The Last Moriarty Page 13

  I had a sudden thought. “Mr. Perkins died protecting this book,” I said. “Perhaps he was successful in withholding the information that his murderer wished to obtain. Perhaps that accounts for the look of grim satisfaction on his face.”

  “Let us hope so. Now, Lestrade, we have no time to lose. Did you find anyone who can enlighten us regarding who came to see Mr. Perkins today?”

  “No one remembers anyone asking for Mr. Perkins.”

  Holmes considered. “Possibly Perkins met his visitor at the entrance to the bank, as he did when we arrived Saturday. The visitor evidently had an appointment, since today’s page was removed from Perkins’s appointment book.”

  “If Perkins escorted the visitor to his office, the person’s identity would be less memorable to other bank employees,” said Lestrade. “But where does that leave us?”

  Holmes handed the notebook to Lestrade. “You must deliver this to Mycroft immediately. Tell him to drop whatever he is doing and decipher its contents. When he has done so, he is to telephone me at once. Watson and I will be at the Savoy Theatre. We can be reached through the office of Mr. D’Oyly Carte.”

  On our way out of the bank we again passed the room where the clerks stood in a row, all cranking gold sovereigns through their tall, black weighing boxes. I wondered how the soul of Llewellen Perkins was faring as it was being weighed on the scales of his Maker.

  32. A BACKSTAGE DISCOVERY

  We could hear the smooth voice of D’Oyly Carte as we opened the door to the center aisle of the Savoy Theatre auditorium. The dapper producer stood at the front row, entreating the cast, crew, and orchestra assembled in the seats before him to rise to the heights of greatness that company tradition would demand. “The circumstances will be unusual—I might even say unique. You will perform before a particularly august audience whose identities we must keep secret, at an uncertain location, on a yacht of American origin.”

  I turned to Holmes. “Morgan’s yacht.”

  He nodded, but held a fingertip to his lips.

  I scanned the audience members, hoping against all reason to find Miss Rosario among them, but of course she was not there. However, I felt a surge of relief when I saw Lucy James seated with Jesse Bond about four rows from the front, in an aisle seat to my right, paying polite attention to Carte’s remarks as he continued.

  “Carriages are waiting to transport you to the West India Docks, about an hour’s journey from here. We have arranged for a yacht to be provided there for rehearsal purposes, and while the layout may not be precisely as you will encounter tomorrow night, it will be of great assistance, I am sure. On both nights there will be awnings to protect us from the elements, and electric lights strung throughout. The generator will be positioned far enough away so that the noise of its engine will be barely audible. We shall rehearse the performance in its entirety tonight. Tomorrow night I have no doubt that despite the somewhat unusual conditions, each of you will acquit yourselves with honor and, if I may be so bold, with glory.”

  There was a smattering of polite applause, and a “Hear, hear!” from one of the male actors.

  “Will the carriages wait for us during the rehearsal?” asked Miss Bond.

  “They will. And when we have concluded our work, a light supper will be provided.”

  More applause greeted this announcement.

  “Now, if there are no further questions . . .” Carte hesitated then, for he recognized the two of us standing at the back of the auditorium. He went on smoothly, projecting his voice to address Holmes, “May we proceed?”

  Holmes nodded graciously.

  Carte nodded in return. “Five minutes, then!” he told his audience. They began to stand up. I saw Lucy glance in our direction, and then an expression of delight appeared on her lovely features as she recognized us.

  Holmes saw her as well. He made a warning gesture. “She must not approach us, Watson. For her own safety.” I was about to make a similar gesture, but Miss James recognized Holmes’s cautionary signal and looked away.

  Carte was coming up the aisle. To my relief, he spoke quietly, not using our names. “Gentlemen!” he said. “How may I be of service? As you can see we are somewhat at sixes and sevens, but I will be pleased to take as much time with you as you wish.”

  “We will be brief. We have a question to ask of you, and one favor.”

  “Certainly.”

