The Mammoth Book of the Adventures of Professor Moriarty

by Maxim Jakubowski

  “Indeed, my dear fellow. I count myself not merely as a colleague, but a friend. I am motivated solely by a desire to ensure that you come to no harm. So far, you have enjoyed considerable good fortune, but I fear that will not last for ever. Better quit the game now, while you remain ahead of the pack.”

  An expression of uncertainty disrupted the other man’s wellfed features. I diagnosed a swaggering and aggressive personality, to which any hint of doubt was inimical. Yet the way in which he tugged at his heavy moustache suggested indecision. His sudden change of mood was easy to comprehend, for the silky menace lurking behind Moriarty’s suave protestations of goodwill was a thousand times more alarming than a crude threat of violence. I did not wonder that he phrased his reply with a humility conspicuously absent from his contemptuous riposte to Colonel Moran.

  “You will appreciate, Professor, that I have not the slightest wish to incur your displeasure. The goodwill that subsists between—”

  “Enough!” Moriarty lifted his right hand, and gave a smile cold enough to freeze flesh. “We shall say no more on the subject. I believe that your train departs from Euston in thirty minutes. Let us summon a cab without delay, so that you are sure to arrive at the station in time.”

  Before the man could speak, Moran interjected. “After all, you would not wish to be too long absent from the company of that beautiful young belle of yours. Eh?”

  The provocation in his jeering tone was unmistakable, and the other man appeared to fight a battle within himself before responding. When at last he spoke, caution prevailed, but evidently it had been a close-run thing.

  “Very well, gentlemen. I shall take my leave of you. Professor, I shall reflect on what you have said. I owe you no less.”

  With a crisp bow, he took his leave. Once the door had closed behind him, Moran turned to the Professor.

  “Dangerous.”

  Moriarty inclined his head. “Such is the nature of a loose cannon.”

  “Pity. These past two years, he has made himself damned useful.”

  The Professor gave a gentle sigh. “You will recall my mentioning after my first conversation with him that his proclivities would render him unstable in due course.”

  “Yes, I must admit that you were right. As usual.” The note of admiration struck me as genuine, not grudging. “How fortunate that we have prepared for all eventualities.”

  “Good fortune has nothing to do with it, Colonel. Planning and preparation, therein lies the secret of sustained success in any field of human endeavour. The nursemaid is aware of what is required?”

  “Our people in the north country assure me of her reliability.”

  “Excellent. And the staff at Flatman’s?”

  “They are ready to provide evidence of impropriety, should the police display their customary ineptitude in following up clues helpfully laid before them by the nursemaid. I have every confidence that the path we have constructed will lead to the gallows.”

  Moriarty permitted himself a thin smile. “Do not be so sure, Colonel. The machine of justice in this country is as susceptible to malfunction as the most antiquated equipment in the humblest factory. Happily, that is of little consequence. What matters is that our activities continue to flourish without risk of compromise.”

  The Colonel clicked his heels. “You may be assured of that.”

  With this, they departed the Reading Room, leaving me to muse on their cryptic conversation for another half-hour, until a loud and echoing squeal of delight from the aged student of exotica finally drove me to seek refuge in the infinitely more congenial environment of the Diogenes Club.

  I took time to reflect on what I had learned at the Tankerville. During the course of my life, I have been accused of a medley of vices, but nobody has yet sought to characterise me as that dullest of oafs, the man of action. Haste on the part of the authorities, a stubborn insistence on being seen to be doing anything rather than nothing explains much that is wrong with our world. Hence my insistence on ensuring that my work is conducted out of sight from the public I serve. I exclude my brother from criticism in this regard; a man in business as a consulting detective cannot afford complete anonymity. Nevertheless, his celebrity gave me cause for concern in relation to Professor Moriarty. It seemed to me that it was merely a question of time before the two men’s paths crossed, with consequences that I found myself reluctant to contemplate. I saw it as my duty to make sure that my brother remained unaware of the full extent of the Professor’s nefarious activities until I was left with no choice but to reveal how much I knew. Even then, I would need to insist that he refrained from divulging matters of detail to his chronicler. One kingdom, two distinguished lives, and at least a dozen pristine reputations depended upon our discretion.

