The Mammoth Book of the Adventures of Professor Moriarty

by Maxim Jakubowski

  But, other than that, there was no trace of a break-in, or of the prized rock.

  Could I help Moriarty overcome the terrible darkness that threatened to overwhelm his heart? Would he lash out at anyone who tried to offer him a way to heal the wounds of his brain’s sickness? Had he taken the meteorite, and where was it?

  We were never to find out. The next morning, Moriarty sent a message to his father and, within two days, the carriage came for him. He looked small, but almost dignified as he stood at the top of the steps, waiting out his last few moments. Alone among the staff and his fellow pupils, I joined him there, feeling it my duty not to let him leave without some sort of goodbye.

  ‘The world can be a lonely place,’ I said. ‘Especially for someone with gifts who does not yet know how to use them.’

  ‘Really?’ he said, adjusting his gloves. ‘Perhaps you have mistaken gifts for afflictions. Sir.’

  ‘Do you feel yourself afflicted?’

  ‘I have no need of your concern, sir.’

  ‘Then whose concern do you seek, Moriarty?’

  He fixed me with his mud-dark eyes. ‘Concern, sir? I only seek freedom.’

  ‘From accusation?’

  ‘From the predictable,’ he said, ‘and from the tedious interferences of moral guardians whose own private lives do not bear close scrutiny.’ He smirked at me, as if mocking all I’d tried to do for him, and I felt my scalp prickle again with anger and shame.

  Here was his carriage, coming through the gates with the same blank-faced driver whipping the horse dully. Moriarty descended the steps.

  ‘No matter how hard you try,’ were his parting words, tossed over his shoulder, ‘you can’t see inside people’s heads.’

  And, with that, he disappeared into the dark chamber of his father’s coach and was gone. I looked up to see the head, watching through the common room window, his jaw working furiously as if he were chewing a tough piece of gristle.

  At last he muttered, turned on his heel and marched back into his study. Thus I believe the head liked to think he had won the war, even if he’d lost every battle waged between them and had still to placate a furious patron.

  The scandal was hastily buried and the school buckled down to a quieter – and perhaps a duller – routine. Having abruptly cut off my nascent relationship with Esther, I spent much of my time from then on in my room, reading, and considering wistfully the quality of a woman’s bare skin in the most hidden parts. I had not the courage to make reparation between us, to try to explain my sudden betrayal without revealing more than I thought I could bear, and so I lost her.

  I heard reports now and then – Moriarty went to a smaller university, and at length went on to make his infamous reputation worldwide. I remained at the school for four years or so, before taking a post in a quieter provincial school, and am happy to say I never came across the likes of the boy again.

  It was only last autumn, having heard of Moriarty’s fatal accident at the Reichenbach Falls, I found the memories of that dreadful time burst free as if from behind a dam. I called an old colleague, the chemistry tutor at the school, and from his enquiries discovered the whereabouts of the long-forgotten Esther and contacted her. She is now a ladies’ maid, not far from the school itself, and I paid her a visit.

  Although I am now, of course, a man fairly on the brink of the winter of his own life, I found myself still trembling when I stood outside the house where she is engaged. She answered the door and my heart tripped just as it had when I’d first seen her, walking briskly and sweetly down the corridor outside the ballroom at the school.

  Though her hair is paler and her skin has lost the shine and pink of a young woman, she is yet as beautiful, if not more so. We fell immediately into talk of the old place, the characters of the tutors and – inevitably – of the boy who had, even if indirectly, caused our separation.

  ‘Oh, it was an awful time,’ she said, her attention falling to the fire, which burned low and fitful in the grate. She prodded it distractedly, not meeting my gaze. ‘All that scandal, and – not seeing you. I just wanted to pack up and leave.’

  ‘I am most terribly sorry, Esther,’ I say, faltering over my words. I hold my hat in my lap and find I’m worrying the brim as if it were a string of rosary beads. ‘I felt that I could not—’

  ‘I know,’ she says, reaching out to lay a hand on mine. ‘It couldn’t be helped. We weren’t destined to be together. I cried myself to sleep for a month, you know,’ she said, a wry smile on her face.

