Sylvia, however, still appeared spiky. Hardly had he entered the parlour when she began, ‘A fine how-de-do we’ve had here today.’
Crow said nothing, a tactic which, in the past weeks, he had found best to adopt when faced by Sylvia’s unqualified statements.
‘With all the preparations for Christmas,’ she sighed. ‘With the comings and goings, the arrangements and plans. Too bad. Too bad …’ She left the sentence unfinished, as though her husband could define its meaning by some mode of mind reading.
Crow brightened. Perhaps, he thought, Sylvia’s two uncles and their attendant wives would not be coming to spend the holiday after all – a possibility which would lighten Crow’s life not inconsiderably. The uncles and their wives being unutterable social mountaineers of great diligence.
‘A telegram,’ said Sylvia, cryptically.
‘Ah.’
‘For Lottie, would you believe?’
‘The postal services are open to all, my dear.’
‘No notice. Nothing. She must pack her bags and go this very afternoon. Her mother, it seems. People are so inconsiderate, being ill at this time of the year.’
Crow’s face broke into a grin of Cheshire cat dimensions. ‘You mean that Lottie has left us? Gone?’
‘I said to her, what am I to do? I said.’
‘And?’
‘And the madam had it all in hand. There was no option. A cousin recently arrived in London, it seems. From a very good little family, but fallen upon bad days and willing to take any form of employment. She arrived within the hour, so there we are. Lottie out. Harriet in.’
Crow groaned. Lottie had been bad enough. A cousin fallen upon hard times might prove even worse.
‘It is all the extra work,’ moaned Sylvia, as though the small King Street house was some kind of a mansion. ‘Teaching her the ropes, so to speak.’
At that moment, a tap on the door heralded the arrival of the newly installed Harriet – pert, dark, pretty, with rounded hips and a smile, even in the teeth of Sylvia Crow’s glower – announcing that dinner was served.
At first, Angus Crow was inclined to think that his wife had cooked the meal, it was so good. But upon enquiry, between the grouse pie (a favourite not often provided at King Street) and the excellent lemon pudding, it turned out that the entire dinner was of Harriet’s making. Things, he considered, were looking up.
She was certainly brighter than the dour Lottie, and much more pleasant on the eye: particularly when later in the evening the girl came in to bank up the parlour fire – showing a great deal of ankle, and not a little calf in the process.
Harriet, the detective thought, would be a pleasure to have in King Street. He pondered upon the double meaning of that notion, much surprised to find the old Adam rising within him, rejuvenated, as it were, by a dazzling smile, a manner of walking, and the arch way in which the girl asked if there was anything else she could do for him.
Christmas came and went at the house in Albert Square with a genuine sense of celebration. For Martha and Polly Pearson it was a time to be well remembered, for their master appeared to take the good cheer of the season most seriously: allowing everybody to join in as though they were one big family.
On Christmas Eve they all gathered in the drawing room, around a tree which had been delivered two days previously, and hung about with garlands and baubles by Mrs Hodges and Miss Carlotta. There was sherry wine to drink, and the Professor himself handed out small gifts to all. A locket for Polly and a gold brooch for Martha.
On Christmas Day they were kept busy by Bridget Spear, preparing the banquet which was partaken by all but themselves and Harry Allen, who volunteered to keep them company and share their portion below stairs.
Late in the afternoon, however, they were instructed to serve tea, with the big iced cake, in the drawing room, and hardly had they taken the trays and stands up, than they were told to stay and take part in the celebrations – which included some roistering songs around the piano, games, which gave Polly and Harry Allen even more opportunity to intertwine in dark corners of the house, and a display of incredible card tricks performed by the Professor. A strange topsy-turvy Christmas indeed, and puzzling to the girls, who were most conscious of the barriers which society decreed should be maintained between servants and master.
The day ended with Martha, head reeling from too much wine, lying alone in the attic bedroom – Polly having found the necessary courage to finally cross the borderline of womanhood, snug tight in Harry Allen’s bed.
