The Mammoth Book of the Adventures of Professor Moriarty

by Maxim Jakubowski

  ‘Alicia was by then much improved. We set off for England and arrived back in England only today. And then—’

  She seemed on the point of breaking down again, but, after a sip of brandy, she composed herself and went on. ‘We arrived at the hotel this morning to find that Mrs Shaughnessy and Arthur were not there. The staff at the hotel had seen nothing of them since the day before yesterday, when they left the hotel in a cab. Of course we informed the police. When I explained about the earlier attempt to kidnap Arthur, they sent someone from Scotland Yard. But it is clear to me, Mr Holmes, that they have no clue as to what has happened or where my son is. I have read accounts of your successes and I had the idea of coming to see you. Rufus was not so sure, but—’

  ‘And who is Rufus?’ Holmes asked.

  ‘My stepson, Mr Holmes. My husband’s son from his first marriage. Rufus is twenty and has been a great support to me. He is waiting at the hotel in case there is a ransom demand.’

  ‘Who is in charge of the case?’

  ‘Inspector Lestrade. He too is waiting at the hotel.’

  ‘I know Lestrade,’ Holmes replied. ‘A good man in his way, but somewhat lacking in imagination. I think our first move will be to return with you to the hotel.’

  ‘Then you will take the case, Mr Holmes? Oh, thank you, thank you.’ Hope shone in her eyes.

  ‘I will do my best, dear lady,’ Holmes said gently. ‘I cannot say more.’

  I have mentioned before that Holmes was a stranger to the tender passions, but a situation like this, involving a devoted wife and mother, was just the kind to draw out all that was chivalrous in his austere nature.

  I had heard of the Midland Grand Hotel as one of the most lux urious hotels in London. We stepped out of a raw, drizzly November evening into an atmosphere of warmth and bright lights and deference. A magnificent sweeping staircase led up to an opulent apartment, the ceiling of which was lavishly decorated with gold leaf. A young man was lounging by a blazing fire, and sprang to his feet as we entered. Lestrade was there too, standing by the window, looking out of place with his heavy boots and worn overcoat.

  Mrs Armstrong looked at them with an appeal on her face. Both men shook their heads and her face fell.

  She introduced the young man as her stepson, Mr Rufus Armstrong. He was a little too well dressed for my taste, but then I am old-fashioned and do not care to see men wearing diamond cufflinks.

  ‘I’m not sorry to see you, Mr Holmes,’ Lestrade said.

  ‘I am glad that Scotland Yard is taking the case seriously.’

  ‘Oh, yes,’ Lestrade said grimly, ‘when an heir to a fortune, and a child at that, goes missing, we take it seriously all right. Any little assistance you care to give us will be welcome, Mr Holmes.’

  There was a sardonic twist to Holmes’s lips, but he refrained from comment. He turned to Mrs Armstrong. ‘Mrs Shaughnessy would scarcely have foiled the earlier attempt if she had been in the pay of the kidnappers. She is, I take it, beyond suspicion?’

  ‘Oh yes, Mr Holmes, she has been with us since Arthur was born and she is devoted to him. She would defend him with her life, I am sure of that.’

  At that moment there was a knock on the door. Lestrade answered it and I glimpsed a constable outside. They conferred in low voices.

  When Lestrade turned to us, he looked grave. ‘The body of a woman was found in the Regent’s Canal this afternoon.’

  Mrs Armstrong gasped and her hand flew to her bosom.

  ‘Of course, it may not be Mrs Shaughnessy,’ he continued, ‘but if someone who knew her could come to the mortuary …’

  Mrs Armstrong was about to speak, but her stepson stepped forward. ‘I can accompany the Inspector, Mother,’ he said, the name sounding incongruous on his lips, for there can have been no more than ten years between them.

  Holmes nodded his approval. ‘We also will accompany you, Lestrade.’

  Leaving Mrs Armstrong in the care of her maid, we departed.

  I felt a sense of foreboding as we passed through the wroughtiron gates of the mortuary. A wind had got up and the bare branches of the surrounding trees swayed and rustled. If it was chilly outside, it was bitter within, as the cold struck from the tiled walls. I am not a fanciful man, but on that chill November evening it was like entering the very gates of death.