  The man from the north country intrigued me. We had for some time been aware that Moriarty’s web stretched across the continents, but we had struggled to identify the individuals who supervised his criminal affairs outside the United Kingdom. In particular, neither the American authorities nor the energetic men of the late Mr Pinkerton’s Agency had been able to identify Moriarty’s representative in the United States. Plainly, a man of business whose legitimate commercial interests stretched across the Atlantic would prove an invaluable asset to the Professor, and I suspected that I had been in the presence of just such an individual. I found, as usual, that an hour or two of gentle slumber followed by a first class Chateaubriand proved unmatched in facilitating the deductive process, and by the time I was joined for a postprandial port by the Home Secretary’s right-hand man, I was ready to disclose my conclusions.

  “A riddle and a half!” W exclaimed, once I had recounted verbatim the discussion that I had overheard. “A nurse, a hotel, the gallows … what do you make of such disjointed fragments?”

  I savoured my drink. The importance of the day’s events justified a certain indulgence, and I had chosen the vintage of 1834, and that colossus of ports, Kopka’s Quinta de Roriz.

  “Let us begin, my dear W, with Moran’s subordinate. What do we know of him?”

  “Very little,” my companion responded grimly. “We need to redouble our efforts to trace his identity.”

  “The task may be easier than you suppose. The timbre of his voice is unusual and suggestive. A Liverpudlian of the mercantile class, whose domestic or work commitments have led him to spend significant periods of time in London and the east coast of North America in recent years. One infers from the exquisite tailoring of his suit – to say nothing of the satin waistcoat with ivory buttons – that he enjoys considerable wealth. His choleric demeanour, however, is unlikely to be the product of a background of privilege. Those born to wealth are educated from an early age to conceal their tempers behind a cloak of good manners.”

  Sir W snorted. A hereditary baronet, he may have detected an ironic thrust, notwithstanding my beatific smile, but I was unrepentant. My endeavours earlier in the day entitled me to mix business with a little personal amusement.

  “I surmise that his travels are attributable to business rather than pleasure, and that he has enjoyed success in his chosen line. Given that the Liverpool Cotton Association dominates commerce within his native city, the assumption that he is a merchant or broker in cotton is reasonable if not beyond argument. Consider. If, through Moran, our friend Moriarty secured the loyalty of such a man, his ability to conduct covert operations in the United States would be greatly enhanced. A successful broker with interests in, say, Virginia would have unimpeachable reasons for coming and going across the Atlantic. I suspect that his usefulness would by no means be confined to delivering secret messages to American crooks. He might himself direct operations in accordance with the Professor’s plans for spreading criminality across the civilised world.”

  “Damnable!” my companion exclaimed. “But why would such a man – an entrepreneur – put himself at Moriarty’s disposal?”

  “I was intrigued by the fact that his complexion is pasty, with hints of grey
and yellow. One would expect such a choleric fellow to be red-cheeked. Evidently, he enjoys indifferent health, and I speculate that the faint tinge of yellow may be attributable to a bout of malaria in the past. The disease is not uncommon in the cotton fields of Virginia. His readiness to swallow pills suggests to me that, however genuine the maladies that he has suffered, he is also something of a hypochondriac. The conclusion, as I am sure you will concur, is plain.”

  W stirred in his chair. “I cannot claim that it is obvious to me.”

  “The man is a drug fiend, depend upon it. The pastiness of his cheeks is due, I suspect, to an overfondness for arsenic. Some medical men recommend it for the treatment of malaria. Quinine is more effective, but less appealing to those with unconventional instincts. The peasants of Styria take arsenic as a means of freshening the complexion, but our friend is more likely, in my opinion, to favour arsenic because of its aphrodisiac qualities.”

  “I say!”

