Moriarty

17 Dead Man’s Walk

I knew that something terrible and unexpected had happened the moment I set eyes on Athelney Jones at Hexam’s Hotel the next day. His features, in which the long history of his illness was always written, were more drawn and haggard than ever and he was so pale that I felt obliged to lead him to a chair, for I was certain he was about to faint. I did not let him speak but ordered hot tea and lemon and sat with him until it arrived. My first thought was that his meeting with the Commissioner had already taken place and that he had lost his position with the Metropolitan Police, but knowing him as I now did and recalling our conversation in the rooms in Chiltern Street, I knew that such an event would hardly matter to him and that whatever had happened was much, much worse.

His first words proved me right. ‘They have taken Beatrice.’

‘What?’

‘My daughter—they are holding her ransom.’

‘How do you know? How can it be possible?’

‘My wife sent me a telegram. It was brought by a messenger for it will be weeks before our own telegraph room has been repaired. I received it in my office, this morning; an urgent summons telling me to come home at once. Of course I did as I was instructed. When I arrived, Elspeth was in such distress that she could barely make herself understood and I was obliged to give her a few drops of sal volatile to calm her down. Poor woman! What must have been going through her thoughts as she waited for me to return—alone and with no one to console her?

‘Beatrice disappeared this morning. She had gone out with her nanny, Miss Jackson, a good reliable woman who has been with us these past five years. It was their custom always to stroll together on Myatt’s Fields, quite close to the house. This morning, Miss Jackson’s attention was briefly diverted by an elderly woman, asking her for directions. I have interviewed her and I have no doubt that this old woman, whose face was hidden by a veil, was part of the conspiracy and served as a distraction. When Miss Jackson next turned round, Beatrice had gone.’

‘Could she not have simply strayed?’

‘It would not have been in her character, but even so the nanny tried to persuade herself of exactly that. It is human nature to cling onto one’s hopes, no matter how far-fetched they may be. She made a thorough search of the park and the surrounding area before she called for assistance. Nobody had seen our daughter. It was as if she had vanished from the face of the earth and, not wishing to delay any further, Miss Jackson hurried home in considerable distress. Elspeth was waiting for her. She did not need to be told what had happened for a note had already been slipped through the door. I have it here.’

Jones unfolded a sheet of paper and handed it to me. There were but a few words, written in block capitals, all the more menacing for their stark simplicity.

WE HAVE YOUR DAUHTER. REMAIN AT HOME. TELL NO ONE. WE WILL CONTACT YOU BEFORE DAY’S END.

‘This tells us almost nothing,’ I said.

‘It tells us a great deal,’ Jones replied, irritably. ‘It is from an educated man pretending to be an uneducated one. He is left-handed. He works in, or has access to, a library, though one that is seldom visited. He is single-minded and ruthless but at the same time he is acting under stress, which makes him impetuous. The letter was written in the heat of the moment. Almost certainly, I am describing Clarence Devereux for I believe him to be the author of this letter.’

‘How can you know so much?’

‘Is it not obvious? He pretends to misspell “daughter” but his spelling is correct in every other respect, even to the extent of including the apostrophe in “day’s”. Searching for a piece of paper, he has reached for a book on a shelf and torn out one of the flyleaves. You can see that two sides of the page are machine-cut while the outer edge is deckled. The book has not been read. Observe the dust and the discolouration—caused by sunlight—along the top. He used his left hand to tear it from the binding. His thumb, slanting outwards, has left a clear impression. It was an act of vandalism, the mark of a man in a hurry, and it would have been noticed if the book had been frequently used.’ Jones buried his head in his hands. ‘Why is it that my skills can tell me all this but could not forewarn me that my own child might be in danger?’

‘Do not distress yourself,’ I said. ‘Nobody could have foreseen this. In all my years as an agent I never encountered anything like it. For Devereux to have targeted you in this way… it’s an outrage! Have you informed your colleagues at Scotland Yard?’

‘I dare not.’

‘I think you should.’

‘No. I cannot put her at risk.’

I thought for a moment. ‘You should not be here. The note commands you to remain at home.’

‘Elspeth is there now. But I had to come. If they have set upon me in this manner, it is almost certain that they will try something similar with you. She agreed with me. We had to warn you.’

