Moriarty

15 Blackwall Basin

From The Times of London

20th May 1891

I have no idea how Jones had persuaded The Times to fall in with his plans but this was the story that appeared twenty-four hours after our meeting with John Clay. It led, inevitably, to a panic, a mob of the well-to-do besieging Chancery Lane, and I cannot say for sure how he managed them, either. I would imagine that officials at the Safe Deposit were suitably emollient: ‘No, sir, your strongbox was not interfered with. Sadly, we cannot let you inside today. The police are still pursuing their enquiries.’

To close a major business for forty-eight hours as a result of a robbery that had never taken place was certainly quite an achievement, but then the stakes were high and, the fact was, Jones was running out of time. The Commissioner had read the letter from Coleman De Vriess and had called an enquiry to take place at the first opportunity and, as Jones had made clear to me, a Scotland Yard enquiry was akin to a formal dismissal.

It was a Wednesday when the newspaper story broke. I did not see Jones then but he sent a note to the hotel and we met the following day at an address in Chiltern Street, just south of Baker Street Station. The building in question turned out to be very small and narrow, though well lit, with a sitting room on the first floor and a bedroom above. It had been empty for some time although it had been dusted and kept clean. Jones was as self-assured as I had ever seen him, standing in front of the fireplace with his walking stick in front of him.

At first, I was puzzled. What part could this address possibly play in our investigation? Was it in some way connected with John Clay? Jones soon enlightened me. ‘Mr Clay is safe at his lodgings in Petticoat Lane. I have two men keeping watch on him and his associate, Archie Cooke. But I do not think they will attempt to fly the coop. The truth is that they are both as fond of Mr Devereux as we are and will be happy to see him brought to justice, particularly if, by helping us, they are able to escape it themselves.’

‘They have made contact with him?’

‘He understands that they are holding several hundred pounds’ worth of articles stolen from the Chancery Lane Safe Deposit, of which he believes himself to be entitled to half. The article in The Times was particularly well phrased, I thought—but will it be enough to entice him out of the legation? Who knows? Perhaps he will decide to send his agents, but even that may be enough to provide us with the evidence we need to make an arrest. We must just hope that he moves quickly. Mr Clay has made it clear to them that he needs to leave London urgently. That was of course my doing. Let us see what unfolds.’

‘And what of this place? Why are we here?’

‘Is it not obvious, my dear Chase?’ Jones smiled and it occurred to me that I was seeing him as he might once have been, before his illness had struck him down. ‘Whatever may happen in the next few days, it is clear to me that my career with Scotland Yard is finished. This is a conversation we have already begun. But we have spoken before, you and I, of working together. Why should we not make it a reality? Do you not think it might work?’

‘And these rooms… ?’

‘. . . are for rent on very reasonable terms. There is one bedroom—for you. I will, of course, continue to live with my dear Elspeth and Beatrice. But would not this be an ideal consulting room? Twelve steps from the street and just round the corner from… well, it’s of no matter. Would you consider it, my dear fellow? You have already told me that you are unmarried and have no family ties. Does America hold so very much for you that you would wish to return?’

‘And how would I live?’

‘It would be an equal partnership. The money we would make as consulting detectives would, I am sure, be more than enough.’

For a moment, I was unsure how to reply. ‘Inspector Jones,’ I said at length, ‘you never cease to surprise me and meeting you has certainly been one of the most remarkable experiences of my life. Will you forgive me if I ask for a little more time to consider your proposal?’

‘Of course.’ If he was disappointed by my reticence, he tried not to show it.

‘What you say is true,’ I continued. ‘I have led a somewhat solitary life in New York and I have allowed my work to consume me. I know that my time with the Pinkerton Agency is coming to an end and it might be good for me to consider new horizons. Even so, I must give the matter more thought. What say we leave any decision until our work is done and Clarence Devereux is brought to justice? From the way things are proceeding, that cannot be too long.’

‘I utterly concur. But shall I tell the landlord that we are interested? I am sure he can be persuaded to keep the rooms for a week or two. And after that, if you are in agreement, we will have to set about finding a Mrs Hudson to look after us. That is of the foremost importance. As to the future and our ability to sustain ourselves, I have many friends within Scotland Yard. Business will be forthcoming, I assure you.’

‘Your Holmes to my Watson? Maybe it’s not such a bad idea. They have, after all, left a gap that must be filled.’

