The Mammoth Book of the Adventures of Professor Moriarty

by Maxim Jakubowski

  “As long as I get my money,” Moriarty growled, “I don’t care what you do here.”

  “Splendid,” said the man with the moustache. “Shall we play?”

  The others murmured in agreement, and sat down at the table, Martin stepping quickly to the chair with its back to the window.

  Moriarty went to his position by the window. It was boarded up in places and blackened with candle smoke in others, but by perching sideways on the windowsill he could see out into the street and by turning his head also see over Martin’s shoulder. He sniffed as the first cards were dealt.

  “You must excuse our watchman,” Martin said, with a vague gesture. “He has a cough and a cold. But he assured me he will not breathe his bad air in our direction.”

  The three men laughed, and the game began.

  Moriarty watched the first rounds without making any attempt to assist Martin, being careful to cough and sneeze only when the other men were making their plays.

  After the first six rounds were complete, an impressive number of florins lay on the table in front of the men. Even without assist ance, Martin was playing well, and appeared to be breaking even, though the bearded man had lost much of his money, and was attempting to distract the other players with a limerick he claimed to have heard the previous evening.

  “… told her when needs and seeds must, a man must go and sow – though his very first may be in Baker Street, and his last, Bow!”

  No one thought this either clever or amusing, and the cards were dealt again.

  Moriarty watched carefully, and could see over Martin’s shoulder that he had a two and an eight for a total of ten. Moriarty had kept track of the number of jacks and tens in play, and assessed that there were more of these yet undealt than any other cards – as well as two aces – and so he coughed, and looked out of the window.

  Martin took another card, the other players made their choices, and the round ended. Moriarty heard Martin laugh and the sound of florins being pulled across the table to be added to his pile. Only then did Moriarty look back at the game.

  The bearded man looked to have been comprehensively bearded, as he had a single florin in front of him, and a scowl on his face. The clean-shaven man had what appeared to be two coins in front of him, and Martin and the man with the moustache looked to have equal piles of coins before them.

  The mood in the room was tense and, not wishing to draw attention to himself and a possible connection between his presence and Martin’s good fortune, Moriarty looked out of the window again, seeing no policemen.

  The cards were dealt in silence. Moriarty glanced over Martin’s shoulder. He had two tens, which was so close to twenty-one that taking no more cards might have seemed the wisest option, but the combination of these two cards and the tens that the other players had drawn in the previous round left, Moriarty knew, two aces yet to be dealt, and so he coughed, and then peered out of the window.

  At the table, Martin hesitated, but took another card. The others made their decisions and, as the round ended, Martin laughed triumphantly, and Moriarty heard the sound of coins being drawn across the table, accompanied by muttering from the other players. A quick glance revealed to Moriarty that both the bearded man and the clean-shaven man had no coins left, and the man with the moustache had one single florin left. Martin, for his part, had a large, uneven pile of money in front of him.

  “I think I shall move these out of the way,” Martin said, with undisguised amusement, and swept a heavy handful of the coins off the table into the pocket of his coat, where they clinked loudly. “Shall we play one last round?”

  The moustached man paused for a moment, then Moriarty heard him grunt in unhappy agreement. Moriarty, looking out of the window, frowned at Martin’s insistence on playing on. The pile of cards to be dealt was too small to make a round now, so the moustached man, dealing, shuffled the discarded cards with those yet to be dealt, effectively meaning the two players were being dealt from a fresh deck of fifty-two cards. Moriarty was now unable to derive any benefit from counting, but this fact only appeared to occur to Martin when his cards had been dealt, and Moriarty heard him shift awkwardly in his chair.

  Moriarty glanced at Martin’s hand: two eights for a total of sixteen, arguably the worst hand he could have in his uncertain position. Martin hesitated.

  “Well?” the moustached man prompted. “Another card?”

  “I …” Martin muttered, and then forgot himself, for one critical moment. He glanced over his shoulder at Moriarty, his eyes wide and pleading. This did not go unobserved by the other players.

