Moriarty

20 Diplomatic Immunity

It seemed strange that, in the end, the entire affair—my long and painful search for the greatest criminal who ever came out of America—should come down to the formality of a meeting with three men in a room. We went back to the legation in Victoria Street, this time using our own names and with the full knowledge of the Chief Commissioner. Indeed, permission had been sought as far up as the office of the Foreign Secretary, Lord Salisbury himself. And so we found ourselves sitting in front of the envoy, Robert T. Lincoln, and his councillor, Henry White, both of whom had greeted us on the night of the party. The third man was Charles Isham, Lincoln’s secretary, a rather wayward young man now wearing a mauve jacket and a floppy cravat. It was he who had arrested us at the behest of Edgar and Leland Mortlake.

We were in a room that must surely be used as a library; two entire walls being lined with books, hefty legal tomes which had surely never been read. The walls opposite were painted an anaemic shade of grey, covered with portraits of former envoys, the earliest of them in high collars and stocks. Wire screens had been drawn over the windows, blocking the view into Victoria Street, and I wondered if this might presage a visit from Devereux himself. He had not been there when we arrived, nor had his name yet been mentioned. We were at least certain that he must be somewhere in the building, assuming, that is, that he had returned there after his appearance at Smithfield market. Inspector Jones had positioned police constables around the building, all of them out of uniform. They had been discreetly watching everyone who came and went during the day.

Robert Lincoln I have already described. Large and ungainly though he was, I had found him an impressive person when he had been the host at his reception, graciously acknowledging the many guests who wished to speak to him while ensuring that any conversation took place on his own terms. He was the same now, sitting in a high-backed chair with an antique table beside him. Even in this quieter and more confidential setting, he commanded the room. He did not need to speak. He thought long and hard before he made any pronouncement and his sentences were brief and to the point. White seemed to be the more worried of the three, sitting to one side and examining us with ever watchful eyes. It was he who had begun the conversation.

‘I must ask you, Inspector Jones, quite what you had in mind when you came here a few days ago, masquerading under a false name and carrying an invitation which you had purloined. Were you unaware of the seriousness of your conduct?’

‘It has been made very clear to me and I can only extend my apologies to you and to the envoy. Let me say, though, that the situation was a desperate one. I was in pursuit of a dangerous gang of criminals. There had been much bloodshed. They attempted to kill me… an explosion that claimed more than one life.’

‘How can you be sure that they were responsible?’ Lincoln asked.

‘I cannot, sir. All I can say is that Chase and I pursued them to this address. A brougham driver brought them here directly from Scotland Yard immediately following the outrage.’

‘He could have been mistaken.’

‘It is possible, but I do not believe it. Mr Guthrie seemed quite certain of himself. Otherwise, I would not have entered in the manner that I did.’

‘That was my suggestion,’ I said. I was not feeling well and knew that I presented a disagreeable sight. The ill treatment that I had received at the hands of Mortlake’s thugs had been more serious than I had thought: the whole side of my face was swollen, my eye blackened, my lip cracked so that I spoke with difficulty. Jones looked little better. Smartly presented though we both were, I was aware that we must resemble the victims of a train wreck. ‘I was responsible,’ I continued. ‘I persuaded Inspector Jones to come.’

‘We are well aware of the methods of the Pinkerton Agency,’ Isham muttered. He had been unsympathetic from the start. ‘Inciting riots. Attempting to incriminate hard-working men because they had chosen, quite legitimately, to go on strike—’

‘As far as I am aware, we have been guilty of none of those things. Certainly, I was not involved in the Chicago railway strikes or any others.’

‘That’s not in question now, Charlie,’ Lincoln said, quietly.

‘We acted unlawfully,’ Jones continued. ‘I admit it. But as things turned out, we were… I will not say justified, but at least we were proven right. The criminal known as Clarence Devereux was indeed seeking refuge within these walls, using the assumed name of Coleman De Vriess. Or perhaps that is his real name and Devereux is his alias. Either way, we discovered him here. And that was what led him to strike back at us in a way that was unparalleled in all my years as an officer of the law.’

‘He kidnapped your daughter.’

‘Yes, Minister,’ Jones said, addressing the envoy formally. ‘His men took my six-year-old child and used her as bait to capture Chase and myself.’

‘I have two daughters,’ Lincoln muttered. ‘And only recently I lost a son to sickness. I understand your anguish.’

