a thief, always a thief, keeping the company of thieves. And he saw me as being bitter and demoralised enough to turn my hand to crime and join his filthy band. Anger rose within me again. If Reed had been present, I would have knocked the scoundrel to the ground.
“Rest assured, Doctor,” Moriarty continued, breaking into my thoughts, “I have no intention of placing a jemmy in your hand, slipping a black mask over your face and asking you to carry out a burglary. I have something far more sophisticated and essentially law-abiding in mind for you. Something more suited to your talents than cracking a crib.” He laughed.
I opened my mouth to respond, but he held up his gloved hand to silence me.
“The full story, Walker, the full story before you make any more rashstatements. Allow me to furnish you with all the facts, and then we can discuss the matter like gentlemen.”
Ambrose Jones was thirsty. And, he thought, so he should be, after traversing the city all morning visiting the various establishments he owned to collect the rent. “Establishments” is how Jones thought of them, but in reality most of them were ramshackle doss-houses in the poorest parts of the city — Houndsditch, Whitechapel and Bethnal Green. Rats, mice and other vermin shared the premises with the poorest families in these damp and depressing dwellings. To Ambrose Jones’ mind, it was a pity that he could not charge the rats and mice rent in addition to his wretched tenants.
There was one property which was in reasonable condition, in the heart of the metropolis, the one where Jones dwelt himself, letting out the two upper floors to “his young gentlemen”, as he referred to them. That was to be his last port of call, but, consulting his watch and noting that it was just past midday, he decided, as he’d had a good morning — no defaulters and only one threatened eviction — that he would treat himself to a glass of ale and some vittals at his favourite inn, The Sparrow’s Nest in Holborn. The inn was situated down a narrow lane off the main thoroughfare. As Jones turned down the lane, a hansom cab drew up beside him at the kerb and the passenger leaned out to address him. He was well made, of muscular build, and dressed as far as Jones could see like so many of the City businessmen that scurry around like ants near St Paul’s.
“Excuse me, sir,” said the stranger. “I wonder if you could help me.”
Jones’s eagle eye noted that the man held a coin in his hand. Grinning, and raising his greasy Homburg, Jones stepped forward. “I should be happy to, if I can, sir.”
The stout man returned the grin and opened the door of the cab. “Myquery is of a rather delicate nature,” he said, lowering his voice. He beckoned Jones to come near, which the greedy landlord duly did. He now observed that there was another passenger in the cab, his features veiled by shadow.
“What is the query, then?” Jones asked.
Before he knew what was happening, the stranger whipped his arm out and grasped Jones by the neck and pulled him forward. It was an expert move, for not only did it take the landlord by surprise, but also the pressure on his windpipe prevented him from calling out.
“Come gently now,” murmured his assailant, and with a further tug he lifted Jones off the ground and hauled him inside the cab.
The door shut. The blind came down and the cab set off. Jones lay sprawled on the floor of the vehicle, panting for breath and wondering if his world was coming to an end. He was conscious of the cash stowed in his money-belt, his takings from the morning, but in a rare moment he thought more about the possibility of losing his life to these ruffians than losing his ill-gotten gains.
“Take the money,” he croaked, “but don’t hurt me. Please don’t hurt me.”
“It’s not your money we are after, Mr Jones,” came a voice from the darkness. It was not the voice of his assailant. It had a strange dark timbre to it and
“Rest assured, Doctor,” Moriarty continued, breaking into my thoughts, “I have no intention of placing a jemmy in your hand, slipping a black mask over your face and asking you to carry out a burglary. I have something far more sophisticated and essentially law-abiding in mind for you. Something more suited to your talents than cracking a crib.” He laughed.
I opened my mouth to respond, but he held up his gloved hand to silence me.
“The full story, Walker, the full story before you make any more rashstatements. Allow me to furnish you with all the facts, and then we can discuss the matter like gentlemen.”
Ambrose Jones was thirsty. And, he thought, so he should be, after traversing the city all morning visiting the various establishments he owned to collect the rent. “Establishments” is how Jones thought of them, but in reality most of them were ramshackle doss-houses in the poorest parts of the city — Houndsditch, Whitechapel and Bethnal Green. Rats, mice and other vermin shared the premises with the poorest families in these damp and depressing dwellings. To Ambrose Jones’ mind, it was a pity that he could not charge the rats and mice rent in addition to his wretched tenants.
There was one property which was in reasonable condition, in the heart of the metropolis, the one where Jones dwelt himself, letting out the two upper floors to “his young gentlemen”, as he referred to them. That was to be his last port of call, but, consulting his watch and noting that it was just past midday, he decided, as he’d had a good morning — no defaulters and only one threatened eviction — that he would treat himself to a glass of ale and some vittals at his favourite inn, The Sparrow’s Nest in Holborn. The inn was situated down a narrow lane off the main thoroughfare. As Jones turned down the lane, a hansom cab drew up beside him at the kerb and the passenger leaned out to address him. He was well made, of muscular build, and dressed as far as Jones could see like so many of the City businessmen that scurry around like ants near St Paul’s.
“Excuse me, sir,” said the stranger. “I wonder if you could help me.”
Jones’s eagle eye noted that the man held a coin in his hand. Grinning, and raising his greasy Homburg, Jones stepped forward. “I should be happy to, if I can, sir.”
The stout man returned the grin and opened the door of the cab. “Myquery is of a rather delicate nature,” he said, lowering his voice. He beckoned Jones to come near, which the greedy landlord duly did. He now observed that there was another passenger in the cab, his features veiled by shadow.
“What is the query, then?” Jones asked.
Before he knew what was happening, the stranger whipped his arm out and grasped Jones by the neck and pulled him forward. It was an expert move, for not only did it take the landlord by surprise, but also the pressure on his windpipe prevented him from calling out.
“Come gently now,” murmured his assailant, and with a further tug he lifted Jones off the ground and hauled him inside the cab.
The door shut. The blind came down and the cab set off. Jones lay sprawled on the floor of the vehicle, panting for breath and wondering if his world was coming to an end. He was conscious of the cash stowed in his money-belt, his takings from the morning, but in a rare moment he thought more about the possibility of losing his life to these ruffians than losing his ill-gotten gains.
“Take the money,” he croaked, “but don’t hurt me. Please don’t hurt me.”
“It’s not your money we are after, Mr Jones,” came a voice from the darkness. It was not the voice of his assailant. It had a strange dark timbre to it and
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