Free The Revenge of Moriarty by John E. Gardner Page B

pondering hard on the intelligence which had been brought to him.
    As the morning wore on, several connected events took place. At a little after ten, Moriarty left Albert Square in the company of Bertram Jacobs and Albert Spear, bound for a series of meetings which would turn some of the contents of his big leather trunk into coin of the realm.
    In all they visited three persons: the old Jew, Solly Abrahams, with whom the Professor had conducted business on many previous occasions, and the spacious back rooms of two dingy pawn shops. One in High Holborn and the other near Aldgate.
    At eleven o’clock, Sal Hodges – who had gone out early – came back to Albert Square accompanied by two thin, almost waif-like, girls who could not be more than fourteen or fifteen years of age.
    In spite of their wasted and scrawny appearance, both of these girls – a pair of orphans named Martha and Polly Pearson – were bubbling with suppressed excitement as Sal prodded them down the area steps and into the kitchen where Bridget Spear was cross and hot with trying to do a hundred jobs at once.
    â€˜Well, you need fattening up and that’s to be sure,’ said Bridget after the girls had been made to remove their shawls and show themselves. But there was a hint of kindness in the housekeeper’s voice, for she could still clearly recall the night on which she had been brought into the Professor’s service: thin, filthy and browbeaten. ‘You been on the streets, have you?’
    â€˜No ’m.’ They both shook their heads.
    â€˜Well, you’ve certainly never been in service and I shall have to teach you everything I suppose. Will you work?’
    They nodded enthusiastically.
    â€˜You’ll know it if you don’t. All right, get yourselves a bowl of broth and some bread. Over there. Sit down at the table and we’ll see what we can do.’
    Orchard Street lay between the busy thoroughfare of Oxford Street and the grave respectability of Portman Square: a quiet tributary leading from a babbling commercial river to a placid wealthy lake.
    Half-way down on the right-hand side, coming from Oxford Street, was a small chemist’s shop, all neat with white paintwork and a window containing large thin-necked apothecary jars bright with coloured liquids: red, yellow, blue and green.
    There were few people about and nobody in the shop when the Chinaman entered, shutting the door firmly behind him and, with a quick movement, turning the key and pulling down the grey blind so that the word CLOSED showed towards the street.
    The chemist was a small man in his early middle years, untidy in appearance with wispy hair and a pair of half-spectacles balanced precariously on his nose. He had been replacing a jar labelled Pumiline Essence on a shelf which was heavy with bottles and preparations. Rooke’s Elixir, King’s Dandelion Pills, Johnson’s Soothing Syrup , and one which always amused Lee Chow, Hayman’s Balsam of Horehound .
    â€˜How do you do, Mr Bignall?’ said Lee Chow, the smile permanent on his face, his pronunciation still meticulously dividing the chemist’s name into two equal parts.
    For a few seconds Bignall stood, mouth open, a puzzled expression on his face, like a man who has just received bad news.
    â€˜You all right Mr Bignall?’
    â€˜I don’t think I want you in this shop.’
    If the chemist intended it to be in any way threatening, it was not a convincing speech, for the man’s complexion had taken on an ashen shade akin to the texture of a winding sheet.
    â€˜I have not seen you a long time, Mr Bignall.’
    â€˜You should leave. Go now. Before I call the police.’
    Lee Chow laughed as though it was a very good joke. ‘You not call police. I think you rather listen to me.’
    â€˜I run a respectable business.’
    â€˜You still have customers I bring to you?’
    â€˜I don’t want any