  I raised a hand to still W’s protests. “Deplorable, perhaps, but we must take the world as we find it, rather than as we would wish it to be. Believe me, even a man with the finest mind and purest heart may resort to desperate remedies in moments of acute stress, and, although this fellow is no fool, I doubt there is much in his life that is pure.”

  “You think this arsenic habit has weakened his moral fibre?”

  “He may have been blessed with little enough moral fibre to start with,” I replied. “I caught sight of a betting slip protruding from one of his pockets. It had been crumpled, perhaps in disgust. A man with a fondness for the racetrack will often display other weaknesses of character and, although his attire was at first glance immaculate, my eyesight was keen enough to detect a faint shadow of crimson on his collar, no doubt the legacy of an amorous liaison earlier in the day.”

  “My dear fellow!”

  “Even an affluent businessman may find such pastimes expensive. A desire to supplement his finances may cause him to consort with rogues. And scoundrels come in no more sophisticated guise than Colonel Moran and Professor Moriarty.”

  “Very well, I am persuaded. You said that in the conversation between those gentlemen, mention was made of a nursemaid and Flatman’s. Have you formed a view as to their significance – if any?”

  “Flatman’s Hotel is to be found in Henrietta Street. It happens to be frequented by members of the cotton-broking fraternity, but may no doubt prove a suitable venue for intrigue, as well as discussions about trade over tea and crumpets. The vague outlines of a plot are taking shape in my mind, but they are nothing more at present than shadows in mist. The data available to me is inadequate, and precisely what fate Moriarty intends for his Liverpudlian aide, I cannot be sure.”

  “You believe the man’s life is at risk?”

  “Unquestionably.”

  “We must do something to save him!” W cried. “This wretched villain may prove a source of vital information about the activities of Moran and Moriarty. If only …”

  I shook my head. “You will be disappointed, I fear. The fact that the Professor has taken the extraordinary step of breaking cover illustrates the strength of his determination to resolve whatever difficulty he faces. I have never known a human being who was his equal in both callousness and ingenuity. When Moriarty described the man as a loose cannon, he sounded uncannily like a judge passing sentence after donning his black cap.”

  In the days that followed my foray to the Tankerville Club, fresh information dribbled out, like drips from a leaky tap. Within three weeks, it had formed a murky puddle. The man from Liverpool was indeed a cotton broker, James Maybrick by name, and his business interests took him regularly both to London and to Norfolk, Virginia. While crossing the ocean some eight years earlier, he had been introduced to a comely fellow passenger twenty-three years his junior. The girl was called Florence Chandler, and her late father had once been the mayor of Mobile, Alabama. The relationship prospered, possibly due to an attraction of opposites, and the couple married in Piccadilly in July 1881 before settling in Aigburth, on the outskirts of Liverpool. Their home, Battlecrease House, stood across the road from Liverpool Cricket Club, of which Maybrick was a member, and his wife a lady subscriber. He was known to have more than one mistress, and rumour had it that one woman had borne him no fewer than five children. Florence was now the mother to a young boy and girl, but she too was not lacking in admirers. James Maybrick’s younger brother Edwin was among them, and so was a man called Brierley, another cotton broker who was a member of the cricket club. While the parents were otherwise engaged, the children were cared for at Battlecrease House by a woman named Alice Yapp. Her previous situation had been at Birkdale, near Southport, and, unusually, she had been engaged by James Maybrick rather than by his wife. I did not doubt that Alice Yapp was the nursemaid of whose reliability Colonel Moran had spoken.

  Each new titbit that came my way deepened my anxiety. The fog in my mind was clearing, and the criminal design that was emerging was nightmarish in its cunning. Moriarty and the Colonel were, if I was right, contriving to commit a murder that could never be laid at their door.

  Soon my worst fears were realised, as news came that James Maybrick was dead. The police worked swiftly, and arrested his wife three days later. She was subsequently charged and, at the inquest, a coroner’s jury returned a verdict – by a majority of thirteen to one – that Florence Maybrick had administered poison to her husband. It was tantamount to a verdict that she was a murderess.

