Moriarty

7 Blood and Shadows

It was the maid who discovered the bodies and who awoke the neighbourhood with her screams the next morning. Contrary to what her employer had told us, Miss Mary Stagg did not live in the house and it was for that simple reason that she did not die there. Mary shared a small cottage with her sister, who was also in service, in Highgate Village, the two of them having inherited it from their parents. She had not been at Bladeston House when we were there—it happened to be her day off and she and her sister had gone shopping. She had presented herself the following morning, just as the sun was rising, to clear the hearths and to help prepare the breakfast and had been puzzled to find both the front gate and the front door open. Such an unusual lapse of security should have warned her that something was seriously amiss but she had continued forward, doubtless whistling a tune, only to encounter a scene of horror she would remember to the end of her days.

Even I had to steel myself as I climbed down from the barouche which had been sent to collect me. Athelney Jones was waiting at the door and one look at his face—pale and disgusted—warned me that this was a scene of horror which he, with all his experience, had never encountered before.

‘What snakepit have we uncovered, Chase?’ he demanded, when he saw me. ‘To think that you and I were here only yesterday. Was it our visit that in some way, unwittingly, led to this bloodbath?’

‘Lavelle… ?’ I asked.

‘All of them! Clayton, the ginger-haired boy, the cook, the mistress… they have all been murdered.’

‘How?’

‘You will see. Four of them died in their beds. Maybe they should be grateful. But Lavelle…’ He drew a breath. ‘This is as bad as Swallow Gardens or Pinchin Street—the very worst of the worst.’

Together, we went into the house. There were seven or eight police officers present, creeping slowly and silently in the shadows as if they might somehow wish themselves away. The hall, which had seemed dark when I first entered, had become significantly darker and there was the heavy smell of the butcher’s shop in the air. I became aware of the buzzing of flies and at the same time saw what might have been a thick pool of tar on the floor.

‘Good God!’ I exclaimed and brought my hand to my eyes, half covering them whilst unable to avoid staring at the scene that presented itself to me.

Scotchy Lavelle was sitting in one of the heavy wooden chairs that I had noticed the day before and which had been dragged forward expressly for this purpose. He was dressed in a silk nightshirt which reached to his ankles. His feet were bare. He had been positioned so that he faced a mirror. Whoever had done this had wanted him to see what was going to happen.

He had not been tied into place. He had been nailed there. Jagged squares of metal protruded from the backs of his broken hands which even in death still clasped the arms of the chair as if determined not to let go. The hammer that had been used for this evil deed lay in front of the fireplace and there was a china vase, lying on its side. Nearby, I noticed two bright ribbons which must have been brought down from the bedroom and which were also strewn on the floor.

Scotchy Lavelle’s throat had been cut cleanly and viciously in a manner that could not help but remind me of the surgeon’s knife that Perry had so cheerfully used to threaten me in the Café Royal. I wondered if Jones had already leapt to the same, unavoidable conclusion. This horrific murder could have been committed by a child… though not one acting alone. It would have taken at least two people to drag Lavelle into place. And what of the rest of the household?

‘They were murdered in their sleep,’ Jones muttered, as if looking into my mind. ‘The cook, the kitchen boy, the woman whose name was, perhaps, Henrietta. There is not a mark of any struggle on them. Clayton slept in the basement. He has been stabbed through the heart.’

‘But did none of them wake up?’ I asked. ‘Are you really telling me they heard nothing?’

‘I believe they were drugged.’

I absorbed this information and even as I spoke I knew Jones was ahead of me. ‘The curry!’ I exclaimed. ‘You remember, Jones? I asked the woman what she was cooking and she said that it was for dinner. They must have all eaten it, and whoever came here… it would have been easy enough to add some powerful drug, maybe powdered opium. The curry would have disguised the taste.’

‘But they would have had to reach the kitchen first,’ Jones muttered.

‘We should examine the door.’