  We were shown into a room by a gaunt attendant, himself of a cadaverous appearance. On a marble slab, the body of a woman lay covered with a sheet. Fearing how Mr Armstrong might react, I positioned myself at his elbow. When the attendant drew back the sheet, we saw the face of a woman of about forty, framed with a mass of dark red hair. It was a strong face, full of character, even in death.

  Mr Armstrong nodded. ‘That is Mrs Shaughnessy. But whatever can have become of Arthur?’

  He was very pale, but otherwise remarkably composed. Lestrade and Holmes exchanged glances and I guessed what was in their minds. Who knew what further secrets might be concealed in the murky waters of the canal?

  ‘We’ll do our best to find out, Mr Armstrong,’ Lestrade said. ‘Come with me. I’ll arrange for a constable to accompany you back to the hotel.’

  ‘With your permission, Lestrade, Watson and I will linger a little longer,’ Holmes said.

  When the two men had left the room, Holmes and I examined the body. One side of the face was badly bruised. I picked up her hand. It was icy cold and the fingernails were broken. All down her arms were clusters of small bruises.

  ‘Mrs Shaughnessy struggled with her attacker,’ I concluded.

  ‘She has certainly been subjected to some rough treatment,’ Holmes agreed. ‘She may have marked her assailant. Where are her clothes?’ he asked the attendant.

  ‘Over here, Mr Holmes.’ On a table in the corner of the room, lay a pile of sodden garments, neatly folded, but stinking of the canal.

  ‘Something curious, Mr Holmes,’ the attendant went on. He showed us a small oilskin packet. ‘This was in her bodice, next to her skin, like.’

  ‘Have you opened it?’ Holmes asked.

  ‘I was waiting for the Inspector.’

  Lestrade returned at that moment and we opened the packet. It contained a piece of pink and white ribbon, about three or four inches long.

  Holmes examined it. ‘Not new, by any means. Cut straight across at one end, and diagonally at the other end, with a notch or zigzag in it. What do you make of it, Lestrade?’

  ‘Oh, some lover’s token, I expect. I can’t see much significance in that, Mr Holmes.’

  ‘Well, well, you may be right. You won’t mind if I take possession of it?’

  Lestrade waved his consent. ‘The way I see it, is this: the gang snatched the child and the nurse tried to prevent it. They killed her – probably didn’t mean to – and dumped her body in the canal. So now it’s a hanging offence. Question is, do they still mean to demand a ransom, or have they panicked and got rid of the child?’

  Holmes nodded his agreement. ‘You’ll have the canal dragged?’

  ‘As soon as it gets light. In the meantime, I’ll return to the hotel in case a ransom note is received.’

  ‘I can be better employed in Baker Street,’ Holmes said, ‘but, Watson – it may be as well for the lady to have a doctor on hand. Perhaps you’d consent to spend the night at the hotel.’

  ‘By all means, Holmes.’

  I advised Lestrade to say nothing to Mrs Armstrong about dragging the canal, I gave her a mild sedative to help her sleep, then I myself retired to the sofa in the drawing room of the suite. For an old campaigner like myself, this was no hardship. I soon was fast asleep, and no doubt snoring into the bargain.

  I was awoken by someone shaking my shoulder and opened my eyes to see Mrs Armstrong gazing down at me.

  ‘Dr. Watson! It’s Rufus! He’s gone.’

  I struggled up on to an elbow. ‘Gone? Gone where?’

  Lestrade was behind her. He cleared his throat. ‘The facts appear to be these, Dr Watson. The constable, w
ho escorted Mr Armstrong to the hotel, says that a message was waiting for him at the desk. Mr Armstrong broke the news of Mrs Shaughnessy’s death to Mrs Armstrong, and then when Dr Watson arrived, he retired to his own quarters. But his valet found this morning that his bed has not been slept in and he is nowhere to be found.’

  Mrs Armstrong wrung her hands. ‘Oh, Dr Watson, I am so afraid that he has gone out to look for Arthur and has met with some harm.’

  Even in my sleep-befuddled state, one thing was clear. ‘We had better send for Holmes,’ I said.

  ‘No need,’ said a familiar voice from the door.

  It was extraordinary, the way that the atmosphere of that room changed on an instant. Mrs Armstrong became calmer. An expression of relief, quickly masked, flitted across Lestrade’s face.