  “Were any of your current staff hired because of a recommendation from Mr. Worth?”

  Carte’s manicured fingers lightly stroked his neatly trimmed goatee as he reflected. “Now that you mention it, Mr. Blake was recommended by Mr. Worth. He joined us after one of the ushers was injured. An accident with a lorry, I believe.”

  “Anyone else?”

  “Why, yes: Cleo, our makeup girl and seamstress. We needed someone after Mrs. Brennan had to leave to attend her mother, who had unfortunately fallen down the stairs of a railway station. I believe it was Waterloo Station. Or possibly—”

  “Many thanks, Mr. Carte,” Holmes said briskly. “Now, if you please, we do have a favor to ask. We need to search throughout the theater. May we have a set of keys?”

  “Of course. There is a set in the upper right-hand drawer of my office desk. You know the way. Please feel free to go anywhere you like. Your timing is excellent, for we shall all be away at rehearsal. Just please lock up after you are done. Oh, and if our first violinist arrives while you are here, would you please tell her where we have gone and put her in a cab?” He pulled a ten-pound note from his pocket. “West India Docks, the Shamrock. This should cover the fare. I must confess I am worried. She has been with us for nearly twenty years and has not once been late.”

  After the little impresario bade us farewell and hurried out, we reached his office without being observed. Holmes quickly retrieved a ring of keys from the desk where Carte had told us they would be. “What are we looking for, Holmes?” I asked.

  “One moment.” He cranked up the telephone on the wall behind Carte’s desk and gave a number to the operator. In a few moments I could hear a ringing through the receiver, then a man’s voice answering.

  “Do you recognize my voice?” said Holmes. “Good. The line is not safe. Please do not call me here. Remain where you are. I shall call upon you presently.

  “Now, Watson,” he said after hanging up the receiver, “Mycroft will wait for us at the Diogenes Club while we conduct our search.”

  “Do you think Miss Rosario may be hidden somewhere in the theater?”

  “That is a possibility, but unlikely, given the number of people who would notice her being brought in. No, we are looking for whatever caused Mr. Foster to become suspicious enough to send that telegraph message to Mr. Rockefeller. We can only hope that he did not reveal the cause of his suspicions to his murderer.”

  Backstage, we groped our way for a few steps until Holmes struck a match and we located the box of switches that controlled the electric lighting. We were standing behind the tall panels of framed canvas that formed the facade of Ko-Ko’s garden, the setting for the second act. Holmes stood on tiptoe beneath each one, gazing up to the top of each wooden frame. Then he moved to where four wooden steps of about five feet in width led up to a sturdy platform of flooring planks, worn smooth by many years of service.

  “I see nothing suspicious here, Holmes.”

  “Sawdust, Watson. Look for sawdust.” He dropped to his knees and then lay prone beneath the platform. A moment later came the sound of a match being struck and the shimmering glow of a flame. Then the glow vanished. Holmes extricated himself and got to his feet. “Nothing. Now, Watson, we must take a different tack and put ourselves in Mr. Foster’s place. Someone circled the name of Lucy James on a theater program and delivered it to the Savoy Hotel in an obvious invitation for young Mr. Rockefeller. Mr. Foster told young Mr. Rockefeller that he would investigate.”


  “Then surely he would not be looking beneath a platform on the stage.”

  “On the contrary.” He bent to rap the top step with his knuckles and listened. “He would want to know that the theater was a safe place for young Mr. Rockefeller to attend.” He stood once again. “He might have looked anywhere and everywhere. He might have hoped to attract attention, and in turn, to provoke a reaction. He may also have gone to the theater office and inquired directly about Miss James.”

  To my astonishment, I heard Lucy’s voice coming from the wing to my left. “Miss James is”—we turned and she emerged from behind the curtain—“here!” As we stared, she continued. “Forgive me. I could not resist the theatricality of the moment. I was hiding, hoping to catch up with you after the others were gone. Why have you come? Has something happened?”