We both circled the body, keeping our distance, for the blood and the shadows looked very much like one another and we had to be careful where we placed our feet. It was only when we had reached the relative sanctuary of the kitchen that we breathed again. For a second time I found myself examining the spotless cooking range, the tiled floor, the open door of the scullery with the shelves neatly stacked. In the midst of all this, the cooking pot that had held the curry sat dark and empty, like a guilty secret. The one surviving maid was in this room, hunched up in a chair and weeping into her apron, watched over by a uniformed police constable.

‘This is bad,’ I said. ‘This is very bad.’

‘But who would do such a thing and why? That must be our first line of investigation.’ I could see that Jones, knocked off his feet by the ruthlessness of the murders, was struggling to regain the composure that had been so much part of his nature when we were together in Meiringen. ‘We know that Scott Lavelle—or Scotchy Lavelle—was part of a gang headed by Clarence Devereux.’

‘Of that there can be no doubt,’ I said.

‘He arranges to meet with Professor James Moriarty and to that end he sends a boy, Perry, to the Café Royal. A man pretending to be Moriarty is there but the impersonation fails. The boy knows you are not who you say you are…’

‘. . . because of the ravens in the tower.’

‘So that is the end of the matter. The boy makes the long journey to Highgate and reports back to the people who sent him. There will be no meeting. Perhaps Moriarty is dead after all. That is what these people are led to believe.’

‘And then we appear.’

‘Yes, detectives from two separate nations. We know about the boy. We ask questions—but the truth of it is, Chase, we make little progress. I imagine Lavelle was smiling when we left.’

‘He’s not doing so now,’ I said, although I couldn’t help but think of the great red gash in his throat. It had the shape of a demonic smile.

‘Why has he been killed? Why now? But here is our first clue, our first indication of what may have taken place. The door is unlocked.’

Athelney Jones was right. The door that led into the garden, that we had seen Clayton fasten and unfasten with a key from beside the dresser, was open. He turned the handle and, grateful for the fresh air, I followed him out onto the ill-trimmed lawn that we had crossed only the day before.

Together we walked down to the wall and saw at once that the far door was also open. The Chubb had been unlocked on the outside. A circular hole had been drilled through the wood, positioned exactly to reveal the inner lock. This had then been cut through and the metal hasp removed. Jones inspected the handiwork.

‘The Chubb appears undamaged,’ he said. ‘If it was picked, then our intruders have shown skills beyond those of any common or garden burglar—not that such a creature was involved, of that we can be sure. It is possible that they were able to lay their hands on a duplicate key. We will see. The other lock, the one holding the hasp, is of particular interest. You will see that they have cut a hole in the door, perhaps using a centre bit with two or three blades. It would have made very little noise. But see where they have placed it!’

‘The hole is level with the lock,’ I said.

‘Exactly. It has been measured to the inch. A second drill has then been used to cut through the casing, exposing the wards. It is a professional job—but it would not have been possible if the intruders had not stood where we are now and made careful note of the exact position of the lock.’

‘They could have been helped by someone inside the house.’

‘Everyone inside the house is dead, apart from the maid. I am more inclined to think they acted on their own.’

‘You speak of intruders, Inspector Jones. You are certain there was more than one?’

‘Undoubtedly. There are tracks.’ He gestured with his walking stick and, looking down, I was able to make out two sets of footprints, side by side, heading away from the wall and approaching the house. ‘A man and a boy,’ he continued. ‘You can see that the boy is carefree. He almost trips along. The man has left a deeper impression. He is tall, at least six feet in height, and he was wearing unusual boots. You see the square toe? He held back while the boy raced ahead.’

‘The boy had been here before.’

‘It is true that his stride could suggest a familiarity with his surroundings. Note also that he follows the most direct route to the kitchen. There was a moon, I believe, last night, but he had no fear of being seen.’

‘He knew that the household was asleep.’