‘I have seen nobody.’

‘Have you been out of the hotel?’

‘Not yet. No. I spent the morning in my room, writing my report for Robert Pinkerton.’

‘Then I found you in time. You must return with me to Camberwell. Is it too much to ask of you? Whatever occurs, we must face it together.’

‘All that matters is the return of your daughter.’

‘Thank you.’

I reached out and briefly laid a hand on his arm. ‘They will not harm her, Jones. It is you and me that they want.’

‘But why?’

‘I cannot say, but we must prepare for the worst.’ I stood up. ‘I will return to my room and fetch my coat. I wish I had brought my gun with me from New York. Finish the tea and rest a little. You may have need of your strength.’

We travelled together on the train back to Camberwell, neither of us speaking as we made our way through the outer reaches of London. Jones sat with his eyes half-closed, deep in thought. For my part, I could not help but reflect on the much larger journey that we had undertaken together, the one that had started in Meiringen. Were we about to reach its end? Right now it might seem that Clarence Devereux had the upper hand but I consoled myself with the thought that he might finally have outreached himself and that, by striking at the detective’s family, he had made his first false move. It was the action of a desperate man and perhaps one that we might be able to turn against him.

The train seemed almost deliberately slow, but at last we reached our destination and hurried back to the house where I had been a guest, at dinner, only a week before. Elspeth Jones was waiting for us in the room where she and I had first met. She was standing with one hand resting on a chair. It was the same chair where I had found her sitting, reading to her daughter. She saw me and made no effort to conceal the anger in her eyes. Perhaps I deserved it. She had asked me for my protection and I had promised her that all would be well. How vain those words now seemed.

‘You have heard nothing?’

‘No. And there is nothing here?’

‘Not a word. Maria is upstairs. She is inconsolable although I have told her she cannot be blamed.’ Maria, I assumed, was Miss Jackson, the nanny. ‘Did you see Lestrade?’

‘No.’ Jones lowered his head. ‘God forgive me if I am making the wrong decision, but I cannot disobey their instructions.’

‘I will not allow you to face them alone.’

‘I am not alone. Mr Chase is with me.’

‘I do not trust Mr Chase.’

‘Elspeth!’ Jones was offended.

‘You are unkind, Mrs Jones,’ I began. ‘Throughout this business, I have done everything I can—’

‘You will forgive me if I speak openly.’ The woman turned to her husband. ‘In the circumstances, I cannot be expected to do otherwise. From the very start, when you left for Switzerland, I was afraid of something like this. I have had a sense of approaching evil, Athelney. No—do not shake your head at me like that. Do we not learn in the church that evil has a physical presence, that we may feel it like a cold winter or a coming storm? “Deliver us from evil!” We say it every night. And now it is here. Maybe you invited it. Maybe it was coming anyway. I do not care who I offend. I will not lose you to it.’

‘I have no choice but to do as they ask.’

‘And if they kill you?’

‘I don’t believe they want to kill us,’ I said. ‘It would do them no good. To begin with, other officers would take our place soon enough. And although the murder of a Pinkerton’s man might be received with a certain indifference, the death of a Scotland Yard inspector would be quite another matter.

There is no way our enemy would wish to bring such trouble upon himself.’

‘Then what is his intention?’

‘I have no idea. To warn us, to frighten us—perhaps to show us the extent of his power.’

‘He will kill Beatrice.’

‘Again, I don’t think so. He is using her to reach us. You have the letter as proof of that. I know these people. I know the way they work. These are New York methods. Extortion. Intimidation. But I swear to God, they will not harm your child—simply because they have nothing to gain.’

Elspeth nodded very slightly but did not look at me again. The three of us sat at the table and so began what I can honestly describe as the longest afternoon of my life with the clock on the mantelpiece sonorously marking every second that passed. We could do nothing but wait. Conversation between us was impossible and although the little maid came up with tea and sandwiches, none of us ate. I was aware of the traffic moving outside and the sky already darkening but I must have slipped into a reverie because I was suddenly aware of a loud knock on the door, jerking me awake.

‘It is she!’ Elspeth exclaimed.

‘Let us pray…’ Jones was already on his feet although the long time spent sitting had locked his muscles together and he moved awkwardly.

