It happened that the school was bequeathed by a wealthy and grateful benefactor – an alumnus who had gone on to great things within the service of science – a rare treasure of incredible preciousness and value. A ceremony was planned with all the pomp and fanfare that the head could muster. Perhaps in an effort to turn around the flagging reputation of the school, which had lately started to suffer a drop in applications, he determined to make a great fuss of the occasion. The entire body of staff and pupils, as well as some local dignitaries, including the mayor and a few learned professors from the university, were invited to an announcement, whereby the treasure would be presented to the school and a prize competition launched.
The day was to be held in the school’s grand but chilly ballroom. Situated at the heart of the school, it was a windowless hall with ornate plasterwork and grandiose Corinthian pillars lining the walls. A small stage stood at one end, and the room was kept locked due to the presence of a glass cabinet of trophies. The gift was to be displayed in the centre – a new velvet-lined plinth having been made especially for it.
What was the priceless object? No one knew, but the alumnus had insisted on stringent security. Nobody was to be admitted to the hall alone. Cleaners would attend in pairs, overseen by a tutor. The entire preparation was shrouded in secrecy, and a new and impressive cast-iron lock was fitted to the door; guaranteed pick proof, we were assured. The night watchman-cumcaretaker borrowed a fearsome dog, named somewhat unimaginatively Cerberus, which slavered and growled appropriately and was installed at the man’s office by the front door to ward off thieves – though whether these were shadowy criminals from outside, or inhabitants of the school itself was not quite spelled out.
Some weeks before the ceremony, I was handed a note written in Moriarty’s cramped, but precise handwriting. It begged for my intercession, for he had lately felt he had some concerns related to sinfulness, and believed I was understanding in these matters. Every hair on the nape of my neck stood on end, reader, and I felt a dryness in my mouth. Nobody was associated with the boy without a measure of unease or, in the case of smaller boys, outright fear.
I attended his room as requested, feeling that if there was the smallest chance this was really a boy in need, as implied in the short but apparently sincere note, it was my godly duty to attend. I admit, also, that one small part was curious to speak with this little demon alone and gauge for myself if he was, as his chemistry tutor claimed, truly evil.
He had made his cubbyhole into a miniature office. Spartan, but furnished, I noticed, with a decanter, two glasses, and a shelf of books whose spines looked to have been well worn. Wearing a smoking jacket and a slightly shabby pair of shoes, he stood at the makeshift desk and met me with an expression I will not forget. As ever, he seemed to count and calculate as he briefly looked me up and down. Those eyes! At twelve years old, they retained a child’s clarity, but twisted with the brooding and bitterness you might see in an old man’s. How bizarre, to see such an expression on such a young face.
‘I appreciate your coming, sir,’ he said, his voice thin and high as a reed. ‘I had feared I would be left alone again—’ he nodded at the corner of his room, where I noticed a boxed-in section of wall ‘—to listen to the music of the pipes.’ I frowned. Was he truly turned lunatic? ‘They call all night,’ he continued, ‘bringing me noises I could swear were human.’
‘I regret you are not making sense,’ I said, shortly, for my patience was wearing thin. There was a high-pitched, insistent buzz weaving around my head. Before I could pinpoint the source, Moriarty stepped forward, snapped his fingers, and held them in front of me, with a flourish. I looked down, somewhat taken aback to see the lifeless body of a housefly pinched between his thumb and fingers.
‘My apologies. I am not making myself clear?’ he said, and quirked a thin, snakish brow. ‘Would it be more understandable if I were to specify that the sounds I hear on a Thursday night were not so much speech as the calls produced most usually when a young woman is—’ he frowned, pursed his lips ‘—how should I put it? Entertaining a friend?’ He dropped the body of the fly upon the floor and casually ground it into the boards with the tip of his shoe.
Now he locked his eyes on mine, and I felt the poison of his intent shoot through my veins. For, as this is a full confession, reader, I am bound to admit that I had recently made the close acquaintance of one of the chambermaids, finding myself quite smitten with her, and we occasionally enjoyed each other’s company in the confines of her attic room. Most often on a Thursday night.
Moriarty reached out and removed a small section of timber from a panel in the wall, behind which were revealed around half a dozen pipes. He tapped one with a fingernail and I heard it ring and echo. ‘These pipes—’ he smiled ‘—with the aid of a small listening glass, are my great entertainment.
‘Oh!’ cried Moriarty, rolling his eyes. I swear he mimicked the exact pitch of Esther’s voice. It was repulsive to me, to hear her voice in his mouth. He closed his eyes and took on a pained expression. Now his voice was deeper and more guttural.
‘Oh, sweet love of God,’ and I heard my own silly, feverish words echoed back at me, spilling from this precocious, vindictive ventriloquist.
I felt myself blush, to my fury, and despite my peaceable nature could have easily wrung the wretch’s scrawny neck. But, of course, I restrained myself, and stood in his room and allowed him to lay out his terms.