‘Drugged and sound asleep. There still remains the question of how he entered the house, but my guess is that he climbed a drainpipe and entered by the second floor.’ Athelney Jones unfolded the binoculars on his walking stick and used them to examine the upper part of the building. There was indeed a slender drainpipe beside the kitchen door which would never have supported the weight of an adult—perhaps it was for this reason that Lavelle had never considered it as a breach in his defences. But for a child, it would have been a different matter entirely, and once he had reached the first floor…

‘The windows are snibbed,’ Jones continued. ‘It would be easy enough to slide a knife inside the frame. He would then have come down the stairs and opened the door to allow his accomplice in.’

‘The boy of whom we speak… it must be the same,’ I said.

‘Perry? Undoubtedly.’ Athelney Jones lowered the walking stick. ‘I would not normally associate a child with crimes as gruesome as these, but I saw him with you. I saw the weapon he carried. He came here. I followed him myself. He entered through the garden door, came into the kitchen and saw the curry being prepared. It must have been then that he made his preparations, intending to return at night with his colleague. But there still remains the one question. Why did Lavelle lie to us? Why did they all pretend the boy had not been here? They had sent him to meet us. There could be no other reason for him to have appeared in the Café Royal. But when he returned, alone, what then occurred?’

‘And why, if he was working for Lavelle, did he turn on his master and assist in his murder?’

‘I hoped you might shed some light on that. Your work in America…’

‘I can only repeat what I have already told you, Inspector. The American criminal has no discrimination and no sense of loyalty. Until Clarence Devereux came onto the scene, he worked in isolation, with no organisation or structure. Even afterwards, he remained vicious, treacherous and unpredictable. Crime in New York was often as bloody as this and as incomprehensible. Brothers could fall out over the toss of a coin and one of them—both of them—might end up dead. Sisters too. Do you see now? I was trying to warn you. The events here at Bladeston House are only the start, the first warning signs of the poison that has entered the bloodstream of your country. Maybe Devereux was responsible. Maybe our visit here—for you can be sure that he will have received the intelligence—was enough to persuade him that Lavelle had to be silenced. I don’t know. It all makes me sick. But I fear a great deal more blood may be shed before we arrive at the truth.’

There was nothing more to be gained by lingering in the garden and reluctantly we re-entered the charnel house, as it had now become. The one survivor of the household, Mary Stagg, was still in the kitchen but she had little to tell us.

‘I used to work for Mr and Mrs Bladeston,’ she explained, between sobs. ‘And I’ll be honest with you, gentlemen. I was much happier then. They were a good family. You knew where you were with them. But then Mr Bladeston died and they said they would be putting up the house for rent at the start of the year and Mrs Bladeston persuaded me to stay. She said it would help her, knowing the place was being looked after.

‘But I didn’t like the American gentleman from the start. He had a wicked temper and you should have heard his language! It wasn’t the sort of words a gentleman would use. The cook was the first to go. She wasn’t having any of it. And then Mr Sykes decided he’d had enough and he was replaced by Mr Clayton and I didn’t very much like him either. And I was saying to Annie—that’s my sister, sir—that I was thinking of handing in my notice too. And now this!’

‘Was the garden gate always kept locked?’ Jones asked, once the maid had recovered her composure.

‘Always, sir. Every gate, every window. The moment Mr Lavelle came here, he was very particular about it. Everything had to be locked and shut down and all the keys in their right place. Nobody ever came to the door, not even the delivery boy, unless Mr Clayton was there to greet them. We used to have such dinners and parties in Mr Bladeston’s time. The house was a happy place then. But in just a few months, Mr Lavelle turned it into a sort of prison—with him as the main prisoner for he seldom went out.’

‘Mrs Lavelle? Did you have any dealings with her?’

The maid flinched, and despite everything she could not conceal the look of distaste that crept across her face. At that moment I understood how difficult her position must have been since Scotchy and his entourage had arrived.