He stepped forward and held out a hand. I took it. And in that moment, I think we were as close as we would ever be. I was still quite dazed by the suggestion but I could tell that my friend Jones was fired with enthusiasm, as if he were about to achieve something that he had been searching for his entire life.

That same evening, John Clay received a message from Clarence Devereux, delivered by a street urchin who had been paid sixpence for his pains. He was to present himself—along with the entire proceeds of the Chancery Lane Safe Deposit robbery—at Warehouse 17, Blackwall Basin. The meeting would take place at five o’clock in the afternoon, the following day. There was no signature on the note. The words, written in capital letters, were short and simple. Jones examined both the ink and the paper with his usual forensic eye but there was nothing that connected it with America or with the legation. Even so, neither of us had any doubt as to the identity of the sender.

The trap was set.

And so to the Friday. I had barely finished breakfast when the Boots informed me that I had a visitor. ‘Show him in,’ I said. There was still tea in the pot for two.

‘He’s outside,’ Boots returned, with a scowl. ‘He’s not the sort to be seen in a respectable establishment. He’s in the hall.’

Intrigued, I set down my napkin and left the room to find the most reprehensible-looking fellow waiting for me by the front door. I saw at once that he was dressed as a sailor, though one who would have disgraced any ship that would choose to have him as part of its crew. His red flannel shirt hung out of his canvas trousers and he had an ill-fitting pilot’s coat whose sleeves barely reached halfway down his arms. He was unshaven, his face stained with indigo, and there was a filthy bandage wrapped around his ankle. He had a crutch tucked under his arm and if it were not for the absence of a parrot, the picture of piracy and dissolution could not have been more complete.

‘Who are you?’ I demanded. ‘What is it you want?’

‘Beg pardon, sir.’ The man touched a dirty finger to his forelock. ‘I come from Blackwall Basin.’

‘And what is your business with me?’

‘To bring you to Mr Clay.’

‘I’ll be damned if I’ll go anywhere with you. Are you telling me that Clay sent you here? How did he know this address?’

‘It was given to him by that policeman. What’s his name? Jones! He’s waiting for you even now.’

‘Waiting for me where?’

‘I’m right in front of you, Chase. And the two of us should be on our way!’

‘Jones!’ I stared at him and as I did so, the detective moved forward, leaving the chimera of the sailor behind. ‘Is it really you?’ I exclaimed. ‘Well, I’ll be damned! You had me completely fooled. But why are you dressed like this? Why are you here?’

‘We must set out at once,’ Jones replied, and his voice was completely serious. ‘Our friend Mr Clay will be at the warehouse later but we must be there ahead of him. Devereux will not suspect that anything is amiss. He will have read the newspaper and he knows that Clay lives in fear of him. Even so, we can take no chances. Everything must be prepared.’

‘And the disguise?’

‘A necessary addition—and not just for me.’ He leaned down and picked up a cloth bag which he threw at me. ‘A sailor’s jacket and trousers—they came from the slop-house but they are less filthy than they appear. How quickly can you get changed? I have a cab waiting outside.’

Jones had suggested to me that I might one day recount our adventures—in the new Strand, perhaps—and it was as if, in taking me to the London docks, he had set me my first, impossible task. For how can I begin to describe the extraordinary panorama, the sprawling metropolis on the edge of the city, that now presented itself to me? My first impression was of a darkening sky but it was only smoke, vomiting out of the chimneys and reflecting drearily in the water below. Against this were silhouetted a hundred cranes and a thousand masts, a fleet of sailing ships, steamboats, barges, coasters and lighters, few of them moving, the majority of them frozen together in a grey tableau. I had never seen so many different flags. It seemed that the whole world had gathered here and as I drew nearer I saw negroes, lascars, Poles and Germans all shouting in different languages as if the tower of Babel had just fallen and they were fighting their way out of the debris.

The river itself ran black and indifferent to the chaos it had propagated. A network of canals had been cut inland, giving berth to Russian brigs, to hoys laden with straw, to luggers and sloops, while the cranes swung round with sacks of grain and great lengths of timber still smelling of turpentine, and the scene was as much an assault on the nose as on the eyes with spices, tea, cigars and, above all, rum, making their presence known long before they were seen. After a while, it became impossible to progress any faster than walking pace. Our way was blocked by a tangle of sailors and stevedores, horses, vans and wagons and even the widest passageways proved unequal to the task of processing this great mass of humanity.