‘Last night, in the catacombs beneath Smithfield meat market, Clarence Devereux threatened us with torture and death. We are only here thanks to a miraculous escape, which we are still hard-pressed to explain. Well, that is for another time. But right now, sir, I can swear that the man who assaulted us and who is responsible for a catalogue of crimes in both your country and mine is the same man whom you call your third secretary. I am here to request—even to demand—that we be allowed to question him and, in due course, bring him to face justice in a court of law.’

There was a lengthy silence after this. Everyone was waiting for Lincoln to speak but instead he nodded at his councillor who stroked his beard pensively and then addressed us thus: ‘I regret that it is not quite as simple and as straightforward as you would like, Inspector Jones. Let us set aside, for a moment, your personal testimony and whether or not it is to be believed.’

‘Wait!’ I began, already outraged by the position he had chosen to take. But Jones raised a hand, cautioning me to stay silent.

‘I am not saying that I doubt your word even though I will admit that your methods, your intrusion here, leave much to be desired. I can also see for myself the injuries sustained by you and by your associate, Mr Chase. No. What is of the essence here is the principal of extraterritoriality. An envoy is the representative of those who sent him and almost a century ago, Thomas McKean, the Chief Justice of Pennsylvania, set down that the person of the public minister serving abroad is both sacred and inviolable and that to suggest otherwise would be a direct attack on the sanctity of the nation state. I must add that this protection extends to all who serve under the envoy. How could it be otherwise? To deny his servants the same privilege of diplomatic immunity would cause all manner of difficulties and would eventually undermine the independence of the envoy himself.’

‘Forgive me, sir. But surely the envoy has the right to waive that immunity if he deems it appropriate?’

‘That has never been the practice of the United States. Our view is that the legation remains outside the civil law of the country in which it finds itself. It is, you might say, an island. I am afraid that these premises are protected from criminal process. Mr De Vriess, like Mr Isham and myself, can refuse to testify in both civil and criminal proceedings. Indeed, even were he to choose otherwise, he would still require authorisation from the envoy himself.’

‘You are saying, then, that we cannot prosecute him?’

‘That is exactly what I am saying.’

‘But you would surely agree that natural law, basic humanity, demands that all crimes must be punished.’

‘You have given us no evidence,’ Isham cut in. ‘Mr Chase has been injured. You have been forced to endure the temporary loss of your daughter. But nothing that you say fits the character of Mr De Vriess as we know him.’

‘And what if I am telling the truth? What if I tell you that, unbeknownst to you, Coleman De Vriess has taken advantage of the system that you describe? Will you gentlemen sit here and protect a man who has come to London only to inflict terror on its population?’

‘It is not we who protect him!’

‘But still he is protected. His associate, Edgar Mortlake, was sipping cocktails within these very walls. With my own eyes I saw Mortlake cut the throat of a man who had crossed him. It was he who took my girl, and his brother, Leland, the cold-blooded partner in his schemes, was responsible for the murder of the Pinkerton agent, Jonathan Pilgrim. Would you stand up for them if they were still alive? When my friend Chase came to England, he brought with him files that were filled with the vile activities of this gang, carried out all over America. I have seen them. I can show them to you. Murders, thefts, blackmail, extortion… Clarence Devereux was the chief architect of all this misery, the same Clarence Devereux who only last night threatened to torture us to death, like cattle. I know that you are honourable men; I refuse to believe that you will stand in the way of due process and continue to live with this viper among you.’

‘The evidence!’ Isham insisted. ‘It is all very well for you to speak of process. I myself have studied the law. Probatio vincit praesumptionem. There! What do you say to that?’

‘You speak in Latin, sir. I speak of a daughter stolen from my arms.’

‘If we cannot prosecute him, can we at least not question him?’ I asked. ‘Surely we have the right to interview him, inside Scotland Yard and with any counsel that you wish to provide. We will prove to you the truth of our allegations and then, if we cannot prosecute him here, at least we can see him sent home to face justice in America. Inspector Jones is right. He should be anathema to you. Do you really doubt us? You see the injuries we have both suffered. From where do you think they came?’

Charles Isham still looked doubtful but Henry White glanced at Lincoln who came to a decision. ‘Where is Mr De Vriess?’ he asked.

‘He is waiting in the next room.’

‘Then perhaps you might ask him to step in.’