‘Begging your pardon, sir, but I’m not sure she was Mrs Lavelle. We just called her “madam” and a right proper madam she was too. Nothing was ever right for her—but she did what Mr Lavelle told her. She never went out unless he said.’

‘There were no visitors?’

‘Two gentlemen used to come from time to time. I didn’t see very much of them. They were tall, well-built with dark hair and one of them with a moustache. Otherwise, they were as alike as peas in a pod. Brothers, for sure.’

‘Leland and Edgar Mortlake,’ I muttered.

‘Did you ever hear of a man called Clarence Devereux?’ Jones asked.

‘No, sir, but there was another man they talked about all the time, not that he ever came here, and when they spoke of him, they did so in a low voice. I heard his name once and I never forgot it.’ The maid paused, twisting her handkerchief in her hands. ‘I was passing the study and Mr Lavelle was talking to Mr Clayton… at least, I think it was he. I couldn’t see and it wasn’t my place to eavesdrop. But they were deep in conversation. And that was when I heard them. “We must always be prepared for Moriarty.” That’s what Mr Lavelle said. I don’t know why it made such an impression on me—only later on, Mr Clayton made a joke of it. “You shouldn’t do that, Mary,” he said to me once, when I left the door open, “or Professor Moriarty will get you.” It’s a horrible name. I sometimes used to think of it when I was trying to get to sleep and it would turn over and over in my head. It seemed the whole house was afraid of this Moriarty, and with good reason, for you can see what’s happened now!’

There was nothing more that Mary Stagg could tell us and, after warning her not to reveal what had taken place to anyone, Athelney Jones sent her home in the company of a constable. The good woman clearly could not wait to get out of the house and I rather doubted she would ever return.

‘Could Moriarty have done this?’ I asked.

‘Moriarty is dead.’

‘He may have had associates, fellow criminals, members of his gang. You saw the way that Lavelle was killed, Inspector Jones. The way I see it, it’s nothing less than a message, written in blood, perhaps sent as a warning.’

Jones thought for a moment. ‘You told me that Moriarty and Devereux planned to meet, to create a criminal association…’

‘That’s right.’

‘But they never did meet. We know that from the coded message that we found in Meiringen. As far as we can tell, they had no business together, so why would one wish to kill the other?’

‘Perhaps Devereux had something to do with what happened at the Reichenbach Falls.’

Jones shook his head wearily. ‘At the moment, nothing makes sense. I need time to reflect and to clear my thoughts. But that will not happen here. For now, we must search the house and see what secrets, if any, the various rooms may reveal.’

And so we set about our grim task—for it was as if we were exploring a catacomb. Each door opened upon another corpse. We started with the kitchen boy, Thomas, who had closed his eyes one last time in a bare, shabby room beside the scullery. The sight of him lying there, still dressed in the clothes he had worn to work, his bare feet resting on the sheet, clearly affected Jones, and I was reminded that he had a child who might only be a few years younger than this young victim. Thomas had been strangled. The rope was still around his neck. Half a dozen steps led down to a basement room where Clayton had lived and died. A carving knife, perhaps taken from the kitchen, had been plunged into his heart and remained there, almost seeming to pin him, like an insect in a laboratory, to the bed. With heavy hearts, we made our way up to the attic room where the cook—we now knew her name to be Mrs Winters—lay scowling in death as she had in life. She too had been strangled.

‘Why did they all have to die?’ I asked. ‘They may have worked for Lavelle but surely they were blameless.’

‘Their assailants could not risk any of them waking up,’ Jones muttered. ‘And with Lavelle dead, they would have had no reason to hold back what they knew. This way, they are prevented from speaking to us.’

‘The boy and the woman were strangled but Clayton was stabbed.’

‘He was the strongest of the three of them, and although he had been drugged, he would have been the most likely to wake up. The killers were taking no chances. With him, they used a knife.’

I turned away. I had already seen enough. ‘Where next?’ I asked.