Eventually, we climbed down. We were surrounded by shops—a carpenter’s, a wheelwright’s, a blacksmith’s, a plumber’s—vague figures going about their business behind dirty windows. A butcher in a blue apron strode past carrying a fat, squealing pig in a tiny cage, the whole thing balanced on his shoulder. A crowd of ragamuffin children—chasing each other or being chased—scattered on each side. There was a cry of warning and something foul and odorous splashed down from an open doorway above. Jones grabbed hold of me and we continued past a chandler and the inevitable pawnbroker, an old Jew sitting in the doorway, examining a pocket watch with an oversized magnifying glass. Ahead of us, I saw the first of the warehouses, a construction of woodwork, iron and brick, mouldering in the damp and half-sinking into the ground, which seemed unable to bear its weight. There were derricks jutting out in every direction and barrels of wine, boxes of hardware and all manner of sacks and hogsheads being lifted on ropes and pulleys, unloaded onto platforms and then swallowed up inside.

We continued, leaving some of the crowds behind us. The warehouses appeared to be numbered without rhyme or reason and we quickly came upon number seventeen which was square and solid, four storeys high, located on the corner where a canal met the river with large doorways open front and back. Jones led us to a pile of old nets strewn on the towpath and threw himself down, inviting me to do the same. A couple of crates and a rusting cannon completed our fête champêtre. Jones took out a bottle of gin and I opened it and took a cautious sip. It contained only water. I understood his purpose. We had several hours to wait until the rendezvous. Dressed as we were—for I was now in the attire of an itinerant dockworker—we would give no cause for suspicion, easily blending in with the scenery. We might be two dissolute labourers, waiting for the foreman to take pity on us and give us a day’s work.

Fortunately, it was a warm day and I must confess I quite enjoyed lying there in silent companionship with the constant activity going on all around us. I did not dare take out my watch—there was always the possibility that we were being observed—but from the movement of the clouds I could tell how the afternoon was passing and I was confident that Athelney Jones would be aware of any movement or anything that might suggest that Clarence Devereux was on his way.

In fact it was John Clay and Archie Cooke who arrived first, the two of them sitting next to each other on a light cart with a great pile of merchandise covered by a tarpaulin behind them. Clay, in his vanity, had cut his hair short, ridding himself of the strange appearance he had adopted when he was pretending to be a barber. I expected the two of them to stop but they drove straight into the warehouse without noticing us.

‘Now it begins,’ Chase muttered, barely glancing at me.

Another hour passed. There were still crowds of people in the dock, for labour would continue until night fell and perhaps even beyond. Behind us, a barge laden with corn and oil-cake was slowly pulling out, churning through the sluggish water, on its way to who knew where. Clay had disappeared inside the building. I could just make out the back of the vehicle that had brought him here but the rest of it was lost in the shadows. The sun must surely be setting but the sky remained the same miserable shade of grey.

Another carriage approached, this one a brougham with the windows curtained and two grim-faced attendants behind the horse. They could have been undertakers on their way to the cemetery and the sight of the window, covered by a heavy black curtain, made me wonder if we might have achieved our aim and drawn Clarence Devereux out of the legation. Could he have come to assess the stolen property for himself? Jones nudged me and we shuffled forward, watching as the carriage came to a halt just in the shadow of the entrance. All our hopes rested on the opening of the door. Next to me, Jones was still, watchful, and I remembered that, for him, it was his entire career that was at stake.

We were both to be disappointed. It was Edgar Mortlake, the younger of the two brothers, who stepped out and surveyed his surroundings with distaste. Two hooligan boys had travelled with him—these people never went anywhere alone—and they stood either side of him, providing the same protection that had been in evidence when we first met him at Bladeston House. Jones and I moved closer still, keeping to the shadows and remaining out of sight. It was quite possible that Mortlake had agents outside the building but the two of us posed no obvious threat—or so I hoped. At least we now had a better view of what was happening inside.

The setting reminded me of a theatre of Shakespeare’s time with the four tiers surrounding a central stage and providing an excellent vantage point for an audience that had failed to appear. The building was as tall as it was wide, dominated by a circular stained-glass window which might have been stolen from a chapel. There were wooden beams criss-crossing each other, dangling ropes—some of them connected to hooks and counterweights to lift goods to the upper floor—slanting platforms and, hidden away here and there, tiny offices. The ground floor, where the drama was to take place, was open and almost empty with a light scattering of sawdust. It seemed that I had watched the entire cast arrive.

