent close to Sherlock to ask a question. He squeezed my arm and whispered, ‘Later.’

The moment the brougham’s door snapped shut, I slammed my head against the wall and cried, ‘That idiotic stomach examination! Why is it that all these educated upper-class men cannot face the natural consequence of sexual intercourse? I feel as though I’m the only one who…’ I looked at Barry, who was severely red-cheeked. When my gaze drifted to Sherlock, I felt heat rising to my face. Mycroft’s bored look tried to not reveal a thing. I swallowed the mad urge to laugh out loud.

‘You were late,’ Sherlock said to me. Upon seeing my clueless expression, he added, ‘You didn’t meet Wiggins? Mycroft, we need to find the boy. Driver!’ He tapped his stick at the carriage’s roof. ‘To the Berkeley Hotel. Make haste!’ A flick of the whip and the horses clopped along the streets.

I’d seen Wiggins, as well as a few other of Sherlock’s street arabs, only from afar. With Moran so close, it was indeed a bad sign that the boy had gone missing.

Sherlock turned to Barry with a look of expectation. The boy woke from his rigour and opened his mouth to speak, then snapped it shut again.

‘He is my friend and I trust him,’ I said.

Barry finally found his voice. ‘Did that bloody devil leave you a lot of money?’

‘Two million and a bit.’

He made a croaking noise. ‘Can you buy Buckingham Palace?’

I burst out laughing. ‘I doubt it, Barry. But I can buy something much better.’ I turned to Sherlock. ‘Garret is in Newgate.’

‘Why?’

‘He burgled a house.’

‘Did anyone come to harm?’

‘I don’t know,’ I said truthfully. ‘I know him as a gentle and caring man. He can hurt people when he defends others. He was caught in the act of burgling a house, but what happened precisely, I cannot tell.’

Sherlock’s eyes narrowed for a moment.
 

‘Yes, he’s a criminal,’ I added. ‘He’s far from innocent. But I will not let him die in Newgate. If you’d rather not help, I’ll do it alone.’

His gaze flicked to his brother and it was as if a set of tiny cogwheels were put in motion. ‘The Lord Mayor. You know his weak spots.’

‘How much is your friend’s life worth?’ Mycroft turned to me and interpreted my cold stare correctly. ‘Good. Unlimited. His full name, please.’

‘Garret O’Hare,’ I answered. ‘I would like to accompany you.’

‘No, not to the mayor’s office, but you are most welcome in Newgate.’

‘Thank you, Mr Holmes.’

We arrived at the Berkeley. Sherlock rose and opened the door.
 

‘Wait a moment,’ I said.

He jumped onto the street and turned to me. ‘I’ll tell you everything upon your return. You’ll find me under the name of Eric Wright. I’ll book a room for your two friends as Thomas and Daniel Atkinson. You are Thomas, the son.’ He pointed at Barry. ‘Your room, Anna, is booked under the name of Olivia Saunders. I’ll also arrange for a physician’s testimony.’

I turned to Barry, who still sat frozen on his seat. ‘Would you wait for me at the hotel? I might need your help once I’m back.’

‘Sure,’ he squeaked and peeled his buttocks off the expensive leather.

‘Thank you, my friend. Eat something and stay put.’

The boy climbed out, the mutt on his heels. Mycroft and I left at once.

— eleven —

‘M
ay I ask how you plan to convince the mayor to release a convicted burglar?’

‘You may. I’ll tell him that your friend has information about a German weapon maker who is now in London and is suspected of planning an assassination. The target will, of course, be secret, meaning it’s open to wildest interpretation.’

‘And you need money to convince him?’ I asked.

‘Yes. Either that or I’d have to threaten his career. I prefer the former.’

‘What are the chances he’ll release Garret?’

‘Since your resources are now unlimited, I should think the chances are close to one hundred per cent,’ he said.

‘Thank you. I cannot… let him die,’ I stammered. ‘I’m deeply indebted to you—’

‘One day I’ll ask you for a favour and you will not decline,’ he interrupted me with a voice so quiet and full of conviction, it impressed more than a shout. I squinted at him, thinking of his request to work as a spy.

The two horses came to a halt and he alighted at once.

Waiting for Mycroft Holmes to return with Garret’s release papers tortured the thin sliver of patience I possessed. When he finally opened the brougham’s door, sweat glistened on his forehead. ‘Quick, driver! To Newgate,’ he called.

‘What is it?’ Fear crept in through my pores.

‘They decided to hang him early. Apparently, your friend is sick enough to make the judges fear he might die before they have a chance to wrap a noose around his neck.’

I yanked the veil over my face and stared out the window. My eyes began to leak.

‘Old Bailey,’ he announced a few minutes later and opened the door for me. ‘I’ll introduce you as the sister of the convict, who wishes to see her brother one last time before he is taken into custody to the Special Branch. The police are of course hoping you will to help tickle dark secrets from your brother.’

I nodded.