  “What’s going on here?” demanded the bearded man.

  “Nothing,” Martin replied, unconvincingly.

  “Why did you look to the watchman?” the clean-shaven man asked.

  “I was making sure he was still keeping guard,” Martin said, casually. “He had been so quiet – none of his usual sniffs or coughs – and I was afraid he had fallen asleep.”

  “Do you not think one of us would have noticed that, if it had happened?” the bearded man snarled. “We may be unfortunate with cards, but we are not blind.”

  “Of course not,” Martin said, smiling warmly. “I did not mean—”

  “You looked at him as if asking him a question,” the moustached man said, firmly. “As if seeking some kind of information.”

  “Not at all,” Martin replied. “As I said, I—”

  “What information could the watchman have?” the bearded man asked.

  “Nothing, I assure you—” Martin started to say, but he was cut off by the clean-shaven man asking a question.

  “Are you two confederates? Is that what is going on here? Is the watchman monitoring the cards as well as the street outside, to ensure your victory and his fee?”

  Martin said nothing.

  “Well?” the moustached man said, his hand going to his last florin. “Are you two—”

  Martin’s nerve deserted him, and he jumped from his chair and ran towards the door. Moriarty was taken aback for a second, but then followed him, and the two of them ran out of the room and down the hallway of the house, with the three men in close pursuit, yelling threats.

  Martin and Moriarty sprinted down the pockmarked Farringdon Road. The three men gave chase and, though the clean-shaven man was held back by his corpulence, the others seemed about to catch up with them, until Martin suddenly scrambled down one of the holes in the surface of the road. Without pausing to consider, Moriarty followed.

  It was like being in a cave system, but it smelled like a sewer; the stench was nauseating, and Moriarty’s senses revolted from it.

  He took a few seconds to allow his eyes to adjust to the darkness and, when he could see properly, he realised Martin was a short distance ahead of him, the florins clinking noisily as he moved.

  “Are they following?” Martin demanded, breathlessly.

  His heart racing, Moriarty glanced up and back at the way they had come, and could see no one behind them. He could hear voices, shouting, but no sounds of approach.

  “No,” Moriarty said.

  “Good,” Martin replied, and walked on.

  Martin had clearly been down in the tunnels before, and Moriarty once more noted that one might move and act, unseen, beneath the surface of things. He allowed himself a smile in the semi-darkness.

  “I know the way,” Martin said, and then added, in a more sinister tone, “it’s like the valley of the shadow of death, isn’t it? Like in the psalms they taught us at school.”

  Moriarty thought that, in the close, dark environment, fear was more of a concern than the shadow of death.

  Underfoot, the surface was treacherous and slippery, and Moriarty stepped with care. Martin seemed unconcerned how closely he was following, and it occurred to Moriarty that Martin would not care if he slipped and fell and was swept away. He had the money from the game, and that was as far as his interest went.

  “When will I get my share of the winnings?” he
asked.

  Martin glanced back at him, and Moriarty could not see the expression on the boy’s face, but his tone made it clear he was scowling.

  “Later,” Martin said. “When we’re back above ground.”

  He said it without conviction. Moriarty frowned slightly, but still he followed, and they stepped around a corner, and came to a point where the tunnel system opened up and the flow of the Fleet dropped some twenty or so feet, like a miniature waterfall. The sound was very loud now, and the stench even more pungent and close. Moriarty tried to breathe through his mouth, but it made little difference.

  Ahead of him, Martin had slowed down, and was peering over the edge of their narrow walkway into the maelstrom below.

  “Quite a drop,” Martin shouted. “This path leads to the way out.”

  Martin started to make his way carefully along a narrow brick ledge, and again the florins clinked in his coat.

  “You could give me my share of the money,” Moriarty said, giving Martin a second chance. “It would be less heavy for you.”