‘The bedroom.’

The flame-haired woman whom Lavelle had addressed as ‘Hen’ lay sprawling on a goose-feather mattress, wearing a nightdress of pink cambric with ruffles around her neck and sleeves. Death seemed to have aged her ten years. Her left arm was flung out, reaching towards the man who had lain beside her, as if he could still bring her comfort.

‘She has been smothered,’ Jones said.

‘How can you tell?’

‘There are lipstick marks on the pillow. That was the murder weapon. And you can see also the bruising around the nose and mouth, where it was held in place.’

‘Dear God in Heaven,’ I muttered. I looked at the empty space where the bed covers had been thrown back. ‘And what of Lavelle?’

‘He is the reason for all this.’

We made a quick search of the bedroom but it revealed little. ‘Hen’ had a fondness for cheap jewellery and expensive dresses, the closets bursting with silk and taffeta. Her bathroom contained more perfumes and toiletries than the entire first floor of Lord & Taylor on Broadway—or so I remarked to Jones. But the truth was that both of us knew that we were only delaying the inevitable and, with a heavy heart, we made our way back downstairs.

Scotchy Lavelle sat waiting for us, a few police officers still lingering around him, wishing they could be anywhere but here. I watched as Jones examined the body, leaning forward on his stick, being careful to keep his distance. I remembered the anger and the hostility with which we had been greeted only the day before. ‘Want to nosey around, do you?’ Had Scotchy been more obliging, might he have escaped this fate?

‘He was carried here, half-conscious,’ Jones muttered. ‘There are many indications of what took place. First, the chair was moved and he was tied down.’

‘The ribbons!’

‘There is no other reason for them to be here. The killers must have brought them down from the bedroom for that express purpose. They tied Lavelle to the chair and then, having assured themselves that everything was as they wanted, they dashed water into his face to wake him up. It is hard to see with so much blood but I would have said the collar and sleeves of his nightshirt are damp and anyway we have, as evidence, the upturned vase which was brought in from the kitchen. I saw it there yesterday.’

‘And what then?’

‘Lavelle awakens. I have no doubt that he recognised his two assailants. Certainly the boy he must have met before.’ Jones stopped himself. ‘But I am wrong to describe it to you in this way. I am sure you have observed every detail for yourself.’

‘Observed, yes,’ I replied. ‘But I don’t have quite your facility for completing the picture, Inspector. Pray, continue.’

‘Very well. Lavelle is tied down and helpless. Although he may not know it, his entire household has been killed. And it is now that his own ordeal begins. The man and the boy require information. They begin to torture him.’

‘They nail his hands to the chair.’

‘They do more than that. I cannot bring myself to examine it too closely but I would say that they used the same hammer to break his knee. Look at the way the fabric of his nightshirt lies. They have also smashed the heel of his left foot.’

‘It is disgusting. It’s horrific. What was it, I wonder, that they wished to know?’

‘Matters relating to the organisation for which he worked.’

‘And did he talk?’

Jones considered. ‘It is almost impossible to tell but we must assume he did. Had he kept silent, his injuries would surely have been even more extensive.’

‘And still they killed him.’

‘I would imagine that death would have come as a relief.’ Jones sighed. ‘I have never encountered a crime like this in England. The Whitechapel Murders, which came straight to mind when I arrived, were barbaric and vile. But even they lacked the cruelty, the cold-blooded calculation that we have witnessed here.’

‘Where next?’

‘The study. That was where Lavelle greeted us and, if he had letters or documents of any interest, we will probably find them there.’

It was to that room that we returned. The curtains had been drawn back allowing some light from the front to come through but it still seemed dark and abandoned without its owner, as if it belonged to a house that had been deserted long ago. Only one day before, the desk and the chair had been the stage from which our lead actor had played his part. Now they were useless and the unread books seemed more irrelevant than ever. Still, we went through the drawers. We examined the shelves. Jones was quite certain that Scotchy Lavelle would have left something of value behind.