  Mrs Armstrong went to Holmes. He took her hand between both of his and led her to a chair.

  He turned to Lestrade. ‘I’m assuming that you have not found the note that was left at the desk.’

  ‘We have not,’ Lestrade said. ‘Either he burned it, or more likely took it with him when he went out.’

  ‘You have no idea where he may have gone, Mrs Armstrong?’ Holmes asked.

  Tears were welling up in her eyes. ‘I cannot understand it, Mr Holmes. Rufus scarcely knows the city. Do you think he heard from the kidnappers and went to confront them? Oh, surely he would never be so foolish as to go without saying a word!’

  ‘You are quite certain he knows no one in London?’ Holmes persisted.

  ‘No one! Though, but no, surely …’

  ‘You’ve thought of someone?’

  ‘Harry was keen that Rufus should go into the firm, but Rufus has struggled a little with his schooling. So we engaged a mathematics tutor for him, a man eminent in his field, who lived with us for a while. Rufus liked him – and I think he lives in London.’

  ‘His name?’

  ‘Moriarty. Professor James Moriarty.’

  Moriarty! The man Holmes had described to me as the Napoleon of crime, the spider at the centre of a Europe-wide web of crime and corruption. His was the last name I – or Holmes, I warrant – had expected to hear. If Holmes was as taken aback as I was, he didn’t let it show.

  ‘When was this, Mrs Armstrong?’

  ‘It must have been around four years ago. He stayed with us for six months. But I think he and Rufus have kept in touch. He lives in Kew, I believe.’

  Holmes was silent for some moments and, when he spoke, it appeared to be at a tangent.

  ‘What were the terms of your husband’s will as regards his children, Mrs Armstrong?’

  She stared at him. ‘Rufus and Arthur will inherit the company when they come of age. For Rufus that will be next year. Arthur’s share is kept in trust until he reaches his majority. I and my daughter are provided for separately.’

  ‘And should one son predecease the other before reaching their majority?’

  ‘The survivor will inherit everything. But, Mr Holmes, you can’t think … why, Rufus is devoted to little Arthur. He thinks the world of him.’

  Holmes was saved from replying to this by the appearance of a nanny who told Mrs Armstrong that her daughter was upset and asking for her. Mrs Armstrong left the room and Holmes turned a grave face to Lestrade and myself.

  ‘This puts a very different complexion on matters.’

  ‘You think Mr Armstrong is implicated in the kidnapping, Mr Holmes?’ Lestrade asked.

  ‘I am certain of it. As it happens, I know the address of Moriarty’s house in Kew, though I doubt that we will find the beast in its lair.’

  So it proved. Moriarty’s housekeeper could tell us only that her master had left the previous evening and had told her he would be away for some undefined period. No, he hadn’t told her where he was going, but it was her belief that he’d gone abroad. He could be gone days, he could be gone weeks. There was no knowing. Holmes had expected no less, yet it was still a disappointment,

  We returned to Baker Street to find a message from Lestrade. The canal had been dragged but nothing had been found. Mr Armstrong had not returned to the hotel. In short, there was no news.

  Holmes flung himself into a chair by the fire. ‘So we are no further forward.’

  ‘While there is life, there is hope,’ I remarked, pouring out the tea that Mrs Hudson had brought up.

  ‘But is there life, Watson, that is the question? It is true that Moriarty would not lightly dispose of so valuable a commodity as this child. But in that case why has no ransom note been received – and what has happened to Rufus Armstrong?’

  Holmes reached for his pipe and stuffed it with shag. He sighed and stared gloomily into the fire, frustrated by our lack of progress. I handed him his tea and a copy of The Times. It was his habit to peruse the personal columns every day and I hoped it might prove a temporary distraction. Though he took it up with a show of reluctance, he was soon engrossed.

  I leaned back in my chair and closed my eyes. For a while there was no sound but the crackling of the fire and the rustling of the pages of the newspaper, and I had almost dozed off, when an exclamation from Holmes jerked my eyes open.

  ‘Good God, Holmes, what is it?’

