Moriarty

10 Horner’s of Chancery Lane

It was just as well that Horner’s advertised itself with a red and white barber’s pole for otherwise we might not have found it. To begin with, it wasn’t actually on Chancery Lane. There was a narrow, muddy thoroughfare that ran down to Staples Inn Garden with a haberdasher’s—Reilly & Son—and the Chancery Lane Safe Deposit Company on the corner and a little row of very shabby houses opposite. The barber shop occupied the front parlour of one of these with a sign above the door and a further advertisement in the window: Shaving 1d; haircut 2d. On one side was a tobacconist that had closed down. The house on the other side looked fairly abandoned too.

A hurdy-gurdy man was playing in the street, perched on a stool and wearing a ragged top hat and a worn-out, shapeless coat. He was not very accomplished. Indeed, had I been working in the vicinity, he would have driven me quite mad with the almost tuneless howling and tinkling of his instrument. The moment he saw us, he stood and called out: ‘Hair tonic in the ha’porths and pen’orths. Try Horner’s special hair tonic! Get your cut or your shave here!’ He was an odd fellow, very thin and unsteady on his feet. As we approached, he stopped playing and handed us a card from a satchel slung over his shoulder. It was identical to the one we had found at the Bostonian.

We entered the building and found ourselves in a small, uncomfortable room with a single barber’s chair facing a mirror so cracked and dusty that it barely showed any reflection at all. There were two shelves lined with bottles of Horner’s Luxuriant as well as other hair restorers and cantharides lotions. The floor hadn’t been swept and tufts of old hair were still strewn across it—as unsavoury a sight as one could wish to see, though not as bad as the soap bowl, a congealed mess which still carried the spiky fragments of men’s beards. I was already beginning to think that this was the last place in London I would wish to come for a haircut when the barber himself arrived.

He had climbed up a staircase in the back parlour and tottered towards us, wiping his hands on a handkerchief. It was hard to determine his age—he was both old and young at the same time with a round, quite pleasant face, clean-shaven and smiling. But he had a terrible haircut. Indeed, it was as if he had been attacked by a cat. His hair was long on one side, short on the other with patches missing altogether, exposing his skull. Nor had it been washed for some time, leaving it with both a colour and a texture that was disagreeable to say the least.

He was, however, amiable enough. ‘Good morning, gentlemen,’ he exclaimed. ‘Although this cursed weather refuses to change! Have you ever known London so wet and so miserable and here we are in May! What can I do for you? One haircut? Two haircuts? You are fortunate in that I am very quiet today.’

This was true in every sense. Outside, the hurdy-gurdy player had at last chosen to take a rest.

‘We are not here for a haircut,’ Jones replied. He picked up one of the bottles and smelled the contents. ‘Do I take it you are Albert Horner?’

‘No, sir. Bless you! Mr Horner died long ago. But this was his business and I took it over.’

‘Quite recently, by the look of it,’ Jones remarked. I glanced at him, wondering how he could have come to such a conclusion for, to my eye, both the man and the shop could have been here for years. ‘The barber’s pole is old,’ Jones continued, for my benefit. ‘But I could not help noticing that the screws fastening it to the wall are new. The shelves may be dusty, but the bottles are not. That tells the same tale.’

‘You’re absolutely right!’ the barber exclaimed. ‘We’ve been here less than three months and we kept the old name. And why not? Old Mr Horner was well known and much admired. We’re already popular among the lawyers and the judges who work in this area—even if many of them insist on wearing wigs.’

‘So what is your name?’ I asked.

‘Silas Beckett, sir, at your service.’

Jones produced the advertisement. ‘We found this in a club called the Bostonian. I take it that name means nothing to you, or the man who was staying there. An American gentleman called Jonathan Pilgrim.’

‘American, sir? I don’t believe I’ve ever had an American in here.’ He gestured at me. ‘Apart from yourself.’

Beckett was no detective. It was my accent that had given me away.

‘And the name Scotchy Lavelle—have you heard it?’

‘I speak to my customers, sir. But it’s not often they tell me their name. Was he another American?’

‘And Clarence Devereux?’

‘You’re running ahead of me, sir. So many names! Can I interest you in a bottle of our hair tonic?’ He asked this almost impertinently, as if he were anxious to bring the interview to an end.

‘Do you know him?’

‘Clarence Devereux? No, sir. Perhaps you might try across the road, at the haberdasher’s. I am very sorry that I cannot be of assistance. In short, it would seem we are wasting each other’s time.’

‘That may be so, Mr Beckett, but there is just one thing you can tell me that would interest me.’ I saw Jones examining the barber carefully. ‘Are you a religious man?’

The question was so unexpected that I’m not sure who was more surprised—Beckett or I. ‘I’m sorry?’ He blinked.

‘Religious. Do you go to church?’

‘Why do you ask?’ Jones said nothing and Beckett sighed, clearly anxious to be rid of us. ‘No, sir, for my sins, I am not a regular churchgoer.’

‘It is just as I thought,’ Jones muttered. ‘You have made it quite clear that you cannot help us, Mr Beckett. I will wish you a good day.’