It was progress of sorts. Isham, the secretary, stood up and went to a pair of adjoining doors and opened them—and a second later, after a brief, murmured exchange, Clarence Devereux stepped into the room. I cannot quite express the strange thrill that I felt to see him, to know that he could do me no further harm. Certainly, he was meek enough, affecting that same self-deprecation that he had displayed when we first set eyes on him, barely noticing him, that night at the legation. He pretended to be startled to be in such grand company, blinking nervously in front of the envoy and his advisors. Nor did he seem to recognise Jones and myself, looking at us as if we were complete strangers. He was wearing the same coloured silk waistcoat that he had worn the night before but in every other respect he could have been a quite different man.

‘Minister?’ he queried, as Isham closed the door.

‘Please take a seat, Mr De Vriess.’

Another chair was made available and Devereux sat down, keeping a distance between himself and us. ‘May I ask why I have been summoned here, sir?’ He looked at us a second time. ‘I know these gentlemen! They were here on the night of the Anglo-American trade celebration. One of the guests recognised them as imposters and I was forced to eject them. Why are they here?’

‘They have made some very serious allegations about you,’ White explained.

‘Allegations? About me?’

‘May I ask where you were last night, Mr De Vriess?’

‘I was here, Mr White. Where else could I have been? You know that I am unable to venture out unless it is a matter of urgency and even then I can only do so with the most careful preparation.’

‘They claim they met you at Smithfield market.’

‘I will not call it a lie, sir. I will not say that they are seeking revenge for what took place here a week ago. It would be quite wrong to make such assertions in front of His Excellency. I will say only that it is the most dreadful error. That this is a case of mistaken identity. They have confused me with someone else.’

‘You do not know the name Clarence Devereux?’

‘Clarence Devereux? Clarence Devereux?’ His eyes brightened. ‘CD! There you have it. We share the same initials! Is this the cause of the misunderstanding? But no, I have never heard the name.’

Lincoln turned to Jones, inviting him to speak.

‘You deny that you imprisoned us last night, that you and your men abused us and would have put us to death if we had not managed to get away? Did you not tell us of your childhood in Chicago, your hatred of meat, the fear that led to your agoraphobia?

‘I was born in Chicago. That is true. But the rest of it is fantasy. Minister, I assure you… !’

‘If you were not there, then undo your collar,’ I exclaimed. ‘Explain to us the marks around your neck. I placed them there with my own hands and I’m glad I did it. Will you tell us how you came by them?’

‘It is true that you attacked me,’ Devereux replied. ‘You seized me by the neck. But it was not in any meat market. It was here, in this legation. You came here under false pretences and became violent when it fell upon me to eject you.’

‘Perhaps that is the motive for all this,’ Isham remarked. He was so fervent in his defence of Devereux that I began to wonder if he had not been in some way bribed or coerced. ‘There is clearly enmity between these three gentlemen. I will not impugn their motives but it seems very likely to me that a mistake has been made. And I would point out, Minister, that Mr De Vriess has been a good and loyal servant of the American government both in Washington for the past six or seven years and here. Certainly, there can be no doubt about his affliction. Is it likely, given his illness, that he could be the mastermind of an international criminal network? Looking at him now, is that what you see?’

Lincoln sat in gloomy silence, then slowly shook his head. ‘Gentlemen,’ he said. ‘It grieves me to say that you have not made your case. I will not doubt your word, for you are both honourable men, I am sure. But Isham is right. Without physical evidence, it is impossible for me to proceed and although I can promise you we will investigate this matter further, it must be done within the grounds of this legation and in keeping with its rules.’

The meeting was over. But suddenly Jones got to his feet and I recognised at once the energy and the determination that I knew so well. ‘You want evidence?’ he asked. ‘Then perhaps I can give it to you.’ He took out of his pocket a piece of paper with a jagged edge and a few words written in block capitals. He laid it on the table beside Lincoln. I saw the words: WE HAVE YOUR DAUHTER. ‘This was the note that was sent to me to entice me into the cemetery known as Dead Man’s Walk,’ Jones explained. ‘It was the means by which Devereux was able to capture both Chase and myself.’

‘What of it?’ Isham asked.