  ‘Oh, Esther.’

  ‘Well, I was a girl, wasn’t I, Ernest? Just a daft lass, really. Worst of it was I’d lost my doll, even, imagine that!’

  ‘You’d what? I beg your pardon?’ The hair on my neck rose again, as if a cold breeze had swept into the room straight from the past.

  ‘I’d a dolly. I told you, I was just a girl. It was my mam’s, and she’d left it to me before she died. Violet, I called it. She had brown eyes and ringlets and little leather boots. I took her everywhere. Silly, probably, but I loved her. And then she disappeared, just at the time all the troubles broke out. And … What is it, Ernest? You’ve gone so still?’

  ‘Did you find it?’ I managed to grate the words out.

  ‘Yes, actually, I did. A week or so after I lost her. But she was beyond repair. She was lying face down out in the playing fields, just destroyed.’ Her voice was bitter, even now, as she described it. ‘All those beautiful ringlets, just muddy tails, and her head … Oh, it was like a gruesome thing, Ernest, I know it sounds ridiculous, but you know how one gets attached to things sometimes, and her head was all caved in … She was wax, you see, and it was like someone had dug a hole in the back of her head, it was all burst. Like the skull was bashed open with a poker or something. Just unnecessary. Those boys.’

  She dug angrily at the fire, which spat sparks at her and refused to glow any brighter. I found myself unable to speak. I remembered Moriarty’s face, his wretched look as we searched his room. The infinitesimal glow in his eyes as I left him, like little fragments of crystal buried in his head, and the doll flung on the mattress, where the head had left her. And realised that I had, indeed, reader, been most gravely mistaken, after all.

  A Function of Probability

  Mike Chinn

  The professor turned the visitor card over and over between his thin fingers. It was of common enough stock and cheaply printed: each of the letters a in the plain typeface was faintly smudged. Square-edged, no attempt at ostentation. Quite unremarkable. Except—

  Moriarty placed the card against a wooden rule from his writing desk, nodding his satisfaction at the dimensions thus revealed. He allowed himself a thin smile; as suspected: the card – and the visitor still awaiting his pleasure beyond the study door – were so much more than both pretended to be. The professor took up the card again, using it to point at Hawes, who was silently awaiting his master’s command.

  “Show him in.”

  “Yes, sir.” The college porter bobbed his head and disappeared through the study’s only door. Moriarty reached for his desk lamp, angling the shade so that the greatest measure of its light fell upon the chair opposite. Settling against the tall back of his own chair he steepled his fingers. A moment later, Hawes reappeared, leading the intriguing visitor. He was tall, pale of complexion and eye; his hair a nondescript shade that tended towards neither blond nor brown. His beard was of a reddish hue, and cut in the imperial style. He was dressed in a simple grey suit, a hat of matching colour held in his left hand whilst a black stick dangled languidly from his right. In all, the figure aspired to the same degree of outward unremarkableness as his card; the professor was not fooled for one instant. Indeed, he felt mildly irritated that this sallow man considered him so easily foxed.

  For his part, the visitor quickly surveyed the simple study with colourless eyes. He looked less than impressed by the surroundings – perhaps expecting something more lavish. His pale gaze paused briefly on the pai
nting of a coquettish young woman, resting negligently on the floor to Moriarty’s right; his smooth brow puckered for the shortest time before continuing the careless scrutiny.

  Moriarty waved towards the opposite chair, indicating the man might sit. He did so, blinking in the light cast by the angled lamp. He handed both stick and hat to Hawes, who left once more without needing to be bidden.

  “Mr Leonard Eastman?” Moriarty repeated the name printed on the card.

  The man inclined his head in acknowledgement. “Professor Moriarty. I am delighted to at last make your acquaintance.” There was the faintest trace of an accent.

  It was the professor’s turn to nod. “I was unaware you had wished to make it, Mr Eastman. Your name is not familiar to me; are you associated with the field of astronomy?”

  The man shook his head. “Not at all, Professor—”

  “Banking, then?”