We left the barber’s shop and walked back up to Chancery Lane. Behind us, the hurdy-gurdy player struck up again. As soon as we turned the corner, Jones stopped and laughed. ‘We have stumbled onto something quite remarkable here, my boy. Holmes himself would have been entertained by this: a barber who cannot cut hair, a hurdy-gurdy player who cannot play, and a hair tonic that contains large quantities of benzoin. Hardly a three-pipe problem, but not without interest.’

‘But what is the meaning of it?’ I exclaimed. ‘And why did you ask Mr Beckett about his religious beliefs?’

‘Is it not obvious to you?’

‘Not at all.’

‘Well, it will be made clear soon enough. We are having dinner together tonight. Why not come to Scotland Yard at three o’clock? We can meet outside, as we did before, and then everything will be explained.’

Three o’clock.

I was there exactly on time, stepping out of my hansom on Whitehall with Big Ben chiming the hour. We had stopped on the far side of the road, which is to say, the one opposite Scotland Yard. I paid the driver. It was a bright, cloudless afternoon, though still a little chilly.

I must set down exactly what happened.

Ahead of me, crossing the road, I saw a boy whom I recognised instantly. It was Perry, who had sat next to me in the Café Royal and who had held a knife to my neck. I stood there and it seemed to me that everything had become very still, as if an artist had taken the scene and captured it on a canvas. Even at a distance, Perry was enveloped in what I can only describe as an aura of menace. This time, he was dressed as a naval cadet. He had a cap, a dark blue double-fronted jacket with two lines of buttons, and a leather pouch hanging diagonally across his chest. As before, he seemed to be squeezed into the uniform he was wearing, his stomach pressing against the waistband, his neck too large for the collar. His hair looked even more yellow in the afternoon sun.

Why was he here? What was he doing?

Athelney Jones appeared, walking out of Scotland Yard, looking for me, and I raised a hand in alarm. Jones saw me and I pointed in the direction of the boy, who was walking briskly down the pavement, his plump little legs carrying him ever further away.

Jones recognised him but he was too far away to do anything.

There was a brougham waiting for Perry, barely fifty yards from where I was standing. As he approached it, a door opened. There was a man inside, half hidden in the shadows. He was tall, thin, dressed entirely in black. It was impossible to make out his face but I thought I heard him cough. Had Jones seen him? It was unlikely for he was quite a distance ahead and on the wrong side of the road. The boy climbed into the brougham. The door closed behind him.

Without any further thought, I ran towards it. I saw the driver whip up the horse and the carriage jolted forward—but even so I might have been able to reach it. Jones was on the edge of my vision. He had begun to move too, using his walking stick to lever himself forward. The brougham continued down Whitehall, picking up speed, heading for Parliament Square. I was running as fast as I could but I wasn’t getting any nearer. To reach it, I had to cross Whitehall but there was a great deal of traffic. Already, the brougham was disappearing around the corner.

I veered to one side. I had left the pavement and I was in the road.

Athelney Jones cried out a warning. I didn’t hear him but I saw him calling to me, his hand raised.

Suddenly, there was an omnibus bearing down on me. At first, I did not see it for two horses filled my vision: huge, monstrous, with staring eyes. They could have been joined together, a single creature drawn from Greek mythology. Then I became aware of the vehicle being hauled behind them, the driver pulling at the reins, the half a dozen people crowded together on the roof, trapped there, horrified witnesses to the unfolding drama.

Somebody screamed. The driver was still struggling with the reins and I was aware of hooves pounding down, the wheels grinding against the hard surface, that same surface rushing up at me as I threw myself forward. The whole world tilted and the sky swept across my vision.

I might have been killed, but in fact the omnibus missed me by inches, veering away and then drawing to a halt a short distance ahead. I had cracked my head and my knee but I was unaware of the pain. I twisted round, looking for the brougham, but it had already gone. The boy and his travelling companion had made their escape.

Jones reached me. To this day, I am not sure how he managed to cover the distance so quickly. ‘Chase!’ he exclaimed. ‘My dear fellow! Are you all right? You were almost crushed…’

‘Did you see them?’ I demanded. ‘Perry! The boy from the Café Royal! He was here. And there was a man with him…’

‘Yes.’

‘Did you see his face?’

‘No. A man in his forties or fifties, perhaps, tall and thin. But he was concealed, inside the carriage.’

‘Help me…’

Jones was leaning down, helping me to my feet. I was aware of a little blood trickling past my eye and wiped it away. ‘What was it all about, Jones?’ I asked. ‘Why were they here?’

My question was answered seconds later.

The explosion was so close that we felt it as well as heard it, a blast of wind and dust rushing to us where we stood. All around us, horses whinnied and carriages veered out of control as the drivers fought with the reins. I saw two hansoms collide with each other and one tilted and crashed to the ground. Men and women who had been walking past stopped, clutching onto each other, turning in alarm. Pieces of brick and glass rained down on us and a smell of burning pervaded the air. I looked round. A huge plume of smoke was rising up from within Scotland Yard. Of course! What else could have been the target?