We all followed him to the front door but when he threw it open there was no sign of his daughter. A man in a cap stood there, holding out a second message. Jones snatched it from him. ‘Where did you receive this?’ he demanded.

The messenger looked indignant. ‘I was in the pub. The Camberwell Arms. A man gave me a bob to deliver this.’

‘Describe him to me! I am a police officer and if you hold anything back it will go the worse for you.’

‘I’ve done nothing wrong. I’m a carpenter by trade and I hardly saw him. He was a dark fellow with a hat and a scarf drawn over his chin. He asked me if I wanted to earn a shilling and he gave me this. He said there was two men in the house and I was to give it to either of them. That’s all I know.’

Jones took the letter and we returned to the sitting room where he opened it. It was written in the same hand as the first but this time the language was even terser.

DEAD MAN’S WALK. BOTH OF YOU. NO POLICE.

‘Dead Man’s Walk!’ Elspeth said, with a shudder. ‘What a horrible name. What is it?’ Jones did not answer her question. ‘Tell me!’

‘I do not know. But I can look it up in my index. Give me but a minute…’

Elspeth Jones and I stood there together as Jones clumped upstairs to his study. We waited while he searched through the various paragraphs he had brought together over the years—Holmes, of course, had done the same. And I am sure we both counted every one of his steps as he made his way back down.

‘It is in Southwark,’ he explained, as he entered the room.

‘Do you know what it is?’

‘I do, my dear, and you must not concern yourself. It is a cemetery—one that has fallen into disuse. It was closed down years ago.’

‘Why a cemetery? Are they telling you that our daughter…’

‘No. They have chosen somewhere quiet and out of the way for whatever business it is that they wish to conduct. This is as good a place as any.’

‘You must not leave!’ Elspeth seized the note as if she could find further clues in its brief message. ‘If they have Beatrice there, you can now go to the police. You must go to the police. I will not allow you to put yourself in danger.’

‘If we do not obey their instructions, I think it very unlikely that we will find our girl there, my love. These people are cunning and give every indication that they know what they are doing. It may be that they are watching us even as we speak.’

‘How is that possible? Why do you think that?’

‘The first note was addressed to me alone. This one refers to both of us. The messenger was told there are two men in this house. They know that Chase is here.’

‘I will not let you do this!’ Elspeth Jones spoke quietly but her voice was filled with passion. ‘Please listen to me, my dearest one. Let me go instead of you. Surely these people cannot be so wicked that they will ignore a mother’s pleas. I will exchange myself for her—’

‘That is not their desire. It is Chase and I who have to go. We are the ones they wish to speak with. But you do not have to be afraid. What Chase said was right. They have nothing to gain from harming us. It is my belief that Clarence Devereux wishes to strike some sort of deal with us. That is all. At any event, there is no point in this speculation when Beatrice’s life is at stake. If we refuse to obey their instructions, they will do their worst. Of that there can be no doubt.’

‘They do not say what time they want you.’

‘Then we must leave immediately.’

Elspeth did not argue. Instead, she took her husband in her arms, embracing him as if for the last time. I will confess that I had my doubts about what Jones had just said. If Clarence Devereux had merely wished to speak to us, he would not have kidnapped a six-year-old girl and used her to drag us to a disused cemetery. He might have nothing to gain by harming us but that wouldn’t stop him doing so. I knew him. I knew how he operated. We might as well have argued with the scarlet fever as with him and once we were in his hands he would destroy us simply because it was in his nature.

We left the house. It seemed to me that the night was unseasonably cold although there was not the slightest breeze. Jones held his wife at the door, the two of them gazing into each other’s eyes, and then, suddenly, we were alone in the seemingly empty street. And yet I knew that we were being watched.

‘We are leaving, damn you!’ I cried. ‘We are alone. We will come to Dead Man’s Walk and you can do with us as you please!’

‘They cannot hear us,’ Jones said.

‘They are nearby,’ I replied. ‘You said as much yourself. They know we are on our way.’

We were not a great distance from Southwark and made our way there by cab. Jones wore a greatcoat and I noticed that he had brought with him a new walking stick, this one with a handle carved in the shape of a raven’s head. It was a suitable accessory for a cemetery. He was unusually tense and silent and it struck me that he hadn’t believed a word of what he had said to his wife either. We were heading into mortal peril and he knew it. He had known it when he invited me along.