  Martin turned and looked at Moriarty then and, even in the near-dark, Moriarty could see the glint of his teeth as he smiled, though it was not in friendship, or even as between business associates. It was jarringly similar to the smile of the mathematics tutor as he stated the nature of Moriarty’s punishment; the smile of someone who believes he has the upper hand, and will win the argument by virtue of age and position. My might, the smile seemed to say, will serve to make me right.

  And, as he recognised this and realised what it meant for his prospects of obtaining the money he had earned, Moriarty knew what he had to do.

  The smile fell from Martin’s face as he saw Moriarty coming at him with his long arms outstretched. Instinctively, Martin stepped away, but this took his left foot over the brink, and his arms whirled in space for a few seconds. With the florins clinking in his pockets, he lost his balance, and over he went.

  Moriarty had stopped advancing after a few steps, but was still close enough to see Martin fall back into the filthy deluge. He hit the surface with a splash, and quickly came up again, choking and spluttering, but then the current took him and bounced his head off the tunnel wall with a muted crack, and he was borne away by the tide.

  Moriarty watched, seeing the unconscious boy first bobbing on the surface and then slowly sliding under, the weight of his winnings taking him down, until distance and darkness conspired to make it impossible to see any more.

  After a moment of standing and looking and feeling nothing at all, Moriarty started walking once again, following the ledge in what he judged was a southerly direction. He knew he would have to surface soon, but was confident that the three men would have given up the chase by the time he did so. As he walked, he thought about what he had learned this day: that items and events which went unseen might yet have influence, that accidents could be made to happen, and that one might manipulate others through well-chosen ideas and well-timed words whilst remaining unconnected to the events that transpired.

  And, he mused, fast-flowing water could swiftly remove a hindrance, leaving no trace.

  Half a mile further down the road and observed by no one, Moriarty emerged from beneath the city street, and started making his way back to school. Despite going home without his share of the winnings from the card game, he knew he had gained much this day, that the lessons he had learned would prove more valuable in the years to come than anything that might be taught in a classroom.

  A Scandalous Calculation

  Catherine Lundoff

  The old man, his back bowed and hunched, rested one trembling hand against a lamppost. From his expression, his rheumy eyes might have seen nothing at all. Or, perhaps, he merely watched the Whitechapel crowds that eddied and flowed on the dirty cobbles around him. But an astute observer, had there been such to study him, might have noticed that his venerable head tilted a bit and his gaze grew sharper when a dark-haired lad, cap pulled low over his face, approached.

  The lad looked like any tradesman’s apprentice, albeit cleaner than most. His pants bore only a few scuffs and patches and his hand, when he moved it from his pocket to pull his cap down lower on his forehead, was pale and nearly clean. He walked briskly past the old man and down a side street, as if bound on an errand for his master.

  The man unbent slightly and walked after the lad, shedding a few years with his strides as he moved. The two might have been nothing more than two men hurrying on errands, or looking for a pint before nightfall. There was no reason for the old man not to walk down that particular street in the London dusk and settling fog. No reason for him to take a different direction from the lad’s, if such was not his destination.

  Ahead of him, the boy stopped to look up at a nondescript shop, a former tailor’s establishment with rooms above it. His movement exposed an expanse of pink cheek, one still too young to have known a razor’s edge. Then, as if he knew that he was being watched, he spun on his heel and began walking briskly away, his strides stopping just short of a run.

  The man followed, his walk still slow and a little unsteady. The youth might have outpaced him easily enough, vanishing into the fog that was drifting to cover the end of the street, if another man hadn’t stepped out in front of him. The boy went to dodge around him, but was stopped by heavy hands on his collar and his arm.

  “I’ve been looking for you, Miss Adler. Or, should I say, Mrs Norton?” The old man’s voice was deep and hollow, with a touch of the sibilant. That voice alone might have been enough to halt a brave man in his tracks.