  Holmes reached out and gently touched her shoulder. “Something indeed has happened. There are two things I must tell you. To begin, last night I met with your mother.”

  In a few words he explained how knowing the date and place of Lucy’s birth, and Adam Worth’s identity as a witness, had led to Miss Rosario’s full acknowledgment of her motherhood when Holmes had subsequently visited her in her flat. “Your identity has been hidden from her all these years. She is most anxious to meet you.”

  “How did you know to do that?”

  “I had known her during my university days, before you were born. Friday evening after your performance at the Savoy she approached Dr. Watson and told him she was afraid of both the late Professor Moriarty and Adam Worth.”

  “She confirmed Moriarty was my father?”

  “She said he forced himself upon her. I regret to say that.”

  Lucy grimaced. Then she continued, “I felt a curious connection with Miss Rosario—and I noticed she was looking at me during rehearsals. But if she is truly anxious to meet me, why did she not come to rehearsal today?”

  “That is the other thing I must tell you,” said Holmes. Quickly he explained how Miss Rosario had been taken from her flat and that he believed Adam Worth’s organization to be responsible. “The police are searching his estate in Clapham Common. I also hope to hear from the Irregulars, who were instructed to watch her building.”

  “They took her,” Miss James responded, “so they may have reason to keep her alive.”

  “That is my hope, yes.”

  She considered this. Then she said, “I need to tell you about Blake.”

  “You believe he is connected to Worth?”

  “He brought Worth to Carte’s office, didn’t he? But that’s not what I was getting at. I heard his voice a few minutes ago when I was hiding. I couldn’t see him, but I’m sure it was Blake! And I thought it must be important and I’d better tell you, because he said, ‘Holmes was with Carte just now,’ in a worried way, as though your being here made him, well, worried, and then the other person answered—and I knew right away who she was. It was Cleo, who’s in charge of makeup and costumes. Cleo said, ‘No, we’d be missed. Besides, I’ve already locked up.’ And then they both left. Together.”

  “Do you know where Blake was going when Cleo stopped him?”

  “I can figure it out. Let me show you.”

  She took us to the edge of the curtain at the very back of the stage. “I was here, behind this curtain, facing directly downstage. Blake would have been coming from off stage right. So Cleo would have been coming from off stage left, which leads to the wardrobe area and the construction workshop.”

  Holmes elected to begin with the construction workshop, on the theory that Blake would be more likely to go there than to the wardrobe area. One of Carte’s keys fit the lock to the very tall double doors, large and wide enough to admit oversized portions of a theater set. We were soon inside a spacious room with a high ceiling, illuminated by a row of large barred windows along the far wall. Workbenches occupied most of the room’s perimeter. Most of them were bare, stained and flecked with varnish and paint from a decade’s use.

  “Over there,” said Holmes, striding swiftly to one workbench that had not been properly swept. Miss James and I followed him. He was looking at an untidy heap of wood shavings, sawdust, snippets of copper wire, and some bits of coarse cotton fabric. In a row beside this little pile of scraps were three small, white ceramic cones.

  They were identical to the ceramic insulating connectors the Commissioner had shown us after the explosion at the hospital.

  33. A JOURNAL DECODED

  Rain had begun to fall about one half hour later as the three of us alighted from our cab and took shelter under the wide front portico of the Diogenes Club. One of Lestrade’s men stood guard at the main entry. His eyes widened when he saw Miss James, who at Holmes’s insistence had covered her usual attire with a policeman’s uniform we had appropriated from the Savoy Theatre wardrobe room. The disguise was adequate for its temporary purpose, for her long hair, pinned up as usual, was completely covered by the round bobby’s helmet and the odd bulges in the trousers created by the folds of her skirt were not noticeable at a distance. But up close the deception was impossible to maintain. Her lovely face and wide green eyes beneath the rain-soaked and dripping helmet brim caused Lestrade’s man to break out into a smile. “What’s all this, Mr. Holmes?”

