‘I wish to attend the ball, Miss Adler, because I wish to gain a closer inspection of a specific gift the society pages inform us the prince will be presenting to the Dowager Duchess of Croome.’
‘A brooch,’ I said, to show that I was as knowledgeable as he about this event, and did not need it explaining. ‘We believe the prince and his father have designs on arranging a marriage to one of the duchess’s many relatives. This gift is to sweeten the strength between the two families.’
I said we believe to make the professor assume that we were still talking about information gleaned from the society pages and the gossip of chorus girls, but I had heard this from a very close source and knew it to be the case.
‘Indeed,’ he said, and continued to outline his plan. ‘I must be absolutely honest with you, Miss Adler. If the timing is right, and I am able, and, with your good assistance, I will be able to – I wish to obtain the brooch for myself. Merely to inspect it, nothing more. No damage shall be done to it, of course. It is priceless, et cetera. But it is vital that it is in my capable hands by the end of the ball. The trick, as I see it, will be to take it after it has been officially presented to the duchess. The crowd will have seen it go to what is presumed to be its rightful home; and then we get closer to it by means of strategic socialising – I leave this in your responsibility, as an actress – and remove it before we leave the ball.’
‘Well,’ I said, when he had finished. ‘The plan you outline sounds foolish at best; criminal at worst.’
He merely nodded; clearly this much he already knew. So I continued.
‘The chief problem, as I see it, sir, will be convincing the guests that you belong amongst their number. As respected as you may be in your field, this is a grand occasion. There will be few present who do not own, or lay claim to, at least two countries in the Commonwealth.’
He opened his mouth to interrupt, but I spoke over him. ‘You are, no doubt, wondering how I myself achieved an invitation. Indeed, it is a question I have pondered. I believe it could be something to do with the desire of the host to add some culture to the affair; several singers, ballerinas, pianists – even a painter if the rumours I have heard are right – have been invited to attend. I fear I am primarily intended to be decorative.’
I did not mention the letters I owned from the prince, begging me to attend the party as the last chance he would have to see his ‘true fair Rosalind’ before the machinations of political marriage took him. I had barely considered the letters myself, and intended to take up his invitation in order to enjoy myself.
‘So you see, Professor, it is not merely a question of behaving appropriately to the occasion. It is a question of clearly belonging.’
‘You will be allowed to bring a guest, as you have an invitation,’ he said, as if I had never spoken. ‘Surely nobody will question your choice.’
‘Sir!’ I said. ‘As a gift to the prince, the king has commissioned the composition of a new dance. All guests will be dancing the Modjeska Waltz. You could stumble once and give the game away.’
‘What is the Modjeska Waltz?’ he said.
‘Ah,’ I said. ‘It is something that was not included in the society pages so as to weed out those who might attend without permission. It is a dance that the guests will know. I myself know enough of it to pass, but only because I am surrounded by chorus girls for my work at the opera. They are all experts in the newest society dances and take pride in a comprehensive knowledge of the newest fashions. I can only imagine who is teaching the other decorative attendees.’
‘Most interesting,’ he said (and it was truly as if he did not know), ‘and the Modjeska Waltz will be a partner-changing dance, I suppose, in order to allow the illusion of social mingling without forcing the grander guests present to deign in actual conversation with the lower orders?’
I nodded, assuming that he regularly read the society pages as another point of professorial eccentricity.
‘Fascinating. And who is Modjeska?’ he asked.
‘Oh, some snippet of an actress or a singer of some sort, that the prince feels pertinent to honour with a tune or two,’ I said, and I sniffed to show that I had no interest in this matter.
‘Very well,’ said the Professor. ‘In any case, you consider this to be a barrier to my entering the ball?’
‘I do indeed’.
He thought for another moment. I was considering buttering a scone when he changed tack.
‘You are aware of my thesis, The Dynamics of an Asteroid?’ said Moriarty.
I gave him a look that said, I am not. I consider it irrelevant whether or not I really knew.