I could have told him otherwise. I knew that any organisation run by a man like Clarence Devereux would take no chances when it came to its own protection. There would be no letters lying conveniently in wastepaper baskets, no addresses scribbled carelessly on the backs of envelopes. This whole house had been designed specifically to guard its own secrets and to keep the world at bay. Lavelle had described himself as a company promoter but there was not a scrap of evidence in the room to support this. He was an invisible man with no background and no foreground, and plans, strategies and conspiracies he would have taken with him to the grave.

Athelney Jones was struggling to conceal his disappointment. All the papers we found were blank. There was a cheque book with no entries, a handful of receipts for trifling domestic matters, some letters of credit and promissory notes that seemed entirely respectable, an invitation to a party at the American legation ‘celebrating American and British business enterprise’. It was only when he was thumbing through Lavelle’s diary, turning one empty page after another, that he suddenly stopped and drew my attention to a single word and a figure, written in capital letters and encircled.

HORNER 13

‘What do you make of that?’ he demanded.

‘Horner?’ I considered. ‘Could it be referring to Perry? He was about thirteen.’

‘I think he was older.’ Jones reached into the back of the drawer and found something there. When he held out his hand, I saw that he was holding a bar of shaving soap, brand new, still wrapped in the paper. ‘It seems a strange place to keep such a thing,’ he remarked.

‘Do you think it has some significance?’

‘Perhaps. But I cannot see what.’

‘There is nothing,’ I said. ‘There is nothing here for us. I begin to regret that we ever found this house. It’s shrouded in mystery and death and leads us nowhere.’

‘Do not give up hope,’ Jones replied. ‘Our path may be a murky one but our enemy has shown himself. The battle lines are at least engaged.’

He had no sooner spoken than we were interrupted by a commotion from the hall. Someone had come in. The police officers were trying to prevent them moving forward. There were voices raised in anger and, among them, an accent that I recognised as American.

Jones and I hurried out of the study to find a slim, rather languid man with black hair plastered down in an oily wave across his forehead, small eyes and a well-cultivated moustache drooping over his lip. If Scotchy Lavelle had exuded violence, this man presented more a sense of considered menace. He would kill you—but he would think about it first. The many years he had spent in prison had left their mark on him, for his skin was unnaturally pale and dead-looking. It was made worse by the fact that he was dressed entirely in black—a tight-fitting frock coat and patent leather shoes—and held a walking stick, also black, which he was brandishing almost like a weapon, holding back the police officers who had rounded on him, pressing him back. He had not come alone. Three young men had entered the house and stood surrounding him, hooligan boys from the look of them, aged about twenty with pale faces, ragged clothes, sticks and heavy boots.

They had all seen what had happened to Scotchy Lavelle. How could they have avoided it? The man was staring at the corpse with horror but also with disgust, as if it were a personal insult that such a thing could be permitted.

‘What the devil has happened here?’ he was demanding. He looked round as Jones emerged from the study. ‘Who are you?’

‘My name is Athelney Jones. I am a detective from Scotland Yard.’

‘A detective! Well, that’s very helpful. A little bit late, don’t you think? Do you know who did this?’ It was his accent I had heard. Less profane than Lavelle’s, it was nonetheless clear that he too had come from New York.

‘I arrived only a short while ago,’ Jones replied. ‘You know this man?’

‘I knew him. Yes.’

‘And who are you?’

‘I’m not sure I’m minded to give you my name.’

‘You will not leave this house until you do, sir.’ Athelney Jones had drawn himself up to his full height, propping himself on his walking stick. He was looking at the American, eye to eye. ‘I am a British police officer,’ he continued. ‘You have entered the scene of a violent and inexplicable murder. If you have any information, it is your duty to share it with me and if you refuse, I promise you will find yourself spending the night in Newgate—you and the hoodlums with whom you surround yourself.’