  “She is an important witness under my protection,” Holmes replied smoothly. “Though she must get to her rehearsal with the D’Oyly Carte Troupe before she is missed.”

  “I do not go on until midway through the first act,” said Lucy.

  Holmes ignored her. “Has Inspector Lestrade arrived?”

  “He is with your brother, sir. They said you’d telephoned. They’re waiting for you in the library.”

  Miss James caught my eye and her lips silently formed the word Mycroft with the same excitement as she had shown when Holmes had mentioned the Irregulars in our rooms two days before. As we mounted the stairs, she took off her helmet and turned to Holmes. “Will you introduce me to Mycroft as Moriarty’s daughter?”

  “It would only complicate matters,” Holmes replied without hesitation, and we continued up the stairs.

  We entered the library to find Mycroft and Lestrade bent over some papers on a table, along with the ledger book of the unfortunate Mr. Perkins. Naturally, each of them looked up in surprise at the sight of Miss James.

  “Gentlemen,” said Holmes, “I rely on your absolute discretion.” As they nodded, Holmes adopted a more formal tone. Turning to Miss James, he continued, “Miss Lucy James, this is my brother, Mycroft, and you have already met Detective Inspector George Lestrade of the Metropolitan Police. Gentlemen, this is Lucy James. This morning her mother, a violinist with the Savoy Orchestra named Zoe Rosario, was abducted from her flat on Exeter Street. As Lestrade knows, I believe the man calling himself Adam Worth is responsible. You gentlemen should also know that for the past twenty-one years Mr. Worth has been the trustee responsible for the upbringing and education of Miss James in America, although she has not known his identity until very recently.”

  Holmes paused to let the implications of this revelation sink in.

  “So, Lucy,” said Mycroft. “Worth is a Moriarty, and his brother’s first name is your surname. Lucy James; James Moriarty.”

  “He seems to have an obsession with family.” There was worry and urgency in her voice as she continued, “But none of that matters at the moment! What is important is to find my mother.”

  “Quite right,” said Mycroft. I saw respect in both his gaze and Holmes’s as he leaned over the table and indicated the notebook, a similar set of words and figures arranged in neat columns on a single sheet of Diogenes Club stationery, and two strips of paper. “Let us get to the matter of this coded ledger, for I believe it has a bearing on the matter of Miss Rosario.”

  The two strips of paper each contained the letters of the English alphabet, but the second strip contained an addi
tional a.

  abcdefghijklmnopqrstuvwxyz

  abcdefghijklmnopqrstuvwxyza

  “This is the encoding and decoding key for the telegraph code, as published by my friend the Reverend Charles Dodgson and used by those who wish to conceal their messages from telegraphy personnel. It requires both sender and recipient to know which letter of the alphabet has been used as the key letter, which of course Mr. Perkins’s ledger does not tell us. However, after several unsuccessful attempts I remembered that Perkins’s first name was Llewellen and tried the letter L. Here is the result.”

  He held out the page, where we read:

  “Perkins was converting bonds to cash. After deducting his fee, he gave the remaining cash to Clevering,” said Mycroft. “See how the cash payments grow larger, presumably in proportion to the importance of the task performed. See the second payment, occurring October 26, just at the time of Moran’s escape. And the third, more substantial payment occurring November first, the day the hospital was bombed.”

  “Possibly a reward for a successful demonstration,” Holmes said.

  “And today, he receives a million pounds, takes his fee, and provides the remainder to Clevering to deliver to a second banker, with delivery instructions to be carried out ‘upon success.’ I do not like to contemplate the malignity of the task that the instigator of this wickedness values at one million pounds.”

  Lucy asked, “Why do you think this has bearing on my mother’s kidnapping?”

  “Clevering has been making payments on Worth’s direction,” Mycroft replied. “I believe the name of Henry Judson Raymond may be Worth’s alias, and that Worth may be found at the address indicated here: 198 Piccadilly.”

  “Lestrade?” Holmes looked meaningfully at the little inspector.