After the fight, Tyrone quit the Irish Republican Invincibles and founded the Irish Invincible Republicans. He attracted no followers except for his demented Aunt Sophonisiba, who advocated the health-giving properties of drinking from her own chamberpot, the tithing of two pennies in every shilling to establish an Irish Expedition to the Planet Mercury and (most ridiculous of all) votes for women.
Tyrone promulgated a plan for bringing Britain to its knees by dynamiting public houses. The Fenian Brigades would never countenance such a sacrilegiously un-Irish notion. With Desmond dead, Tyrone rallied the unexploded remnants of the IRI and folded them into the IIR. Claiming Aunt Soph was in touch with his Da on the ethereal plane, Tyrone relayed the story that if Dynamite Des hadn’t been so annoyed at a wave of recent arrests made by the Special Irish Branch he wouldn’t have hit the table so hard. That made Desmond a martyr to the Cause. Tyrone declared war on the SIB.
As has been said about any number of conflicts, including the Franco-Prussian War and the Gladstone-Disraeli feud, it’s a shame they can’t both lose.
Tyrone had a bee in his bonnet about the Eye of Balor.
Soph put it into his head that he must have the coin to rise to his true position. Desmond had thought it an amusing relic to show off to his drinking cronies. Tyrone, who had no drinking cronies, believed it possessed supernatural powers.
The only reason he hadn’t yet tried to steal it back from Scotland Yard was that Soph said she knew from ‘a vision’ that if the Eye of Balor were not in the hands of its rightful owner, the ‘little people’ would bring about the ruination of anyone who had the temerity to hang onto it. So, the Irish Invincible Republicans were waiting for the Special Irish Branch to be undermined by leprechauns. I assumed they were all down the pub, against Tyrone’s orders, leaving him home with only a vial of his own piddle, as recommended by potty aunts everywhere, to warm his insides.
Ireland! I ask you, was ever there such a country of bastards, priests and lunatics?
VIII
As promised, another item for our collection arrived first thing the next morning. Hand-delivered by an apache from Paris, who took one sniff at an English breakfast, muttered, ‘Merde alors’, and hopped back on the boat train. Can’t say I blamed her.
1. The Green Eye of the Yellow God
2. The Black Pearl of the Borgias
3. The Falcon of the Knights of St John
4. The Jewels of the Madonna of Naples
5. The Jewel of Seven Stars
6. The Eye of Balor
The fabulous gold, jewel-encrusted Templar Falcon looked like a dull black paperweight. A label attached by string to one claw indicated decreasingly ambitious prices. Generations of Parisian tat connoisseurs had not nibbled. On principle, the Grand Vampire had stolen the bird — murdering three people, and burning the curiosity shop to the ground — rather than meet the asking price (which, I’m sure, Pére Duroc would have lowered yet again, if pressed). I trusted our esteemed colleague was enjoying his afternoon anis from the skull of the Emperor Napoleon.
‘Are you sure there are jewels in that?’ asked Fat Kaspar, who was trusted with dusting the sideboard.
Moriarty nodded, holding the thing up like Yorick’s skull.
‘What was the point of it again?’ I enquired.
‘After the Knights of St John were driven off Rhodes by Suleiman the Magnificent, the Emperor Carlos let the order make stronghold on Malta and demanded a single falcon as annual rent. He expected a live bird, but the Knights decided to impress him by manufacturing this fantastically valuable statue… which was then stolen.’
Fat Kaspar prepared a spot for the bird, and Moriarty set it down.
‘What happened afterwards?’ the youth asked.
‘What usually happens when rent isn’t paid. Eviction. The Templars were booted out of Malta. In shame. Later, they were excommunicated or disavowed by the Pope. In Spain and Portugal, they practiced “unholy” rites — the usual orgiastic behaviour such as you’d find in any brothel when the fleet’s in, but with incense and chanting and vestments. Other orders made war on them, hunted them down. It is said the last of them were hung on cartwheels and left for the crows to peck out their eyes.
‘But the Knights of St John still exist, and I am sure they wish the return of their property. I doubt the present Grand Master feels any obligation to deliver it to the Spanish Crown.’
‘Who’s this Grand Master wallah?’ I asked.
‘Marshall Alaric Molina de Marnac.’
‘Never heard of him.’
‘That would be why it’s called a secret society, Moran. The Knights of St John have many other names in the many territories where they operate. In England, they are a sect of Freemasons, and have conjoined with several occult groups. Their Grand Lodge, in the catacombs under Guildhall, is abuzz with preparations for a visit from the Grand Master. The call has gone out and the Holy Knights will answer. De Marnac heard that the falcon had surfaced in Paris…’
‘What little bird whispered that in his ear?’
Moriarty’s thin lips approximated a sly smile. ‘He set out by special train from the Templar fastness in Cadiz, but arrived too late… as the embers of the Duroc establishment were settling. A troop of men-at-arms, in full armour, clashed with Les Vampires in Montmartre. Lives were lost. I calculate they delayed the arrival of de Marnac on these shores by eighteen hours. The Grand Vampire will be less inclined to do us favours in the future. I had taken that into account — we shall have to do something about France when this present business is concluded.’
I did not think to remind him that our purpose was simply to save one rotten Englishman’s hide. Moriarty had not forgotten Mad Carew. He was playing a much larger game, but the original commission remained.
Fat Kaspar looked at the falcon. He brushed its jet wings with his feather duster, and the thing’s dead eye seemed to glint.
Something was going on between boy and blackbird.
Moriarty had already assigned the day’s errands. Simon Carne was off in Kensington ‘investigating a gas leak’. Alf Bassick was in Rotherhithe picking up items Moriarty had ordered from a cabinetmaker whose specialty was making new furniture look old enough to pass for Chippendale. Now, it was my turn for marching orders.
‘Moran, I have taken the liberty of filling in your appointment book. You have a busy day. You are expected at Scotland Yard for luncheon, the Royal Opera for the matinee and Trelawny House for late supper. I trust you can secure the items needed to complete our collection. Take whoever you need from our reserves. I shall be in my study until midnight — calculations must be made.’
‘Fair enough, Prof. You know what you’re doing.’
‘Yes, Moran. I do.’
IX
So, how does one steal a coin from a locked desk in Scotland Yard? A castle on the Victoria Embankment, full to bursting with policemen, detectives, gaolers and ruthless agents of the British State. An address — strictly, it’s New Scotland Yard — lawbreakers would be well advised to stay away from.
Simple answer.
You don’t. You can’t. And if you could, you wouldn’t.