Free The Revenge of Moriarty by John E. Gardner

had been speaking again. He chuckled for the old politician had been in Liverpool. Talking about the Armenian massacres and pleading for isolated action by Britain. The old fool, he thought. *
    The newspaper did not hold his attention for long, however. He turned his chair and looked, for a few moments, at his beloved painting, contented in the thought that within hours of returning to London he was already once more spinning his web. The sight of the Greuze prompted him to action. There was another painting in his mind’s eye: world famous and priceless. Or was it? He jotted some figures onto a piece of paper. That painting was in Paris, as was Jean Grisombre. The latter’s sense of avarice could be married to that priceless painting and so bring about the downfall of the Frenchman. Drawing a sheet of notepaper towards him, Moriarty began to compose a letter. On completion he read through the missive twice before sealing it within an envelope which he addressed to – M. Pierre Labrosse. The address was in the Rue Gabrielle, Montmartre, Paris. Another strand had been woven.
    Sally Hodges was exhausted. James Moriarty had always been a passionate and skilful lover, but tonight, back in London, it was as though some new confidence had been released within him. Sated with coupling, the Professor lay beside her, his breathing deep, rhythmic, like a man steadily rowing towards some unseen goal. Sal Hodges was not a woman to be easily disturbed by men, nor frightened by violent quirks. Yet tonight she found sleep difficult. It was as if she had touched a madness within her lover: an obsession which shrieked one word. Revenge.
    Though the house in Albert Square was silent, Sal Hodges was not the only one who could not sleep. Bridget Spear also lay, alone in her unfamiliar room, wishing that her husband would return from the errand upon which he had embarked soon after they had eaten their evening meal.
    She was anxious and frustrated, for she had planned to break the news to him that night. Every word had been rehearsed, all courage summoned. Then, suddenly, the opportunity was not there. She had even tried to dissuade him from going out. Tomorrow, she had argued, would be soon enough. She should have known better, for Bert Spear had always put the Professor’s business before all else.
    â€˜You go on to bed, duck. I’ll try not to waken you when I get back.’
    He hugged her close before leaving, and she could feel the hard heavy bulk of the pistol in his pocket, pressing against her bosom. This doubled her concern. Her husband out in the city, prowling among the inhabitants of the darker citadels: and her own condition, as yet unrevealed to him. Twin frustrations making the night pass slowly.
    In another part of the city, Sylvia Crow lay awake, snug in 63 King Street. Her thoughts, however, were happy and excited. Tomorrow she would be reunited with her husband, for at this very moment Angus McCready Crow was sailing into the Mersey. On his arrival in the morning, he would, in fact, catch a glimpse of the SS Aurania , oblivious that he had been hard on the heels of Moriarty. But Sylvia Crow’s thoughts were far removed from her husband’s official work or the villains which he so devotedly pursued. Tomorrow night, she dreamed, Angus would be back and she had many surprises in store for him.
    The name of Faulkner was well-known in London. In some circles Faulkner’s Baths had become a byword. In all, Faulkner ran three establishments. The one at the Great Eastern Railway Station was the most simple – straightforward hot and cold baths and showers. At 26 Villiers Street things were more elaborate: ‘Brill’s’ seawater baths were a speciality, as were the Sulphur vapour, Russian vapour and Sultan baths. The Faulkner’s at 50 Newgate Street fell half-way between the simplicity of the Great Eastern and the opulence of Villiers Street. Here you could bathe for a shilling, take a