  The trial was held in the magnificent neo-classical surroundings of St George’s Hall in Liverpool, but although I arranged for my subordinate P to hold a watching brief on behalf of the Office, I did not attend personally. This was not entirely as a result of my distaste for travel. Any contribution of mine must be made far from the glare of scrutiny by the press and, in any event, someone in this dreadful business needed to have the luxury of being allowed to think, rather than feeling compelled to run hither and thither to no particular purpose. The police had been extremely active, and so had the family, led by the deceased’s brother Michael, well known as a composer of popular music, and a man determined to establish that his sister-in-law was a cold-blooded killer.

  I found myself, to my surprise and regret, unable to rule out the possibility that she was guilty. It was impossible for her to deny that the marriage was unhappy, and not merely because of her husband’s many peccadilloes. Beyond question, she was an adulteress. Rumours were swirling around Liverpool like Mersey waters during a thunderstorm, and some said that Edwin Maybrick, youngest of the brothers, and the junior partner in James’s business, shared more with the dead man than a blood tie and a business interest. He admitted his closeness to Florence Maybrick, but insisted that theirs was a platonic relationship, and whatever suspicion attached to him, no evidence came to light to gainsay his word.

  Alfred Brierley, by contrast, could not plausibly deny his misconduct with the wife of his friend. It appeared that, as recently as March, he and Florence Maybrick had shared a two-room suite in Flatman’s Hotel, reserved by her in the names of “Mr and Mrs Thomas Maybrick of Manchester”. The feebleness of that particular subterfuge was not her only error. An improperly affectionate letter she had written to Brierley had been discovered shortly before James’s demise. She had unwisely given it to Alice Yapp to post, and the nursemaid – claiming that it had become damp after being dropped “in the wet” by the Maybrick’s young daughter – had opened it. Shocked by its contents, she had reported them to Edwin, who in turn informed Michael. The noose was being placed around the young woman’s slender neck even before her husband drew his last breath.

  While P supplied regular instalments of news about witness testimony, I wrestled with the problem. One could readily conceive half a dozen credible solutions to “the Maybrick Mystery”, as the newspapers called it, and many more that were fanciful but not wholly beyond the bounds of possibility. James Maybrick may have died accidentally, after taking an overdose of arsen
ic, and suicide was not out of the question; he was a longsuffering hypochondriac, he may have tired of the ceaseless battle against ill health. If murder it was, he might have been the victim of someone other than his wife who happened to bear him a grudge. Among members of the household, Nurse Yapp herself was rumoured to have attracted her employer’s attention, and this might explain her fiancé’s recent decision to end their relationship. Edwin was not lacking in motive. And then … but no, speculation is the enemy of rational deduction. I reminded myself to concentrate my energies on analysis of the facts, and nothing else.

  By 8 August, although I had failed to reach a definitive conclusion on the mass of contradictory information before me, members of the jury were sent out to consider their verdict. Upon their return, they announced that Florence Maybrick was guilty as charged. Old Stephen, the judge, whose mind appeared – not least to P – to be failing, displayed an unholy relish in passing sentence of death.

  “My dear fellow, what on earth is to be done?” W demanded, as we sipped sherry in the Diogenes Club.

  “What would you have me do?” I yawned in a vain attempt to mask my discomfiture.

  “These are dark days. If it were not bad enough for us to lose a first-class man …”

  I said nothing. The body of J had been fished out of the Thames at Wapping thirty-six hours earlier. Marks found on his body established incontrovertibly that he had endured such excruciating torture that death must have come as a welcome release.

  “… now we have to address the consequences of this infernal murder trial! The whole case represents a stain upon our glorious system of justice. I can tell you that the Prime Minister is deeply concerned about the prospect of continued unrest after those dreadful scenes in Liverpool. Have you read the newspapers?”

  I inclined my head. “The same mob that howled for a hanging a short time ago jostled and elbowed the woman Yapp as she left court after the verdict. Journalists who were baying for Mrs Maybrick’s blood now fulminate against the verdict. To read the editorials, one would presume the woman is a saint, and the dead man a lecherous ogre of whom the world is well rid.”