The cart was parked to one side, the horse snorting and shifting its head impatiently. A pair of trestle tables had been set up and John Clay and Archie Cooke were standing in front of them, rather in the manner of two shopkeepers with a difficult customer. There were about fifty different objects on display: silver cutlery and candlesticks, jewellery, several oil paintings, glassware and china, banknotes and coins. I had no idea where they had all come from—Chancery Lane Safe Deposit had, of course, not been touched—but supposed Jones must have supplied them, perhaps from the evidence room in Scotland Yard.

From where we were standing, we were able to hear the conversation that ensued. Mortlake strode the full length of the tables, his hands clasped behind his back. He was wearing the dark frock coat that he seemed to favour but he had left his walking stick behind. He stopped opposite John Clay, his eyes glinting with hostility. ‘A poor haul, Mr Clay,’ he muttered, ‘quite miserable. Not at all what we had expected.’

‘We were unlucky, Mr Mortlake,’ Clay replied. ‘The tunnel worked well enough—although it was the devil’s own work, you have no idea! But we were disturbed before we could open too many of the boxes.’

‘This is all of it?’ Mortlake stepped closer so that he towered over the smaller man. ‘You haven’t thought to hold something back?’

‘This is all of it, sir. You have my word as a gentleman.’

‘Upon our lives!’ Archie croaked.

‘It is indeed your lives that will be forfeit if I find you are lying to me.’

‘There’s a thousand pounds here,’ Clay insisted.

‘That’s not what I read in the newspapers.’

‘The newspapers lied. The Safe Deposit Company would not want to alarm their customers. A thousand pounds, Mr Mortlake! Five hundred each. Not so bad for a few weeks’ labour, the labour in question being Archie’s and mine. You and your friends come out of it handsomely.’

‘My friends are of a different opinion. In fact, I must inform you that Mr Devereux is far from satisfied. He had expected more and feels that you have disappointed him; that you are, in effect, in breach of contract. He has therefore instructed me to take all of it.’

‘All of it?’

‘You may keep this.’ Mortlake leaned forward and plucked out a silver eggcup. ‘A souvenir of your work.’

‘An eggcup?’

‘An eggcup and your life. And the next time Mr Devereux has need of your services, you will perhaps come up with a strategy that leads to a decent return. There is a bank in Russell Square that has come to our attention and I would advise you against leaving—or trying to leave—London. We will see you in due course.’

Mortlake nodded at the hooligan boys who produced sacks that they proceeded to fill, sweeping the goods off the tables. Athelney Jones had seen enough. I saw him stride into full view, at the same time producing a whistle from his pocket. He blew a single, long blast and suddenly a dozen policemen in full uniform appeared at both ends of the warehouse, blocking the exits. To this day I am not sure where they had been concealed. Could they have come off one of the boats that had been moored nearby? Had they been tucked away in one of the offices? Wherever they had come from, they had been well drilled and closed in around us as Jones and I walked purposefully towards the little group.

‘Stand where you are, Mr Mortlake,’ Jones announced. ‘I have witnessed everything that has taken place here and I have heard you name your accomplice. I am arresting you for conspiracy to commit burglary and for receiving stolen goods. You are exposed as part of a criminal network that has brought terror and bloodshed to the streets of London but this is the end of it. You, your brother and Clarence Devereux will answer to the courts.’

Throughout this lengthy speech, Edgar Mortlake had stood there, showing no expression at all. When Jones had finished he turned not to the detective but to the thief, John Clay, who was blinking uncomfortably. ‘You knew of this,’ he said, simply.

‘They gave me no choice. But I will tell you that, in actual fact, I don’t give a jot. I’ve had enough of your threats, your violence, your greed and I cannot forgive you for what you did to my friend Archie. You give crime a bad name. London will be better off once it’s seen the back of you.’

‘You have betrayed us.’

‘Wait…’ Clay began.

I saw Mortlake’s hand swing through the air and thought he had slapped the other man across the face although it was strange, for there was no sound of any contact. Clay looked puzzled too. Then I realised it was far, far worse. Mortlake had something concealed in his sleeve, a viciously sharp blade on some sort of mechanism which had sprung out like a snake’s tongue. He had used it to cut Clay’s throat. For just one moment, I entertained the hope that he had missed, that Clay had not been harmed, but then a thin line of red appeared above the thief’s collar. Clay stood there, gasping for air, looking to us for explanation. Then the wound opened and a torrent of blood poured out. Clay fell to his knees and Archie screamed and covered his eyes. I could only watch as the nightmare continued before me.

