Following the old man, Irving kept his cap pulled low and stayed in the shadows, so that any onlookers would not recognise him. He kept his distance for a few minutes, studying his target, waiting until they were far enough from the high street that he could strike.
The man had a large, distinctive high-domed forehead, a receding hairline and sharp, angular features. Irving had seen him before, coming and going from the university. It was James Moriarty, a professor of mathematics, who was frequently spoken of in high regard in almost all circles of society; even those at the very bottom of the social strata to which Irving had always belonged. Regardless of the professor’s reputation as a man of intellect, Moriarty carried himself with an undeniable air of confidence and intelligence, which rather begged the question: why was he doing something so thoroughly foolish?
Irving slowed his step, keeping his distance, his instincts screaming at him that there was something wrong with the whole scenario. However, he could not just let such easy prey walk off when his pockets could be lined with money, could he? What was there to be scared of?
Nothing frightened Irving Beck. The professor may be tall, but Irving was taller. Having spent a decade toiling in the brickyards, mines and ironworks, he had developed broad shoulders and thick forearms, which intimidated most men. He had triumphed in many bar-room brawls, even fought in a few semi-professional bare-knuckle boxing tournaments, so taking down a wiry academic should have posed little concern to a man like him.
“You are not going to disappoint me, are you?” Professor Moriarty had stopped in the middle of the alleyway, with his back to Irving, still presenting the easiest target that could be imagined. One punch to the back of the head and the man would be down for a considerable amount of time. “Come on. I had the highest expectations for you.”
Irving came to an abrupt halt.
Professor Moriarty spun on his heel to face him, spreading his arms in a defenceless way, moving with a surprising agility for a man of his age. How old was he? There were perhaps not quite as many lines around his eyes as Irving had first imagined.
“What are you waiting for, Irving Beck?”
While he recognised the professor, as he was something of a local name, there was absolutely no chance that a man of his standing should ever have heard of the name Irving Beck.
He could not risk an assault now.
“I’m just passing on my way home, sir.” Irving resumed his walk, pulling on the rim of his cap in deference as he strode past the professor, keen to put as much distance between himself and these strange events as possible. “Didn’t mean to spook you, sir.”
“Oh, splendid,” the professor called after him. “An explanation, an apology, and you called me sir, acknowledging my nat ural superiority. You are evidently an honourable, honest and humble man. Although, saying ‘sir’ the second time was a little too much, it made it sound like an act.”
Irving kept walking.
“Your stratagem contained numerous flaws,” the professor continued. “Primarily, there is an unnecessarily high risk of the crime being witnessed, plus an uncertainty over whether I even withdrew any money. Great risk, for potentially no reward? That is bad mathematics by anybody’s calculation.”
Irving was disconcerted by the professor’s confidence. Despite having deliberately followed the professor into the unpopulated alleys, he was suddenly very keen to be surrounded by people again. He felt suspicious that rather than having orchestrated events himself, he had in fact blindly walked into a scenario contrived by the professor.
There was a dark-haired woman ahead, leaning against the wall. She was a common streetwalker, her young face covered in an unattractively large amount of white powder and black eyeliner, her skirt already hitched vulgarly above her knee.
Under normal circumstances, he may have stopped to talk to her, but for now Irving was just grateful that someone else was present. The feeling did not last long.
“The professor ain’t done talkin’ yet, love.” She stepped out to block his path, while toying with a small knife, bringing him once again to an abrupt halt. “You’re bein’ rude.”
Even armed with the knife, Irving imagined he could overpower her. Most people did not have the courage to use weapons; if she hesitated for a moment he would be able to disarm her and knock her down. There was, however, always the chance that she was comfortable using the knife – the way she spun it playfully around her fingers certainly implied she had some experience using the weapon. He was also unsure just how far the old man was behind him – if Moriarty intervened at the same time, then things would almost certainly end badly for Irving.
“Still calculating the odds, Mister Beck?” Professor Moriarty stepped up behind him, having been a lot closer than Irving expected, speaking directly into his left ear. “Very wise. It always comes down to the numbers in the end. I do assure you, the best thing you can do is listen to me.”
Irving turned to face the man.
He was momentarily tempted to thump the professor in the face, but a gentle touch from the streetwalker, directly between his shoulder blades, reminded him that such ideas might end very badly for him.
Moriarty smiled. “Separately, you could easily overpower either me or this young woman, but together we are more than a match for you. As Aristotle observed, the whole is greater than the sum of its parts. We can always do more if we organise and co-operate.”
“What do you want with me?” Irving asked, by now certain that this was no accidental meeting.
“I am recruiting, Mister Beck.”
“I can’t see me working in any university, Mister Moriarty.”
“Mathematics is but one of the fields I work in,” the professor replied. “I have also been known to operate in other fields somewhat more outside the modern moral code.”
“Crime,” translated the streetwalker helpfully.
“My normal associates are otherwise engaged, so I find myself in need of individuals who can recognise an opportunity and pursue it, like you did outside the bank. I need men who are prepared to risk their lives, who have no qualms about liberating wealth from others, but who are able to think on their feet and adapt their plans as necessary. Again, I believe you are such a man. Are you?”