Two days later, the Professor left for a short excursion to Paris.
Neither of the girls saw him go, for he left in the early hours, being driven to Dover by Harkness, seen off only by the faithful Albert Spear.
Yet if either Polly or Martha had caught sight of the figure leaving the house on that morning, it is doubtful whether they would have recognized him. Instead of the familiar, and sometimes forbidding person, they would have observed a gangling man of middle age, with straggling fine grey hair, thinning, and so unruly that the least breath of wind whipped it into a wild sparse thatch. His nose was slightly hooked, and the eyes stammered of vagueness. Nor were this man’s clothes as immaculate as those in which the Professor was usually to be seen. They fitted, yet did not fit: the trousers being a shade long, and the arms of his jacket and greatcoat a trifle short. He carried a portmanteau, and had a large oblong photographic box slung, with a strap, about his shoulders. Indeed it was James Moriarty, but now he carried in his wallet papers which presented him as Joseph Moberly – artist and photographer extraordinary.
Moriarty enjoyed travelling: particularly when in some disguise, for nothing pleased him so much as to know that he was hoodwinking those around him. It was his general rule that a good disguise helped one to blend, unnoticed, into one’s surroundings. As Joseph Moberly, however, he took on a different line of attack. Moberly was the epitome of the vague, highly-strung, artist with an interest in every human being who came his way. A loud, high-pitched voice and braying laugh signalled his arrival wherever he moved, and a strange, almost birdlike series of mannerisms – including an odd clicking of the tongue and lips – betrayed, perhaps, a lack of confidence.
He spoke to everyone who even looked at him, telling them – whether they cared or not – that he was making his first visit to Paris where he planned to photograph some of the great paintings in the Louvre Museum. He might also, he claimed, take some photographs of the streets of that great city and he proposed to exhibit the lot next summer in a gallery off Bond Street.
Passengers on the afternoon packet from Dover, and later, on the train to Paris, were heartily sick of him long before they steamed into the Gare du Nord. Smiling inwardly, for the day had been a game – a diversion to pass the journey – Moriarty took a cab to a quiet, unassuming pension near the Place de L’Opéra where he dined well and spent a restful night. The next day could well be crucial.
He breakfasted leisurely on the following morning, constantly engaging the harassed waiter in execrable French, before taking himself, at about half-past ten, to the Louvre – lugging the large photographic case with him.
Up to this point, all the intrigue and plotting against those whom he had sworn to bring under domination, or be revenged against, had been directed by Moriarty but carried out by his trusted minions. At last, he, the greatest criminal intelligence of his time, was to carry out a lawless act on his own. As the cab drew him nearer to the Rue de Rivoli, Moriarty felt the old stirring in the blood, that sense of half-fear and half-expectation which sends a quiver through both mind and body on the verge of a great criminal adventure. The crime of the century they would have called this. It was a pity, he thought, that he could not allow it to be publicly recognized. That was, perhaps, part of the brilliance, the incisive genius of the project. That he ruled the great criminal family of London was common knowledge; that he was able to evade capture by the police of a dozen countries might be envied by other members of the
underworld’s hierarchy, or cause great embarrassment to the forces of law and order; but this, the theft of one of the world’s great masterpieces, had to go unsung. After this had been accomplished, what he had in store for Grisombre would be one of his crowning glories. Sadly, that also had to remain in the shadows, from whence it might only become hearsay in the folk lore of crime.
It was a bright, if chill, day as Moriarty made his way across the Place du Carroussel to the great building with its long arms of annexes stretching out as though to embrace the visitor. He went first to the administrative offices where it took half an hour to make the application for permission to take photographs in the Grand Gallery and the Salon Carré. Then there was another half hour’s wait before the permit was issued.