The hooligan boys had dropped the sacks that they had been carrying and produced guns. Moving almost mechanically, they spread out and began to blast at the policemen, killing two or three of them in the first volley. Even as the bodies fell to the ground, one of them picked up a machete—it was lying on a crate—and swung it through the air, severing a rope just a few feet away. Mortlake had reached out and taken hold of a second rope: the two of them were connected and there must have been a counterweight for he was suddenly lifted high into the air like a magician performing a trick or perhaps an acrobat at the circus. In seconds, even as the noise of the gunfire and the smoke from the revolvers billowed out, he had become a tiny figure four storeys up, swinging himself onto a platform and disappearing from sight.

‘Get after him!’ Jones shouted.

Most of the policemen were armed and returned fire. Hopelessly outnumbered, Mortlake’s protectors continued to empty their pistols but were quickly shot down, one of them spinning onto a trestle table, which collapsed beneath him. I could only wonder at the sense of loyalty or fear that had persuaded them to sacrifice their lives for their master who had simply abandoned them to their fate.

I had not stayed to watch any more of the shoot-out. Ducking down, afraid for my own safety, I had obeyed Jones’s command and had already reached a wooden staircase that zigzagged from floor to floor. There was a second, similar set of stairs at the far end and, as I watched, three policemen peeled off to cover them. Mortlake might have made a dramatic escape from the area of combat but he must still be trapped within the building.

I climbed the stairs, which creaked and bent beneath my weight. Dust and the smell of gunpowder filled my nostrils. Finally, I reached the top and—breathless, my heart pounding—I found myself in a narrow passageway with a wooden wall on one side of me and an unprotected drop on the other. Glancing back down, I saw Athelney Jones had taken charge of the situation. He was not physically able to follow me. Clay lay spreadeagled in a widening pool of blood which seemed even more shocking from this height, like a vast red ink blot. There were casks, crates, hogsheads and bulging sacks scattered all around me and I proceeded slowly, suddenly remembering that although I was unarmed, Mortlake carried a dreadful weapon and could leap out from any of a hundred hiding places. The three police officers had also reached the top but were some distance away, silhouetted against the round window, proceeding slowly towards me.

I came to an opening. It was as if part of the wall had been folded back—not exactly a door nor a window but something in between. I saw the grey of the evening and the rushing clouds. The Thames was before me, a couple of tugs making their way east but otherwise still and silent. In front of me was a long platform connected to the warehouse by two rusting chains with a complicated winch system constructed beside it. Perhaps Mortlake had hoped to use it to lower himself back down, but either it wasn’t working or I had arrived too quickly for there suddenly he was, in front of me, his coat flapping in the breeze and his dead eyes fixed on mine.

I remained where I was, not daring to move forward. The knife, now stained with blood, was still jutting from his sleeve. Standing there on the platform, with his oily black hair and moustache, he reminded me more than ever of an actor on the stage. I’m sure the Kiralfy brothers of New York never presented a character more vengeful nor more dangerous.

‘Well, well, well,’ he exclaimed. ‘Pinkerton, you surprise me. I have come upon your sort before, Bob Pinkerton’s boys, and they are not usually so astute. You seem to have outplayed me.’

‘You have nowhere to go, Mortlake!’ I returned. I did not dare move any closer forward. I was still afraid that he would rush at me and use that hideous weapon. He stood where he was. The sluggish water of the river was below him but if he tried to jump he would surely drown, if the fall did not kill him first. ‘Put down your weapon. Give yourself up.’

His reply was a profanity of the worst sort. I felt the presence of the police officers nearby and saw them out of the corner of my eye, gathering uncertainly in the doorway behind me. Not exactly the cavalry, but I was relieved that I was no longer on my own.

‘Give us Devereux!’ I said. ‘He is the one we want. Turn him in and it will go easier for you.’

‘I will give you nothing but this: the promise that you will regret this until the end of your days. But trust me, Pinkerton, there won’t be many of them. You and I will have our reckoning.’

In a single movement, without hesitating, Mortlake turned and jumped. I saw him fall through the air, his coat flapping up behind him, and watched as he plunged feet first into the river, disappearing beneath the surface. I ran forward, the wood tilting beneath me and suddenly I was dizzy and might have fallen myself had not one of the constables grabbed hold of me.

‘It’s too late, sir!’ I heard a voice shouting. ‘He’s finished.’

I was being held and I was grateful for it. I stared down at the water but there was nothing more to see, not even a ripple.

Edgar Mortlake had gone.