‘It is my most renowned monograph,’ said the professor, and I guessed that he was not as confident as his words suggested. It was a forced boast.
‘Indeed,’ I said. ‘I suppose your other writing is concerned with too niche and obscure a subject to warrant a large audience.’
‘It is composed of such pure mathematics that no man can refute it!’ he cried, knocking over his Earl Grey. A starchedapron’d whelp ran to the table to wipe the mess.
‘I am sure,’ I said, once the whelp had departed, ‘that your thesis is highly renowned in the circles of those who speak, as you say, pure mathematics. However, my primary languages are those of the arts, Professor, and I cannot see why you wish to speak with me.’
Moriarty sighed, and commenced the story anew.
‘Did you read in the newspapers last year, of the discovery of a fragment of asteroid in the Netherlands?’
‘I cannot say it stuck in my mind, if I did,’ I said. (And that was true; the latest scientific discoveries of the age were of some passing novelty interest, but of little use to me in any greater capacity.)
‘Well, the news struck me with great force. For my experiments, it is vital that I have access to the stone.’
‘It is for the Dowager Duchess of Croome,’ I said, seeing now that his interest in the ball was nothing to do with the society pages. ‘The prince has had the stone embedded in a brooch, which he will present to her at the ball.’
‘It is not for the Duchess of Croome.’ said Moriarty. I was put in mind of a child denied a sugar mouse.
‘You seek to contradict royalty?’ I said. ‘Who – or what – do you suggest the stone is for?’
‘It is for Mathematics!’ he cried, and beat his fist upon the table so that the china rattled. I saw several whelps start at the sound and wonder if they would be required to mop up a further spillage.
Moriarty had, perhaps, even startled himself with his violence, and he spoke next with a more controlled voice. ‘I need entrance to the ball,’ he said. ‘You are invited.’
‘I am,’ I said.
‘I need entrance. I need to get close enough to the duchess to acquire the brooch. It is no use sending an agent in for this, I must do it myself.’ I raised an eyebrow, and he explained: ‘It is a matter of mathematics. I act in my professorial role; I do not propose to become a criminal.’
‘You propose to steal.’
‘It is the KING OF B— who has stolen!’ he cried, and this time I feared for the teapot. ‘Stolen a prime specimen from under the very eyes of Science! To reduce such a discovery of such importance to the modern age to a piece of … a piece of costume jewellery … !’
I let the jibe at costumes stand, and waited.
‘I need to get to the ball, Miss Adler, and I need to remain there long enough to acquire the brooch. I need to appear to belong at the ball. Miss Adler, I need to know the Modjeska Waltz.’
I waited for more, but he sat back, sipped his refilled cup, and waited.
Finally, the penny-farthing dropped. ‘Professor Moriarty,’ I said, ‘are you asking me for … dancing lessons?’
For the first time in this escapade – and, I wonder now, perhaps the only time – Moriarty seemed truly embarrassed. He pushed scone crumbs around his plate. ‘Well,’ he said, ‘if that is what it will take to get me close enough to acquire the sto
ne, then that is what it will take.’
I let him suffer as I pondered this.
‘I must say, I do rather fancy the challenge,’ I said. ‘But first you must tell me, Professor. You claim to wish to accompany me to the dance in order to examine a brooch. Such a robbery would be tantamount to high treason; you do not seem to think I would quail at this. There is social danger, even if we are not caught in our designs, in our attending this event. There are better dancers than I, who would be able to instruct you in the Modjeska Waltz. And so I ask you, Professor Moriarty – why have you come to me?’
Now the embarrassment faded, and a sharp keenness flashed in the professor’s eyes like a stolen jewel in the wrong place. ‘We are of one mind, Miss Adler.’ He said. ‘Or rather, we have both bested the same mind. I can think of nobody I would rather trust with such an important mission of personal and professional pride.’