Certainly if Moriarty was desirous of drawing attention to himself as Joseph Moberly, his actions did not fail him. There was little doubt in the minds of the concierge and the many museum attendants, that the strange English photographer was a great eccentric. As the dishevelled figure entered the main vestibule and showed his pass to the attendant on duty, people turned to stare, while others covered their mouths to hide smiles at his appalling accent and even worse grammar.
But the French have always appreciated those who live a life of mad nonconformity. The attendants took to him, and, in the days that followed, referred to him, with affectionate smiles, as Monsieur Plique-Plaque – from his habit of clicking his tongue and lips as he worked at his photography in the Grand Gallery on the first floor of the museum.
He would start work relatively early each day, finishing before three in the afternoon, because of the light. For the first two days, Moriarty confined himself to making photographs of paintings in the Grand Gallery – that six hundred yards of walls packed tightly with paintings, running between the Salon Carré and the Salle Van Dyck overlooking the Quai du Louvre. He would have preferred to work straight away in the Salon Carré, where the Mona Lisa was hung in pride of place, but, to his frustration, two official photographers were already installed there, doing commissions for the Director.
He would pass the time of day with this pair of artists who would come into the Grand Gallery from time to time, stopping to see if they could learn anything new from the Englishman’s technique.
Within himself, the Professor was becoming more and more irritated. He had hoped to get the business dealt with quickly, but the two official photographers put an end to that, and he was forced to improvise, going through the motions: taking pictures of Vanucci’s St Sebastian, Titian’s Man with a Glove and two Leonardos – St John the Baptist and Bacchus. He was further concerned, on the third morning, when a student came into the Grand Gallery and set up his easel to start on a copy of Andrea del Sarto’s Holy Family.
On the fourth day the two official photographers were not there, though the tyro artist still worked at his copy. The eccentric Englishman commented on the absence of his friends to one of the passing attendants, making his occasional round of the Grand Gallery. They had finished up here, he was told, and were now working in the Salon du Tibre downstairs.
Moberly nodded enthusiastically, using the whole of his body, telling the attendant that he would now be able to take some photographs in the Salon Carré, remarking that he would have to go down and see his colleagues later, as he also might be leaving after today. With that he began to fold up his tripod camera stand, pack his equipment into the large oblong case, and make his way back to the Salon Carré.
There were several people in the long gallery, two watching the student, still laboriously sketching out part of his canvas in preparation for his copy of the Holy Family, the others strolling and stopping, almost at random, in front of paintings which took their fancy among the vast patchwork of canvases which littered the walls. One group – mother, father (pince-nez firm on his nose), and consumptive-looking daughter – stood in front of the large Murillo generally called The Angels’ Kitchen. Moriarty glanced at their faces which were fixed with that look folk have when they are conscious that exposure to great art will do them some spiritual good.
Cretins, thought the Professor as he passed by. Art is only good for two things – its financial value or the deep secret knowledge that you own something unique which nobody else can have in a million years. Great art could equal great power, particularly if you used it in the way he was, at this moment, planning.
He passed through the archway into the Salon Carré and began to set up his camera in front of the Mona Lisa, his eyes taking in all the angles from which he could be viewed. There were three entrances to the small Salon: the one from the Grand Gallery, through which he had just passed; another directly opposite, into the Gallery d’Apollon which housed what was left of the Crown Jewels of France,* and so called because of the Delacroix panel in the ceiling, depicting Apollo slaying the Python; the third entrance was through the door to the small room which housed The Virgin and the Donors by Hans Memling, and the Luini frescos.
Moriarty reflected that he could only actually be seen from relatively small areas of the Grand Gallery and the Gallery d’Apollon, though it was still possible for visitors, or attendants, to enter quietly from the fresco room without his knowledge. When the moment came, he would have to work quickly and with great stealth.
He stayed, adjusting his camera, peering through the lens and viewing the painting for the best part of ten minutes. In that time only two visitors came through the Salon, hardly pausing, on their way into the Grand Gallery. It was a most admirable time. His ears were adjusted to every sound, cough, footfall, shuffle or unexpected noise. He so concentrated on his hearing that he could detect even the smallest vibration. At last, he bent down and opened the oblong photographic box at his feet, hardly looking at it, his eyes intent on scanning the dangerous entrances and exits.