Dead Man’s Walk has long since disappeared. It was one of those cemeteries built in the first part of the century when nobody understood how many people would live in London and therefore, inevitably, die there. All too quickly it had become oversubscribed with so many bodies crammed in next to one another that the tombstones and memorials, rather than providing the solace and remembrance that had been intended, had become a hideous spectacle, slanting at strange angles, leaning on each other, locked in an eternal struggle for space. For many years, a foul and putrid smell had hung over the place. The later graves were desperately shallow, unequal to the task, and it would not be uncommon to find rotting pieces of coffin wood or even shards of human bone poking through the soil. Inevitably, the cemetery had been abandoned. Other cemeteries had been sold off and some had become parks. But Dead Man’s Walk had been left behind, a long irregular space between a railway line and an old workhouse, with rusting gates at each end, a few mouldy trees and a sense that it belonged neither to this world nor to the next but existed in a dark, dismal province of its own.

The cab dropped us as the church bells were striking eight o’clock, the hollow chimes echoing in the dark. I saw at once that we were expected and my spirits sank. There were a dozen roughs waiting for us, so dirty and ragged that they could themselves have been summoned from the graves that surrounded them. They were dressed, for the most part, in close-fitting coatees, greasy corduroys and boots. Some of them were bareheaded, others wore billycocks and carried cudgels which they balanced on their shoulders or on the crooks of their arms. Torches had been lit, throwing red light across the gravestones as if they were determined to make the scene even more hellish. How long they had been there, I could not say, but it seemed incredible to me that we were simply going to deliver ourselves to them. I had to remind myself that there was no alternative, that we had made our choice.

Still, we lingered at the gate.

‘Where is my daughter?’ Jones called out.

‘You came alone?’The speaker was a bearded man with long, tangled hair and a broken nose that threw uneven shadows across his face.

‘Yes. Where is she?’

There was a pause. A sudden breeze whispered through the cemetery and the flames bowed in recognition. Then a figure appeared, stepping out from behind a monument with a stone angel perched above. For a moment, I thought it might be Clarence Devereux but then I remembered that his condition would not allow him to show himself in this open space. It was Edgar Mortlake. I had last seen him plunging into the river and to my eyes he now seemed more dead than alive, moving slowly, as if the impact of the water had broken several of his bones. He was not alone. Beatrice Jones, pale and tearful, was holding his hand. Her hair was unbrushed and there were smuts on her face. Her dress was torn and soiled. But she looked unharmed.

‘We don’t give a damn about your dear little daughter!’ Mortlake shouted. ‘It’s you we want. You and your infernal friend.’

‘We’re here.’

‘Come closer. Come and join us! We have nothing to gain by keeping her. We have a carriage waiting to send her home. But if you do not do as I say, you will see something you might rather not.’ He had lifted his other hand, revealing a long-bladed knife, which glinted in the flames as it hung over the little girl. Mercifully, she could not see it. I had no doubt at all that he would use it if we did not obey his instructions. He would cut the girl’s throat where she stood. Jones and I exchanged a glance. Together, we moved forward.

At once we were surrounded, the hooligan boys moving behind us, cutting off any means of escape. Mortlake stepped towards us, still holding onto Beatrice. She had recognised her father but was too terrified to speak. ‘Take the girl back home.’ He handed her to one of the younger men, a curly-haired rogue with a smile and a stye in one eye. The two of them walked off together. ‘You see, Inspector Jones? I am true to my word.’

Jones waited until his daughter had left the cemetery. ‘You are a coward—a man who steals a child and uses her for his own evil ends. You are beneath contempt.’

‘And you are the cripple who killed my brother.’ Mortlake was very close to Jones now, his face inches away, staring at him with eyes on the edge of madness. ‘You will suffer for that, I assure you. But first there are some questions you must answer. And answer them you will!’

Mortlake nodded and I saw one of the roughs step forward with a shillelagh, which he swung viciously through the air, hammering it into the back of Jones’s head. Jones fell without another word and I realised that I was now alone with the enemy, that they were all around me, and that Mortlake had already turned to me. I knew what was coming. I expected it. But I was still unprepared for the explosion of pain that sent me hurtling forward into a tunnel of darkness and certain death.