Irving considered his options.
Life had rarely given him many opportunities, except the ones he had taken by brute force, but he had little to lose by playing along with this man’s plans for now.
He nodded. “If there’s money, I’m always interested in taking it.”
“Excellent,” Moriarty replied. “You see, I said, it always comes down to the numbers. Be on the nine a.m. train if you wish to pursue this most auspicious opportunity, Mister Beck. I shall explain all once the full team is assembled.”
Moriarty spun on his heel and marched off down the alleyway, disappearing with remarkable speed.
“I do apologise for the knife,” the streetwalker added, walking past him, swinging her hips provocatively, while slipping the weapon into her sleeve. “But you do get the most unsavoury sorts down these back alleys.”
Irving boarded the locomotive and worked his way through the carriages. He found Moriarty sat in a first-class cabin, with one eye on his pocket watch and the other on the compartment door.
The professor beckoned him in.
There were two other members of the team already seated around the table.
One of them was the dark-haired streetwalker, who sat in the corner with her feet pulled up on to the seat, her chin placed just above her knees. She gave Irving a small smile as he sat down at the far end of the table, gazing at him through her dark eyelashes. The final member of the team was a burly middle-aged sailor, in a smart blue uniform, with a great grey moustache that ran all the way around his face and into his sideburns.
“Nine o’clock.” Moriarty clicked his pocket watch closed and then tucked it into the pocket of his waistcoat. A moment later, with a great hiss of the steam, the locomotive began to
pull out of the station.
“Lady and gentlemen, this is our target.” Moriarty dropped a photograph on the table, which showed a black and white image of a three-masted steamship. “This is the RMS Heroic.”
“I don’t see no lady here,” growled the sailor sourly, ignoring the photograph and glaring at the streetwalker.
“Oh, love,” she replied, “I can be anything you want, if the price is right.”
Moriarty leaned over and grabbed the sailor by the ear.
“Given the crimes we are about to commit, I suggest you give up any delusion of having any moral high ground. As I hope we are all aware, such scales are meaningless, they are just a way to keep the rabble powerless.”
He let go of the man’s ear and tapped his long index finger against the hull of the ship, refocusing their attention on the photograph.
“On the ship there will be two passengers of note,” Moriarty continued, passing out two envelopes – one to the streetwalker and the other to Irving. “They are both wealthy individuals re locating to the United States, so they are taking every valuable they own, every pound note of it, with them. The safes in the staterooms will be loaded with riches you cannot imagine.”
“You want us to break into these safes?” enquired the streetwalker.
“No.” Moriarty shook his head. “They have four tumblers, with ten digits apiece, which is over ten thousand combinations. As ever, the numbers win.”
“Or, we could blow a hole in the side,” Irving suggested. He had a little experience with explosives.
“Crude,” Moriarty replied, shaking his head. “The best way of getting away with any crime is to make sure nobody even knows it has been committed.”
Irving frowned. “Then how do we get into the safes?”
“Our victims will open them themselves.” Moriarty smiled. “This vessel is about to have an accident. It will sink shortly after leaving the harbour. Even when the ship is sinking, despite all logic and reason, these two individuals will risk their lives and go back for the contents of their safe. They value wealth above all else. However, once they are on the lifeboats, they will eventually trade those riches for mere handfuls of food and water, which we will be carrying. Having been defrauded of every penny they own, they will still be thanking us for saving their lives.”
The streetwalker laughed, delighted by the Machiavellian beauty of the scheme.
“What about the passengers and crew?” she interjected. “I do not mind risking my life, but I’m hesitant about committing mass murder.”
“There will only be a small number of passengers on-board, so there will be adequate lifeboats on hand for all,” he said, trying to assuage any remaining moral doubts. “The rest of the passengers are not due to board the ship until it reaches Liverpool, for the onward trip to New York, which are two stops that this ship will no longer be making.”
“What about the captain?” Irving asked, curious to see the professor’s response. “It is traditional for a captain to go down with his ship.”
The sailor glared at him.
“Oh, I’ll be fine,” he replied gruffly, tapping the four gold rings around the cuff of his uniform jacket, which denoted his rank as captain.
Irving shrugged.
Moriarty tapped a finger against the two envelopes on the table.
“Inside, you will find a boarding ticket for the RMS Heroic, a plan of the ship, a photograph of your target, plus details about them and of what I expect to be in their safe. Befriend them. Stay close to them. Make sure they end up at the lifeboat indicated on the plan, with the contents of their safe, but do not take anything from them, unless they give it to you of their own free will. Let’s not give anyone a crime to investigate.”
Irving carefully opened the envelope and let the contents fall into his hands.
The photograph showed a tall man, in a military uniform, with noticeably thick upper arms and large fists. Amongst the paperwork was the name “Major-General Fitzwilliam”.
The streetwalker opened her envelope and plucked out what appeared to be a photograph of an elderly woman.
