"And the others didn't?"
"Presumably," Moriarty said, "the others had their copies of the map in an unremarkable place — the library, perhaps, or the hall table. That being so, the existence of the map was not remarked. Really, Barnett, I should have thought that was obvious."
"What is obvious to you, Professor, is not necessarily obvious to others. If that were not so, you might be in my employ instead of I in yours."
Moriarty began to frown, and then chose to smile instead. "A touch, Barnett, a distinct touch," he admitted.
Barnett retrieved his coffee cup from under the map. "What did you find on Gage Street?" he asked. "And, incidentally, why didn't you ask me to accompany you?"
"This was for reconnoitering purposes only," Moriarty said. "I knew the club was no longer there. The present whereabouts is indicated in the agony column of this past Wednesday's Morning Chronicle. And you needed your sleep." He laced his fingers together and stretched his arms out before him, palms forward. "I found the house almost immediately, despite the absence of the specified red light, because it, also, was still vacant. A lovely old manor house, set back on its own bit of land, surrounded by the ever-advancing squads of identical row houses. It was perfect for their purposes. Since the neighbors, in this case, could tell me nothing, I investigated the interior."
"You broke in?" Barnett asked. "For shame, Professor. That's against the law."
"I broke nothing," Moriarty insisted. "The front door was ajar, and so I walked in."
"There was, I assume, no one there," Barnett said.
"You assume correctly. The house was devoid of both inhabitants and furnishings. The only things I found to verify my theory were a pattern of screw and bolt holes in the floors, walls, and ceilings of certain of the rooms, suggestive of the apparatus that must have been fastened there. And this." Moriarty reached in his pocket and removed a small bit of knotted leather, which he held in the palm of his hand. "I found this — this artifact — by chance, in a crack in the baseboard in one of the rooms."
Barnett took it and examined it closely. To his eye it was nothing but a short, stiff, discolored strand of leather, tied in a knot. "What does it do?" he asked.
Moriarty took the object from Barnett's hand. "I remember once reading a description by Admiral Sturdy of life in the old sailing navy," he said, tossing the bit of leather from hand to hand like a magician about to do a conjuring trick. "He was a midshipman about the time of Nelson, and one of his clearest memories of that period was of the floggings he was forced to watch. The lash was tied with a little knot at the end to keep it from splitting. After each use — after some poor sailor had had his back laid open for some minor infraction — the ends of the lash were soaked in salt water to remove the blood. For if they allowed the blood to dry on, you see, the leather would get stiff; and the next time the lash was used, the tip, knot and all, might break off."
Barnett looked with sudden horror at the small leather knot. "You mean—"
"Whoever used this," said Moriarty, holding the tiny thing between thumb and forefinger, "didn't know about the salt water."
TWENTY-SIX–INTERLUDE: ECSTASY
Did ye not hear it? — No; 'twas but the wind.
— George Gordon, Lord Byron
He would get but one chance, and he must perform flawlessly to succeed, to live. But so it had been all his life, each escape more difficult, more critical than the last, each allowing no margin for error.
The notion had come to him the night before, while wearing the devil's mask and spying on the devil's entertainments. The satisfying pattern that he had been following — the stalking, the confrontations, the deaths of these devil's imps one by one — would no longer serve. It had filled his need, this singular obliteration, it had satisfied his soul. But ripping off the leaves would not kill the tree; he must strike deeper, and harder, and crush the root so that it could not spring to life again.
The plan he evolved was simple, but the details required much thought and preparation. All through the night he had thought, and all morning he had prepared. Shortly after noon he was ready to proceed.
It was almost one o'clock when he pulled up before the devil's house in his rented wagon. He climbed down from the driver's seat and carefully dusted off his green-and-brown-checked suit and meticulously adjusted his brown bowler before strutting up to the front door. With a conscious skill acquired over a lifetime of deluding people, both at stage distance and face to face, he had become the part he was playing. His face, indeed his entire character, wore an air of smugness that was proof against all casual inquiry.
The door opened at his insistent pounding, revealing a tall, hawk-nosed man garbed as a butler, wearing the noncommittal, disinterested air of the well-trained household servant.
This place has no need for such as a butler. It is clear that we are, the both of us, liars, he thought, glancing up cordially at the hawk-nosed man. But I am the better. "Afternoon," he said, touching the brim of his bowler. "I take it this is 204 Upper Pondbury Crescent?"
The hawk-nosed man thought the question over carefully before committing himself. "What if it is?" he asked finally.
"Delivery." He jerked his thumb over his shoulder, indicating the wagon. The man in the butler suit peered in that direction, reading the big, freshly painted sign hanging on the vehicle's side. GAITSKILL & SON, it said, WINE MERCHANTS.
"Brought 'em myself." Taking off the bowler, he wiped his forehead with a large almost-white handkerchief. "I'm Gaitskill. Needed in a hurry, they told me, so I brought 'em right along. Regular carter off this week. Mother quite ill. Streapham, or some such place. Damned inconvenient time. Bertie's on the Continent on a buying trip. That's the son. So here I am. Where do you want 'em?"
"What?" asked the hawk-nosed pseudo-butler.
The pseudo-Gaitskill pulled out a sheaf of consignment orders and shuffled through them. "Here it is," he said. "Twelve firkins of best claret. Where do you want 'em? My lad will help you take 'em in." He indicated the gangly youth sitting with his legs dangling over the back gate of the wagon. "Hired lad. Not too bright, but willing. A cool spot is best."
"How's that?" asked Hawk-nose. "Best for what?" A touch of confusion shaded his supercilious expression.
"The claret," Gaitskill explained impatiently. "Best in a cool spot. Keep for years that way. Decades. Best not moved around too much. Give each firkin a quarter turn every five years or so."
The hawk-nosed man stared at the two-foot-long casks neatly stacked in the rear of the wagon. "I don't know," he said.
"Wine cellar is best," said the merchant. "As you might imagine from the name. Wine."
"I haven't been informed about this," the hawk-nosed man said.
The man who was the wind shrugged a merchant's shrug. "Someone forgot to tell you," he said. "Makes no difference to me. I've been paid. I'll take 'em away with me, or leave 'em here on the street, as you please. But I haven't all day, you know. Suppose me and the lad just stack the firkins neatly like on the pavement? Then you and yours can do as you like with 'em — at your leisure."
"No — well—" He paused to consider, to weigh the possibilities for error against each other. Obviously his master was not there to consult. "The cellar, you say?"
"Best place." The wind nodded.
"Well, come around back, then. There's an entrance to the cellar around back. No need to go through the house."
"No need indeed," the man who was the wind agreed, signaling to the lad he had hired to bring the first firkin around with him as they sought out the cellar door.