‘I know who you are thinking of,’ I said. ‘This is a case, I take it, of “my enemy’s enemy”?’
If I have a fault, it is that, when poetic justice requires it, I am also, sometimes, willing to put personal and professional pride above common sense. We shook hands and agreed on the date of the professor’s first lesson.
‘This is nonsense! Why ever do people do this for fun and frivolity?’
‘That is not for us to question. Let us begin again, Professor. And do try not to move your lips as you count.’
We were using the stage of the Opera House, a space that suggested the dimensions of a ballroom dance floor well enough. The manager of the theatre owed me a favour, which I was intending to call upon if ever a paramour caught my attention enough to warrant a moment of privacy about the stage door; but I decided that this was a more exciting reason to call in my favour and take temporary ownership of the stage.
Moriarty stumbled through a passable imitation of the Modjeska Waltz – the complex patterning was simpler to his numerically inclined mind than the turns of the standard waltz and foxtrot. He placed his hands on his thighs, bending over slightly in a cruel parody of the gentlemanly bow with which the dance had begun, and breathed and wheezed out his hatred of the activity. I made no response to his complaining, and merely amused myself by making faces at the painted cherubim that decorated the opera boxes.
‘So, ah, when,’ he asked, between gulps of breath, ‘we approach the duchess—’
‘I have heard enough criminal machinations,’ I said, and before he could take another gulp of air to protest my use of the word ‘criminal’: ‘Let us run through the middle-turns twice more.’ He made groans of protest, which I ignored. ‘This is the part where the partners change, Professor! It is the most important part of all to get right.’
The professor grumbled his way through the rehearsal and, following that, he suffered regularly for two lessons per week until the date of the ball. I confess, I was surprised that he committed to the full programme. After the first lesson I felt sure he would refuse the scheme. I was starting to wonder if I had underestimated his desire to obtain the Duchess’s brooch.
The ballroom was built to resemble a grand Orangery, or perhaps it was a grand Orangery once upon an era. Its glass-domed ceiling was open to the sky, and we were blessed with a clear canopy of stars. The great space was lit on all sides with candles and framed with gleaming wood, silk and silver. The musicians played a selection of pieces arranged for strings and bassoon. The waiters moved with brisk efficiency around the samovars and between the great teetering settings of sweetmeats and jellies in the shape of castles. And the guests themselves were the prize jewels. Filling the great hall – although not, yet, approaching the dance floor – were dukes and barons, countesses and princesses, and everywhere glinted tiaras and medals.
I suppose the more excitable kind of reporter might have called it ‘glittering’.
We approached the ballroom and my name was announced at the door but the professor was not even asked his. I wonder now whether this was a deliberate move on his part, whether coins had changed hands at an earlier stage in order to bring about this cloak of anonymity. But I was occupied with making the necessary small talk with the other guests as I deposited my furs with a porter (including a minor peer who claimed he had once sent a bouquet to my dressing room, and received no thanks; this was most likely true), and then it was time to descend the stairs to the ballroom. I had no time to quiz the professor as to whether he had made any plans without informing me and, in any case, it was soon put out of my mind. The prince, I noticed, was deliberately avoiding my eye.
We had not been present long when the king had his crystal glass refilled with port, and he tapped on it with what looked like a golden letter opener.
‘My fellow guests!’ he cried, and the hubbub of high society quietened in deference and expectation.
‘You are all most welcome,’ said the king, and he barely concealed a hiccup. I could tell he needed to drink no more port this evening, and the ball had barely begun. ‘We are gathered here to celebrate the coming-of-age of my son and heir, Prince—’ and here he named his son, who I protect here with the same anonymity the professor was currently enjoying by my side. There were several names and titles, and the king named them all. Finally, we were encouraged to applaud the existence of this young man.
‘Thank you, Father,’ said the prince, and at his voice the king sat down heavily, visibly confident in his son finishing the required address. (Perhaps the prince had made deductions that matched my own regarding the king’s capacity to speak with vast quantities of port and brandy wine inside him.)