Feeling with the tips of his fingers, Moriarty found the hidden catch on the right hand long side of the box. He pressed down and the side fell away, revealing a recess in which the Labrosse copy lay cushioned with velvet, fitting exactly but for one small area which contained a pair of long-nosed pliers, similar to a cracksman’s ‘outsider’.
Grasping the pliers firmly, his senses straining to the limit, Moriarty began to cross the small area which separated his camera from the space of wall containing the painting. He was about to grasp the lower ledge of the frame when the muffled sound of voices reached him from far away at the other end of the adjoining d’Apollon Gallery.
Three strides and he was back at the box, sliding the pliers into their place and closing the partitioned side before resuming his position behind the camera.
The voices were raised and coming closer: a steady monologue punctuated by grunts from a second party; the tapping of a stick, and the sound of at least four pairs of feet.
The Professor ducked his head under the black cloth behind his camera just as the quartet entered the Salon.
‘I know that my eyes have almost gone, Monsieur le Directeur,’ one voice rattled on. ‘But even in this foggy autumn of my sight, I can see the truth.’
Moriarty raised his head, prepared to give the intruders the full Moberly treatment. An imposing picture met his gaze. The central figure wore thick-lensed glasses and walked precisely, with a cane tapping in front of him. At his side the grey-bearded figure of the Louvre’s Director bent in deference. Behind them two menials hovered.
‘I know that I am a worry to you, Directeur,’ continued the short-sighted one. ‘But, like other artists, I am only concerned that essential truth and beauty may be preserved.’
‘I realize that,’ the Director smiled indulgently. ‘Just as I realize you have a great number of weighty and influential artists on your side. I have to deal with the mules, though, Degas.’*
‘Mules, dolts, fools, who would not be able to distinguish oils from watercolours. All they want are pretty pictures hanging on their walls. Pictures which look clean and freshly varnished.’
‘We seem to be interrupting one of our photog
raphers,’ interjected the Director.
One of the menials coughed, the other shuffled towards Moriarty as though to guard the two great men.
‘It is all right, Monsieur le Directeur,’ Moriarty fawned and bowed.
‘An Englishman,’ Degas beamed. ‘You have to come to Paris in order to see priceless works now, eh?’
‘I have the privilege to be taking photographs, sir, of some of the finest paintings in the world.’ Moriarty drew in his breath, about to launch into a Moberly speech.
‘I trust his photography is better than his French,’ rattled the short-sighted Degas. Then, more slowly, for the Englishman’s benefit, ‘And you are photographing La Joconde? You are, perhaps, an expert on this painting?’
‘I know its priceless worth. Just as I know how honoured I am to be speaking to such an artist as yourself, Monsieur Degas.’ Inwardly, he scoffed: a dauber, a painter of dancers, blurred ballerinas and women completing their toilet.
Degas laughed. ‘I am making an irritation. A small storm. The idiots here at the Louvre would have La Joconde cleaned. What do you think of that, Englishman?’
‘I have read the arguments, sir,’ he threw a sidelong glance at the Director who was unwilling to become involved. ‘In my own humble opinion, you and your colleagues are correct in fighting such a decision. Clean the Mona Lisa and you risk doing it great damage. Clean it and you risk more than damage, you risk a transformation.’
‘You see,’ cried Degas, thumping his cane on the floor. ‘Even English photographers understand. Clean it and it would become unrecognizable. Look at her, Directeur. I cannot see her as plainly as I would like, but I can feel. To clean and revarnish La Joconde would be like stripping the most fascinating woman on earth. You can still desire a woman whom you have seen stripped to the flesh, but the sense of mystery always departs with the flutter of the last garment. So it would be with La Joconde. The fascination would be consigned to history. You might just as well burn her as clean her.’