‘It has been torn from a book and the moment I saw it I knew it had been taken from a library just such as this.’ Jones turned to the bookshelves. ‘The sun hits these windows at a strange angle,’ he continued. ‘As a result, it falls onto very few of your books but I remarked, the moment I came in here, that a few volumes at the very end have been allowed to fade. The top of this page, as you can see, has also been damaged.’ Without asking permission, he went over to the shelves and examined them. ‘These books have not been read for some time,’ he continued. ‘They are all perfectly aligned… all except one which has been recently removed and which has not been replaced in its exact position.’ He took out the offending volume and brought it over to Lincoln. ‘Let us see…’ He opened it.

The frontispiece had been torn out. The jagged edge was there for all to see and it was obvious—indeed, it was unarguable—that it matched the edge of the page on which the kidnapper had written his note.

The open book was greeted by a silence that was profound and it occurred to me then that great trials have turned on less. Though Lincoln and his advisors gave nothing away, they stared at it as if they read in it all the mysteries of life, and even Devereux visibly shrank into himself, recognising that the game might, after all, be lost.

‘There can be no doubt that this page was taken from this library,’ Lincoln said at last. ‘How do you explain this, Mr De Vriess?’

‘I cannot. It is a trick!’

‘It would seem to me that you might, after all, have a case to answer.’

‘Anyone could have removed that book. They could have done so themselves when they were here!’

‘They did not come to the library,’ Isham muttered. These were the first words he had spoken on our side.

Devereux was becoming desperate. ‘Minister, you yourself argued just moments ago that I am protected from the criminal process.’

‘So you are and so you must be. And yet I cannot stand by and do nothing. Two officers of the law have identified you. It cannot be denied that grave events have taken place. And now they have evidence…’

Another long silence was interrupted by the councillor of the legation. ‘It would not be without precedent for a member of the diplomatic corps to be questioned by the police,’ White said. Even I was surprised by the speed with which these gentlemen were shifting ground—but then, of course, they were politicians. ‘If there is a case to be made against you, it is only reasonable that you should, at the very least, co-operate, for how else will we clear your name?’

‘Even outside the legation, you will still enjoy its full protection,’ Isham added. ‘We can extend to you the right of innocent passage—ius transitus innoxii. It will allow our friends in the British police the right to interview you whilst still placing you outside their jurisdiction.’

‘And then?’

‘You will be returned here. If you have been unable to explain yourself satisfactorily, it will be for the minister to decide what will be done next.’

‘But I cannot leave! You know I cannot venture outside.’

‘I have a closed wagon waiting for you,’ Jones said. ‘A Black Maria might strike fear into the heart of ordinary criminals but for you it will be a place of refuge. It has no windows and a door that will remain securely fastened—I can assure you of that. It will transport you directly to Scotland Yard.’

‘No! I will not go!’ Devereux turned to Lincoln and for the first time I saw real fear in his eyes. ‘This is a trick, sir. These men do not intend to interview me. They mean to kill me. The two of them are not what they seem.’ The words tripped out, faster and faster. ‘First there was Lavelle. They saw him and the very next day he was murdered in his own home, along with his entire household. Then Leland Mortlake, a respected businessman! Your Excellency will remember meeting him. He was no sooner arrested than he was poisoned. And now they have come for me. If you force me to leave with them, I will never reach Scotland Yard—or if I do I will die there. They will kill me before I step into this Black Maria of theirs! I have nothing to answer for. I am an innocent man. I am not well. You know that. I will answer any questions you put to me and allow you a complete examination of my life but I swear to you, you are sending me to my death. Do not make me go!’

He sounded so pathetic and so frightened that I would have been inclined to believe him myself had I not known that it was all an act. I wondered if Lincoln might not take pity on him but the envoy cast his eyes down and said nothing.

‘We mean him no harm,’ Jones said. ‘You have my word on it. We will speak with him. There are many, many questions that remain unanswered. Once we have satisfied ourselves on these—and have a full confession—we will return him to you according to diplomatic law. Lord Salisbury himself has agreed. It is indifferent to us whether this man faces justice in Britain or in the United States. Our only concern is that he should not escape the consequences of what he has done.’

‘Then it is agreed,’ Lincoln said. He got to his feet, suddenly tired. ‘Henry—I want you to send an envoy to Scotland Yard. He is to be present throughout the cross-examination—which will not begin until he arrives. I wish to see Mr De Vriess back at the legation before nightfall.’

‘It may take more than one day to arrive at the truth.’

‘I am aware of that, Inspector Jones. In that event, he will be returned to you tomorrow. But he is not to spend even one night behind bars.’