‘Thank you, everyone,’ he said. ‘I would like to thank you all for attending tonight. I am truly honoured to have so many excellent friends.’ I fought the temptation to snort. ‘In honour of the occasion, I have asked one of the nation’s most skilled composers to create a dance for us. Thank you.’ And he made a gesture at the conductor, and bowed for further applause. It was hardly a triumph of oratory.
I was surprised, furthermore, that the prince had not presented the Dowager Duchess of Croome with the brooch. Professor Moriarty had been insistent that it would happen before we took to the floor, so that he might examine it during his twirl with the duchess. His puzzled frown suggested that we had an accord of confusion.
The conductor gestured for silence and the first, gentle strings of the new composition floated over our heads from the violas and cellos. It would have been pleasant, had I not been with a man plotting something akin to high treason in three-three time.
‘That’s the Modjeska Waltz,’ said I. ‘It is time, Professor, to prove that you belong here.’
‘You mean,’ said he, ‘it is time to prove that we belong here.’
‘No,’ said I. ‘You seem to be forgetting that I was already invited.’
‘Ah! My mistake. You were always on the guest list, of course.’ If the strings had not been soaring at that very moment, I might have thought more carefully about this remark. As it was, we had no time. We reached the floor, bowed and curtsied as required, and positioned ourselves ready to begin the dance.
The understanding reader will indulge me for a moment in a minor side note about the matter of ballroom dancing.
There are two roles in ballroom dance: he who leads, and she who follows. To he who leads, therefore, it follows that even the dance with the speediest and most frequent partner changes will flow as smoothly as if he were dancing alone. To she who follows, each partner brings a host of potential dangers, embarrassing errors and awkward collisions, each new body the host of an unknown collection of possible faults, idiosyncrasies, potential tumbles and physical suffering. For the most part, at the manner of event we were enjoying, the men were, of course, highly practised and considerate partners. But she who follows can never truly relax during such an occasion, as she never knows what her next partner will bring, and how she will need to adjust her own performance so that he who leads can continue to remain unaware of the challenges his dancing brings.
I mention all of this because, to whit, I wish it to be known, formally, dear reader, that I accomplished everything Professor Moriarty did, albeit I frequently found myself going backwards, and in a pair of stolen heels.
But I shall explain the latter in good time. Let us return to the ballroom.
We had successfully performed the first steps of the dance, and had made it beyond the first turn. Ballroom dances proceed in promenade, and I had made sure to begin in a position that gave us a long wall to travel down, to allow the good professor as much time as possible to get into the rhythm of things before we were forced to turn a corner. But eventually, the necessity of moving about a finite space could not be avoided, and the first chaînés en dedans approached us.
The professor’s jaw was set firm, and there was fierce concentration in his eyes. Even the most casual onlooker would know that he was counting. I decided against reminding him of the need to smile, as I felt certain it wouldn’t help his mood. We managed the corner thanks to my subtle steering – I dreaded to think how the professor would get on without a guide. He was in the arms of fate, as were his partners.
I had a momentary respite when the first change arrived. The professor positively had to be pushed away from me. I enjoyed the small talk of a friendly young man who claimed to be a writer and wit living in the city, who told me he had witnessed my Desdemona at the Royal and enjoyed it immensely.
Having not yet played Desdemona, I made do with giving him the ghost of a smile.
When Moriarty returned, he clutched my wrist as if it were the only thing keeping him on the floor.
‘It is nonsense,’ he said, already out of breath, ‘to change on the three, when mathematically it is not at all expedient—’ Mercifully, he was whisked away again. It took another minute or two of rapid changing of partners – I enjoyed the solid steps of a considerate brigadier and suffered through a clumsy duke with far too loose a shoulder line, and damp hands – until we were together once again for the next quarter-turn.
‘I despise this,’ said the professor.
The Mammoth Book of the Adventures of Professor Moriarty Page 59