‘I know who he is,’ I said. ‘His name is Edgar Mortlake.’

Mortlake turned his little black eyes on me. ‘You know me,’ he said, ‘but we haven’t met.’ He sniffed the air. ‘Pinkerton’s?’

‘How did you guess?’

‘I’d know that smell anywhere. New York? Chicago? Or maybe Philly? Never mind. A little far away from home either way, aren’t you, boy?’ The American smiled with a sense of confidence and self-control that was positively chilling. He seemed to be unaware of the smell of blood and the sight of the broken and mutilated corpse sitting in the same room just inches from him.

‘And what business brings you here?’ Jones demanded.

‘My own business.’ Mortlake sneered at him. ‘And certainly none of yours.’

Jones turned to the nearest police constable, who had been watching this exchange with increasing alarm.

‘I want you to arrest this man,’ he said. ‘The charge is obstruction. I’ll have him up before the magistrate this very day.’ The constable hesitated. ‘Do your duty,’ Jones said.

I will never forget that moment. There were Jones and Mortlake, standing face to face, surrounded by perhaps half a dozen police officers but with the hooligan boys in opposition. It was as if a war were about to break out. And in the middle of it all, Scotchy Lavelle sat silently, the unwitting cause of all this and yet, for the moment, almost forgotten.

It was Mortlake who backed down. ‘There’s no need for this,’ he said, forcing the faintest shadow of a smile to his death’s-head face. ‘Why should I wish to interfere with the British police?’ He lifted his cane, gesturing at the corpse. ‘Scotchy and I were in business together.’

‘He said he was a company promoter.’

‘Is that what he said? Well, he was many things. He invested in a little club I have in Mayfair. You could say we were co-founders.’

‘Would that be the Bostonian?’ I asked. I recalled the name. It had been where Jonathan Pilgrim had stayed when he came to the country.

I had taken Mortlake by surprise, although he tried not to show it. ‘That’s the one,’ he exclaimed. ‘I see you’ve been busy, Pinkerton. Or are you a member? We have a lot of American visitors. But then, I doubt you could afford us.’

I ignored him. ‘Is Clarence Devereux another partner in this little enterprise?’

‘I don’t know any Clarence Devereux.’

‘I believe you do.’

‘You’re mistaken.’

I’d had enough. ‘I know who you are, Edgar Mortlake,’ I said. ‘I have seen your record sheet. Bank burglary. Safe-cracking. A year in the Tombs for armed assault. And that was only the most recent of your convictions.’

‘You should be careful how you speak to me!’ Mortlake took a couple of paces towards me and his entourage circled him nervously, wondering what he was going to do. ‘That was all in the past,’ he snarled. ‘I’m in England now… an American citizen with a respectable enterprise, and it would seem that your job is to protect me, not to harass me.’ He nodded at the dead man. ‘A duty you have signally failed to carry out where my late partner was concerned. Where’s the woman?’

‘If you are referring to Henrietta, she is upstairs,’ Jones said. ‘She was also killed.’

‘And the rest of them?’

‘The entire household has been murdered.’

Mortlake seemed to be thrown for the first time. He took one last look at the blood and his lip curled in disgust. ‘There is nothing for me here,’ he said. ‘I will leave the two of you gentlemen to sniff around.’

Before anyone could stop him, he had swept out again, as brazenly as he had come in. The three hooligan boys closed in on him and I saw that their primary concern was to protect him, to provide a living wall between him and his enemies in the outside world.

‘Edgar Mortlake,’ I said. ‘The gang is making itself known.’

‘And that may be helpful to us.’ Jones glanced at the open door.

Mortlake had reached the bottom of the garden and passed through the gate. Even as we watched, he climbed into the carriage that was waiting for him, followed by his three protectors, and with the cracking of a whip he was off, back towards Highgate Hill. It occurred to me that if the murder of Scotchy Lavelle and his household had been designed to send a message then it was one that had most definitely been received.