‘Very well, sir…’

Without another word, and without even glancing at Devereux, Lincoln left the room.

‘I must not go! I will not leave!’ Devereux grabbed hold of the arms of the chair like a child, tears welling in his eyes, and the next few minutes were as strange and as undignified as any I can remember. We had to call more officials into the room and prise him away by force. While White and Isham watched in dismay, he was dragged downstairs, a whimpering wretch who began to screech the moment he saw the open door. Only the night before, this same man had stood, surrounded by his cronies, sentencing us to a painful death. It was almost impossible to compare that man with the creature he had become.

A cover was found and thrown over his head and we were able to escort him out to the gate where the Black Maria was waiting. White had come with us. ‘You are not to begin your questioning until my representative arrives.’

‘I understand.’

‘And you will accord Mr De Vriess the respect due to the third secretary of this legation.’

‘You have my word on it.’

‘I will see you again this evening. Is it too much to hope that this business will be concluded by then?’

‘We will do what we can.’

These were the arrangements that Jones had made for the transfer of Clarence Devereux from the legation. Five police constables had come from Scotland Yard, all of them hand-picked by Jones himself. Nobody else was to be allowed to come close. There was to be no chance of a second poison dart being fired from somewhere in the crowd. Nor was the mysterious sniper who had come to our rescue at Smithfield market going to be presented with a target. Devereux himself was blind and unable to resist and we made sure that he was surrounded, protected by a human shield until he reached the Black Maria, which had been parked directly beside the gate. The vehicle—in fact it was dark blue—was a solid box on four wheels and it had been thoroughly searched before it set out: once Devereux was inside, Jones was fairly certain that he would be safe. The doors were already open and, with utmost care, we bundled him in. The interior was dark, with two benches facing each other, one on either side. To any ordinary criminal, it might have seemed a dreadful mode of transport but the irony was that, given his condition, Devereux would find it almost homely. We closed and locked the doors. One of the constables climbed onto the footplate at the back and would remain standing there for the entire journey. So far, everything had gone according to plan.

We prepared to leave. Two more police officers took their places next to each other, sitting behind the horses at the front of the Black Maria. Meanwhile, Jones and I climbed into a curricle that had been parked behind, Jones taking hold of the reins. The other two constables would walk ahead in the road ensuring that the way was clear. Our progress would be slow but the distance was not great. More policemen, the same men who had been watching the legation, would be waiting for us at every corner. It struck me that we resembled nothing so much as a funeral procession. There were no mourners standing in respectful silence, but we set off with almost as much solemnity.

The legation disappeared behind us. Henry White was standing on the pavement, watching us go, his countenance grave. Then he turned and went back the way he had come. ‘We’ve done it!’ I said. I could not disguise my sense of relief. ‘The bloodiest criminal who ever came to this country is in our custody and it is all thanks to you and your genius with that book! Finally, it is over.’

‘I am not so sure.’

‘My dear Athelney—can you not rest for one moment? I tell you, we have succeeded. You have succeeded! See—we are already well on our way.’

‘And yet, I wonder—’

‘What? You have your doubts even now?’

‘They are more than doubts. It does not work. None of it works. Unless…’

He stopped. Ahead of us, the police constable was pulling at the reins. A boy pushing a barrow laden with vegetables had turned across the street, blocking our path because one of the wheels seemed to have got stuck in a rut. Another policeman walked ahead to help clear the path.

The boy looked up. It was Perry, dressed now in a ragged tunic and belt. A moment before, his hands had been empty but suddenly he lifted them and the surgeon’s knife with which he had once threatened me was already there, glinting in the sun. Without a word he brought it swinging round. The second policeman fell in a welter of blood. At the same moment, there was a shot—it sounded like a piece of paper being torn—and the officer who had been holding the reins of the Black Maria was hurled sideways, crashing down into the road. A second shot and his companion followed. One of the horses reared up, knocking into the other. A woman emerging from a shop began to scream and scream. A carriage coming the other way veered onto the pavement, almost hitting her, and crashed into a fence.

Athelney Jones had produced a gun. Against all the rules, he must have carried it into the legation and it had been in his pocket all along. He brought it up and aimed at the child.

I took out my own gun. Jones looked at me and I think I saw shock, dismay and finally resignation pass through his eyes.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said, and shot him in the head.