  Again the visitor shook his head.

  Moriarty fought to bury his faint smile: for all his irritation with the man’s facile deceits he was enjoying the game. “So. In what way might a simple professor of mathematics be of help to you, sir?”

  The man hesitated, considering his next words. Moriarty leaned forward, careful not to enter the deflected pool of lamplight. “Whilst you debate what answer you will give, might I remark that I do not appreciate lies – or deceptions of any kind. Especially ones as transparent as this.” He raised the visitor’s card before tearing it in two, allowing the halves to fall on to his desktop. “Shall we begin again, Your Grace?”

  The tall man flinched in his chair, face projecting his uncontrolled feelings. It was clear that, in his daily routine, he was unused to being challenged; his will questioned. Small wonder his attempts at deceit were so easily pierced. After a moment, he composed himself, straightening his still immaculate suit coat.

  “You think you know me, then?”

  “I flatter myself that I am one of the few men in Europe who might. You are The Most Noble Leofric, Duke of Granat- Östermann and Baron von Reichschliesser. You have many titles, but, alas, no land. What little money you do have is either wasted in self-indulgent attempts at political intrigue or lost at the gaming tables. You aspire to being a major piece on the chessboard of Germanic ambition, but are still nothing more than a pawn. You dream of an expanded German Empire – one to rival that of both Britain and Russia. One that may rule both across Europe, and abroad.” Moriarty settled back, enjoying the spectacle as the colourless face opposite him grew increasingly florid and sullen. “And more, despite your name, your rank, your infantile meddling, you remain a nobody in your homeland; less so abroad.”

  Duke Leofric drew himself up. “Herr Doctor Professor, I did not come here for you to—”

  Moriarty raised a hand. “Professor is sufficient. In England we do not aspire to more than one title at a time.”

  The duke frowned and attempted to speak; Moriarty continued regardless, having no wish to endure whatever self-serving excuses the man might invoke.

  “Your Grace, you came here under the most ludicrous of disguises – one a child might penetrate in moments. Little wonder your feeble attempts to influence Imperial German affairs remain frustrated: you have no imagination. No flair. To be frank, you have insulted me.”

  “Herr Professor—”

  “No, Your Grace – I will hear no more.” Moriarty dismissed the duke with an impatient flap of his hand. “I neither know nor care why you thought to seek me out. I permitted this charade merely so that I might express my opinion to your overindulged face. If the word ‘no’ had been applied more rigorously years ago, I fancy you would be a better man today. Good day.”

  “Professor—!”

  “Good day, sir!”

  The study door swung open and Hawes stood framed between the door jambs, the duke’s hat and stick held ready for retrieval. Duke Leofric glanced first towards him then at Moriarty, who was fastidiously placing the torn halves of the visitor card into a waste bin.

  “Professor, you accuse me of having no imagination. Of lacking flair. Perhaps this is true, but before you eject me may I just say one thing: the ensured death of Kaiser Wilhelm …”

  Moriarty replaced the bin on the floor and dusted at his hands. He glanced once at Hawes and the man vanished from the study as silently as he had entered. The professor heard the faintest click as the door was prudently locked.

  He gazed deep into Leofric’s eyes; the duke remained ignorant of the intense scrutiny. “Despite four assassination attempts, I think the emperor enjoys excellent health …”

  “Indeed. Obstinately so. But I believe you to be in a position which may alter that.”

  “I?”

  “I am not the only man in this room who plays at charades.” The duke leaned forward, his face earnest. “We are neither of us who we claim to be. If I have insulted you, then I apologise unreservedly; please do not compound the error by seeking to offend my own intelligence – as wanting as you believe it to be.”

  Moriarty settled against his chair. He templed his fingers and touched them against the smile he could no longer contain. “You prefer plain speaking, then? No more guises?”

  “It will be refreshing.” The duke took a silver cigarette case from within his coat, offering one to Moriarty. The professor refused, but did not go so far as to forbid Leofric himself from smoking – much as he detested the stale smell of tobacco in his study. After lighting his cigarette, the duke appeared to relax: he settled into his chair, holding his smoke between thumb and forefinger. Its fragrance told Moriarty that the cigarette was of Balkan origin.