  ‘There is to be a sale tomorrow in Paris of eighteenth-century French paintings and drawings, containing a number of works by Jean-Baptiste Greuze, Moriarty’s favourite painter. Strange that a man as cold-hearted as Moriarty should be drawn to paintings that some – myself included – regard as sentimental, even mawkish, but so it is. It is an obsession with him, his one weak spot. He will be there tomorrow, not a doubt about it. Make a long arm for the Bradshaw, Watson, and look up the times of the boat train, there’s a good fellow.’

  A Channel crossing at night in November is not something I recommend and I was heartily relieved to reach Calais. As we came ashore, a change seemed to come over Holmes. I myself am unmistakably an Englishman abroad, but it was not so with Holmes. I had not realized that his French was so fluent. ‘Why, Holmes,’ I declared, ‘you could almost pass as a Frenchman.’

  He smiled, but said nothing.

  We reached Paris and took a cab straight to the saleroom on the Faubourg Saint Honoré.

  The auction had not yet begun and a small crowd, mostly male, was engaged in viewing paintings set up on easels and portfolios of drawings.

  Holmes nudged me and pointed. ‘What did I tell you? There he is!’

  Moriarty was very much as Holmes had once described him to me: a thin face, grey hair swept back from a high, domed forehead. There was a strange contrast between his ascetic appearance, every inch the unworldly academic, and the voluptuous picture at which he was gazing. It was not one I should have cared to view in the company of a lady.

  Moriarty was too engrossed to notice us approaching, until Holmes remarked, ‘That is a very fine Fragonard, is it not? Do you intend to bid?’

  It must have been a shock to see us there, but to give him this due, Moriarty showed no sign of surprise. He merely remarked, ‘Good afternoon, Mr Holmes. And this, I assume, is your confederate, Dr Watson. As for the painting, alas, it is far beyond my modest purse – and not entirely to my taste either.’

  ‘Modest purse! Are you not the owner of a painting by Greuze worth well over a million francs?’

  ‘A gift from a friend, Mr Holmes. A gift from a wealthy friend in gratitude for services rendered.’

  There was a pedantic precision about his speech that made my flesh creep.

  ‘You have a number of wealthy friends, have you not?’ Holmes enquired. ‘Among them Rufus Armstrong, who would be even wealthier were it not for the trifling obstacle of a younger brother?’

  Moriarty moved on to the next picture. This one, I saw from the signature, was by Greuze. It showed a little girl playing with a kitten and was not much more to my taste than the last.

  ‘I will pay you the compliment of frankness, Mr Holmes. I do not have the child, nor do I know where he is. If I did, I would be only too happy to ha
nd him over in exchange for an appropriate reward.’

  Only a warning look from Holmes prevented me from seizing him and thrashing him there and then.

  ‘Rufus Armstrong is also missing,’ Holmes remarked.

  ‘Ah, Rufus. A hot-headed young man, and arrogant into the bargain.’

  ‘Do you know what has happened to him?’

  ‘Perhaps some accident has befallen him, Mr Holmes.’ Moriarty leaned forward to examine the picture more closely. ‘The streets of London have become so dangerous, have they not? Now look at the whiskers of that kitten: the handling of the paint just there: superlative, is it not?’ Perhaps the sentimental picture had touched his stony heart, for I saw that his eyes were moist. ‘If the streets of London can be dangerous for a young man, they are desperately so for a lost child. I hope the police are doing their utmost to find little Arthur. And now the auction is about to begin, so our interesting little chat must end. Good day to you both.’

  The cabbie was waiting for us and Holmes instructed him to go to the nearest telegraph office.

  ‘Now that we know what happened,’ he said, ‘I had better send a telegram to Lestrade.’

  I was taken aback. ‘What did happen?’ I enquired.

  ‘Why, did you not hear what Moriarty said?’ Holmes spoke with a touch of asperity. ‘Is it not evident that Moriarty, blackguard that he is, corrupted this young man while acting as his tutor and they hatched a plot to snatch the child? The nurse put up more of a fight than Moriarty’s thugs anticipated and the child managed to get away. Moriarty and Armstrong fell out over the failure of the plot and Armstrong, as one would expect, came off the worst.’

  ‘So you really think Moriarty doesn’t have Arthur?’

  ‘You must understand how his mind works. It is merely a matter of business with him. If he had the child, he would have demanded a ransom long before now. As it is, he has wasted no time in cutting his losses.’

  ‘But if Arthur managed to run away, where is he?’