“What if they don’t want to trade away their wealth?” Irving asked.
Moriarty smiled.
“Then they will starve, dehydrate and die, as the victims of an unfortunate shipwreck. And we take their money anyway.”
The RMS Heroic was waiting in the dockyard.
To Irving, she looked invincible. He could easily see how such a giant could conquer the worst storms, but was equally aware that she was no match for Moriarty’s cold intellect. He would be able to sink her with no more than a tiny hole.
Irving made his way up the gangway on to the deck. He was wearing a new suit, provided by Moriarty to help him fit in with upper-class passengers. He felt uncomfortable in its stiffly starched collar. His discomfort was not shared by the captain, who had boarded the ship shortly before him and was already ordering around members of the crew.
The streetwalker was the next one up the gangway. She had somehow transformed her appearance during only a handful of minutes locked in a public lavatory. She had changed her dress, removed and redone her make-up, restyled her hair so that it was now fashionably braided around the crown of her head. The streetwalker was gone, replaced by a lady, who was gliding elegantly along deck with a parasol in her hand.
“Oh, where shall we begin?” She pouted, her alleyway accent replaced by a more sophisticated drawl. “A stroll around the deck perhaps?”
“I would suggest the cargo hold,” advised Moriarty, as he climbed aboard. “They are loading their lives aboard this vessel, but these are people of money, so they will want to supervise proceedings. They would not be capable of entrusting such an important task to people they regard as their inferiors. Become acquainted with them, a meagre measure of familiarity now will make them more inclined to trust you later.”
Having given his instruction, Moriarty moved off towards the rear of the ship.
“A cargo hold is no place for a lady alone.” The dark-haired woman smiled, offering Irving her arm. “Perhaps you would be kind enough to escort me, sir?”
“And what should I call you?”
“I, sir, am Miss Emma Bennett, and you would be?”
“Irving Beck.”
“No, sir. That is not the name written on your ticket.”
Irving glanced at the piece of paper in his hand, which bore a different name entirely.
“Isaac Brewer,” he replied, noting that Moriarty had kept his initials the same, so that the name was easier for Irving to remember. Despite all the flattery, the man clearly did not place much trust in Irving’s intellectual abilities. He was here because of his physical strength, in case things went wrong. It had never been said, but Irving knew it was true. “Tell me your real name.”
“You overstep yourself, sir.”
“Yes, I do.” Irving nodded, opening a door for her. “Frequently.”
“He made my pseudonym from the names of two characters devised by Jane Austen; evidently he thinks I have a romantic nature.” She smiled, as she stepped inside the ship and folded away her parasol. “Or perhaps it is just a cruel joke, because of my former employment, one he thinks I will not get. Either way, he is wrong.”
Much of her statement confused Irving, he had never had much time for books, but his best guess was that she was referring to works of literature of which he was unaware.
“I doubt the professor is ever wrong about anything.” Irving shrugged, covering his ignorance. “Given your knowledge, it is an easy name to remember. I imagine he chose it to make things simpler for you.”
The woman glanced at him, raising a curious eyebrow, surprised by his observation.
“Everything is certainly planned to the smallest detail, but I’m not sure I can trust him and, on a doomed ship I would be a fool not to trust someone, so I will trust you,” she replied, curtseying slightly. “I’m Nora Crogan.”
Irving bowed slightly, feeling uncomfo
rtable faking such social formality, given their previous meeting and criminal intentions.
“Come on.” Nora grinned. “Let’s find our victims.”
The hold was unlike anything Irving had seen in his life. It was two storeys high and ran almost two-thirds the length of the ship. There were piles of packing crates, suitcases, numerous wagons, industrial-sized freight pallets and even livestock. Irving let out a low whistle, surprised at just how much had been crammed into the cargo compartment.
“Where’s yours?” Nora’s accent had shifted back to that of the back alleys of the city.
Irving nodded to the rear of the hold, to where he could see a man in an old-fashioned, bright scarlet military tunic shouting at the men loading his belongings.
“Let’s go and introduce ourselves, shall we?” Nora picked up the hem of her skirt and stalked forward. As they approached, she gently fell back into character, letting go of her skirt, straightening her back and raising her chin. Her voice gushed with feigned excitement. “Good afternoon, sir! Are you heading for a new life in the United States too? It certainly looks that way. It is the most exciting enterprise, is it not?”
Major-General Fitzwilliam was not a pleasant man. He met their enquiries with short, blunt answers, evidently more interested in his cargo than making new acquaintances.
“What an absolute arse,” Nora summarised succinctly once they had moved away. “And imagine how much worse he’d have been if we’d been the real us?”
Irving shrugged; he was not particularly bothered by how people treated him, especially when he was planning to take every single pound they owned.
“Is your target here too?” he asked, glancing around the shadowy hold.
Nora nodded. “Over there. The heiress Estelle Lloyd-Trefusis. Her husband was one of the largest landowners in the south-west, before he died in mysterious circumstances.”
“I can’t see her.”
The Mammoth Book of the Adventures of Professor Moriarty Page 31