‘The devils!’ Jones exclaimed.

Together, we hurried across the road. By now the traffic had come to a standstill. Without even thinking that there might be a second device, we plunged into the building, fighting our way past the clerks, the constables and the visitors who were desperately trying to find their way out. The lower floor at least seemed undamaged but, as we stood there, a uniformed policeman appeared, coming down the stairs, his face blackened and blood streaming from a wound in his head. Jones grabbed hold of him.

‘What happened?’ he demanded. ‘What floor?’

‘The third floor,’ the man replied. ‘I was there! It was so close…’

We wasted no time. We ran over to the stairs and began the long climb up, both of us aware that we had made the same journey together only the day before. We passed many more police officers and assistants, making their way down, many of them hurt, clutching onto each other. One or two of them urged us not to continue but we ignored them. As we climbed higher, we smelled burning and there was so much smoke in the air it became hard to breathe. Finally, we reached the third floor and almost at once bumped into a man whom I recognised from the conference. It was Inspector Gregson. His fair hair was awry and he was in a state of shock but he did not seem to have been hurt.

‘It was in the telegraph room,’ he cried. ‘A package brought by a messenger boy was placed against the wall of your office, Jones. Had you been at your desk…’ Gregson broke off, his eyes filled with horror. ‘I fear Stevens has been killed.’

Jones’s face showed his dismay. ‘How many others?’

‘I can’t say. We’ve been ordered to evacuate the building.’

We had no intention of doing so. We pressed forward, ignoring the casualties who were limping past, some of them with their clothes torn, others streaming blood. There was an uncanny silence on the third floor. Nobody was screaming but I thought I could hear the crackle of flames. I followed Jones, the two of us finally reaching the door of his office. Now it was open. I looked inside, into a scene of horror.

The office was not a large one. A single window looked out over the inner quadrangle, as Jones had told me. The room was filled with debris for the entire wall on the left had been shattered. There was a wooden desk covered with dust and brickwork and I could see at once that Gregson had been right. Had Jones been sitting there, he would have been killed. As it was, a young man lay on the floor with a police constable—dazed and helpless—crouching over him. Jones hurried in and knelt beside the body. It was obvious that he was dead. There was a dreadful wound in the side of his head and his hand was outstretched, the fingers still.

‘Stevens!’ he exclaimed. ‘He was my secretary… my assistant.’

Smoke was pouring in through the hole in the wall and I saw that the damage in the telegraph room had been even worse. The room was on fire, the flames licking at the ceiling, reaching up to the roof. There were two more figures lying amongst the wreckage. It was hard to be sure if they were men or boys as they had been horribly injured, both of them disfigured by the blast. There was paper everywhere. Some of the pages seemed to be floating in the air. It must have been the heat. The fire was rapidly spreading.

I went over to Jones. ‘There’s nothing we can do!’ I cried. ‘We must do as we’ve been told and leave the building. Go now!’ I told the young constable.

He left and Jones turned to me; there were tears in his eyes—though whether from grief or due to the smoke, I could not say. ‘Was this meant for me?’ he asked.

I nodded. ‘I very much think so.’

I took hold of him and led him out of the office. It could not have been more than a few minutes since the detonation, but already we were alone on the third floor. I knew that if the fire spread, or if the smoke overwhelmed us, we might die here—and although Jones was unwilling, I forced him to accompany me to the staircase and back down. Behind us, I heard part of the ceiling collapse in the telegraph office. We should perhaps have carried the dead secretary with us or at least covered the body as a mark of respect, but right then, it seemed to me, our own safety was paramount.

Several steam fire engines had arrived by the time we burst out into the open air. The firemen were already running forward, trailing their hoses across the pavement. All the other traffic had disappeared. The road, which had been normal and busy just a short while ago, was eerily empty. I helped Jones walk away from the building and, finding an unoccupied bench, set him down. He was leaning heavily on his stick and there were still tears in his eyes.

‘Stevens,’ he muttered. ‘He had been with me three years—and recently married! I was talking to him only half an hour ago.’

‘I’m sorry.’ I didn’t know what else to say.

‘This happened before. A bomb in Scotland Yard, six or seven years ago. It was the Fenians and I wasn’t in London. But this time…’ He seemed dazed. ‘You really believe I was the target?’

‘I warned you,’ I said. ‘These people are ruthless and it was only yesterday that Edgar Mortlake threatened you.’

‘Revenge for our raid on the Bostonian!’

‘You cannot prove it, but I cannot see any other reason for this attack.’ I broke off. ‘Had you not come out to greet me, you would have been sitting in your office. Do you not see that, Jones? You escaped by a matter of seconds.’

He grabbed my arm. ‘You have been the saving of me.’

‘I am very glad of it.’

We looked across the road, at the firemen operating the steam pumps while others raised the ladders. Smoke was still pouring out of the building, thicker now, blanketing the sky.

‘What now?’ I asked.

Jones shook his head wearily. There were black streaks on his cheekbones and across his forehead. I guessed I must look the same. ‘I don’t know,’ he replied. ‘But whatever you do, don’t tell Elspeth!’