  “The emperor is ninety years old,” the professor said. “It must surely be a matter of time before nature will take its course.”

  “Wilhelm clings to life tenaciously. His son, Friedrich Wilhelm Nikolaus Karl, is seriously unwell and not expected to last out the year.”

  “I believed the emperor well loved by the German people.”

  The duke waved an impatient hand. “He is, but at heart he is still a Prussian. More, he has liberal tendencies, and poor advisers.”

  “You speak of von Bismarck?”

  “The chancellor has long demonstrated that he pursues pol icies of his own; it is no secret that he and the kaiser disagree on many subjects. But every time Wilhelm tries to rein him in, von Bismarck threatens to resign and His Imperial Majesty capitulates. They are like children arguing over a rattle!” Leofric took a long pull on his cigarette. “And there is his wife, of course …”

  “Of course.” Moriarty thought carefully before again speaking. “If the Emperor were to outlive his son before dying – of whatever cause – the natural successor would be Friedrich Wilhelm Viktor Albrecht von Preussen. A man noted neither for a cool head, nor his tolerance for Chancellor von Bismarck’s policies – despite both men initially being close.” He rested his hands in his lap. “Such a man might not be content to allow Germany to rest on its laurels; or be persuaded to be less content.”

  “You have it!” The duke sat forward again, his cigarette wielded as a fencing foil. “With the kaiser’s grandson at its head, the Fatherland will step free of von Bismarck’s overbearing shadow and pursue its manifest destiny.”

  “Indeed? And why should I – a loyal servant of Her Majesty and the Empire – embrace such a scheme? I see little gain for Britain, and no small risk to it.”

  The duke made an expansive gesture. “Is the prince not also the oldest grandson of your queen?”

  “The bitterest rivals are most often to be found within the embrace of close family. Blood is no shield.”

  “You are a cynic, Herr Professor …”

  “I am a realist, Your Grace. But let us be clear.” He took a thin ledger from a desk drawer, dipped a pen into ink and began to write slowly and carefully upon a fresh page. “You are proposing that the kaiser should meet a premature end?”

  “Indeed.” The duke drew an ashtray closer, stubbing out his spent cigarette.

&nbs
p; “Indeed.” Moriarty recharged his pen. “And you are of the belief that I should be able, in some ways, to effect this?”

  Leofric’s beard was twitched by a crooked smile. “I thought we spoke plainly, Herr Professor. You pride yourself on being one of the few outside my homeland who might recognise me; I pride myself in having an information network as extensive as your own. Perhaps greater. I recognise you, Moriarty; I know you.”

  “Indeed.” The professor wrote a further line before rotating the ledger and sliding it towards the duke. The written page was caught in the full glow of the lamp. “Read carefully what I have transcribed. If you are in agreement as to the figures, kindly sign here and we shall consider – how may I say it? – that your account has been opened.”

  The duke glanced at the book and then up at Moriarty’s shadowed face. “You will put this in writing?”

  “You say you know me. Then you will know that I am a careful man. I commit to no cause until I am sure of it. And I will trust no man who is not willing to put a name to his own enterprise.”

  The duke paused a while longer, reluctant. Eventually, however, Leofric took up the pen and signed his name with a flourish. Moriarty slid the ledger back towards himself, casting his eyes over the signature before slamming the book closed.

  “We understand one another, Your Grace. And as gentlemen, we need not say another word upon the subject.” He reached a thin hand across the desk; after a moment, the duke took it. They shook solemnly.

  “When may I expect to hear from you?” asked Leofric, standing.

  “You may not. The event of which we speak cannot pass un noticed: it will feature in every newspaper within the civilised world. Then you may wish for another audience, and, at such a time, we will discuss the termination of the account.”

  Leofric bowed with a click of his heels. Hawes appeared once more with hat and stick as though he had heard every word spoken in the study. The duke took them and, with another curt bow, left Moriarty and the porter alone. Hawes closed the door on the duke’s back.