  The boy struggled against his captor, his expression shifting swiftly from annoyance to fear, then that abruptly smoothed over with a bland, puzzled expression. “You got the wrong lad, guv. I ain’t no Miss Adler or any Mrs Norton.” His voice was nasal with an accent that echoed London’s backstreets and poorer quarters. “Chilton, apprentice to Master Carragher, the printer, that’s who I be.”

  “Let us not waste time with these games, Mrs Norton. You have something that I need, and I fancy that I have something of yours.” The old man gestured and they heard a distant whistle. Shortly thereafter, a black coach rolled up to the cobbles next to them. The horse snorted and tossed its head, making the harness jingle, and the boy jumped, his face at once a painting of fear and suspicion.

  He, or rather, she, looked at the old man, “Who are you?” Looking at the erstwhile lad now, that same astute observer might have seen a lass in boy’s clothes, as her confidence ebbed away. Or, perhaps, he would have seen just a very frightened boy, though he might not understand the reason for that fear.

  “You may call me Professor. More than that you do not need to know.” He glanced at the coach and the driver stepped down and opened the door. He gestured at the step and the big man hauled the woman up into the coach as if he was manhandling a puppy, for all that she kicked and struggled. The old man climbed in after them and placed his stick against her back, like a knife’s edge, and she went still and limp, dropping into one of the padded benches inside. He made another gesture as he sat across from her and the big man left them to climb on behind the coach. The door closed and latched behind him.

  A moment later, they were being rattled over the cobbles. “Where are you taking me?” Her voice quavered, then steadied.

  “So many questions, Mrs Norton. One might think that the answers would be useful to you in some way. You will not escape me, nor will I release you until you are no longer useful to me. Do I make myself clear?” His eyes were no longer rheumy and there was little that suggested extreme age in his bearing. Now, he seemed a man of just above middle years, intelligence and a certain ruthlessness written on his lean face and sharp features.

  Irene Norton’s dark eyes narrowed a moment, apparently taking his measure, and she sat up straight, shedding all suggestion of an impoverished apprentice. “Why are you abducting me then, Professor? What is it that you want of me?” She studied him in a series of quick glances, taking in the coac
h as well as her companion, as far as he could determine.

  The Professor sat back, putting his face in shadow and thus making his expression harder to read. “Mrs Norton, you have returned to London seeking someone, someone quite close to you. But you are concerned about encountering some individuals from your past, one being Sherlock Holmes and the other a member of a royal family from a foreign nation, hence your disguise. You received information, a note, I believe, informing you that news about the person you were seeking was to be obtained at the address you were looking at when I approached you.”

  She shifted slightly in her seat but her face portrayed no astonishment that he had known these facts about her and her purpose in London. Instead, she tilted her face and looked at him sidelong. “How long have you been following me?”

  “I had little need to follow you, Mrs Norton, as I knew that you would be unable to resist responding in person.” He glanced out the window before he looked back at her. “We are very nearly at our destination so I will speak plainly. You wish your husband returned unharmed, do you not, Mrs Norton?” This time, he had the satisfaction of seeing her expression shift, her lip tremble. She would do what he wanted now, without protest or argument.

  He waited in silence for her to speak, to confirm what he already knew. Women broke so easily. Here was something that he shared with his erstwhile foe, Sherlock Holmes, that same casually voiced contempt for the weaker sex that broke through even Dr Watson’s carefully edited accounts from time to time in The Strand. But then, his erstwhile rival had held so many of his fellow beings in contempt that it had led to his downfall. The Professor blinked away a memory of fast-moving water pouring over sharp rocks.

  “Yes.” Her voice was low and soft, yet sharp enough to cut through his memories and drag him back to the present. “Yes, I want my husband back, as unharmed as he was when you seized him. I want to leave England with him, to never return if necessary. You will have nothing to fear from giving him back to me and giving both of us our lives, Professor.” Her dark eyes brimmed with tears under her cap until she rubbed them away gracefully with one bent wrist.