I was to find out every possible detail of the prize, including, crucially, its dimensions. I was to note security arrangements and timings. I was to report back to him with everything I could find, on pain of his revealing my sorry dalliance with Esther and ruining both my own career and her reputation.
While he laid out his instructions – quietly, fluently and without hesitation – I fixed my eyes on his desk and read the titles of the leather-bound books stacked there. I was surprised to see some science books, including Notes on the inhalation of sulphuric ether and The Jubilee of Anaesthetic Midwifery. A curious choice, for a young man, I thought. Clearly he read my mind, for he paused in his monologue to say: ‘My sainted mother, sir, left the world as I entered it. I have since kept a fascination for the reason of these things.’ I was surprised again, for I’d thought him incapable of any sort of filial feeling. Perhaps this was the root of his problems?
‘Do not pity me,’ he said sharply. ‘Rather, listen closely to my request. And do not think to hold back anything,’ came his child’s fluting voice. ‘Remember, sir, the walls bring me news of your every word and action.’ With that, he produced a laugh so twisted and strange it thoroughly turned my stomach, and if I never heard it again it would be too soon. Still, it echoes in my ears and makes me shudder.
I was wracked with guilt and fear of being uncovered. Nevertheless, I set to acting as his spy. I revealed, through gradual and careful interrogation of the head’s assistant, liberally bribed with a bottle of good French brandy, that a tournament would be held, and the prize was no less than a pallasite meteorite – a chunk from the 1783 Great Meteor! These stony-iron lumps were so rare that their worth was several hundreds of pounds – a fine prize indeed. A beautiful heart-shaped rock, the size of a small hen’s egg, studded with olivine crystals, by all accounts.
‘Best of all, though, the meteorite is accompanied by a bursary for Oxford University!’ said the head’s new assistant, in a stammering stage-whisper.
‘And all can enter?’ I asked, refilling the man’s glass. We sat in the staff common room, hunched over our drinks and our furtive conversation.
‘Any boy with a perfect attendance record in Mathematics is eligible,’ he recited. I watched the bob of his Adam’s apple as the secretary swallowed, and I turned the news over in my head.
It was clear that Moriarty had heard rumours to this effect, hence his sudden intense curiosity. His family, while of reputable standing, were hardly equipped to pay for a top-class degree from the best university. To realise a chance like th
is would surely be his greatest, most wildly ambitious dream. Yet, I realised, with a jolt, he was disqualified. Since the mathematics tutor had blankly refused to tutor him – privately, the other tutors murmured that the boy had outshone him already and he was humiliated – claiming that the boy disrupted his class and refused to show proper respect for his betters, he could not have any hope of entering the maths tournament or of winning this un imaginably generous prize.
With a sensation like cold water slowly spiralling into my gut, I realised that this situation was unlikely to have a happy outcome. I went on to quiz the secretary, as casually as I could, as to the story about Moriarty’s mother. He confirmed that yes, she had died in childbirth. Now, my dread swirled with the most intense pity. For no matter how sinful, he was undeniably also half an orphan, who had lacked the tender ministrations of a woman’s soft heart. No doubt this loss had torn through his developing emotional brain, leaving an insatiable hunger for power and gain in its wake. I imagined, picturing my own sweet mother’s face, the lack of her, and ached for the piteous child.
I resolved to give Moriarty solace and comfort, and perhaps provide guidance in how he might make reparation with the head to allow his entry into the competition. But, on visiting him, he betrayed no hint of emotion, and I was dismissed with a curt nod.
‘This must be sorely disappointing news,’ I said, hanging back at the door.
He eyed me curiously. ‘Disappointing?’ He smiled that eerie grin. ‘I am hardly surprised to hear the Head create such a condition. It merely confirms how he is disposed to me.’
‘To you?’
‘Clearly he wishes to crush me. It makes things interesting, at least.’
I left with a cold sense of dread puddling in my guts.
On the day, Moriarty was far prompter than usual. The crowd of boys that filled the body of the ballroom parted mutely for him, and he strode to the front as if he were one of the visiting luminaries, rather than a slightly shabby, unprepossessing pubescent with greasy hair and a stooped posture. Behind him scuttled a small, runny-nosed child who had attached himself to Moriarty and acted as his tiny butler, carrying out errands and attending to his schoolmate’s minor requirements.
I watched Moriarty during the ceremony. His gaze never wavered from the meteorite – as it was revealed by the alumnus’s manservant, to general awed murmurs, as the Head addressed it and detailed its origin, and as it was placed reverently within the glass case that stood at the head of the ballroom.
While the head described in detail how the boys should apply themselves for the chance to win both their name inscribed on the plinth below this prized lump of rock and the opportunity to fly to Oxford, I saw Moriarty burn as pale and furious as a whaleoil lamp. His eyes flickered with hatred and his mouth, reader, was as a line drawn and underscored with the blackest charcoal.
‘Of course,’ said the head, and I believe I saw the sheen of triumph in his eyes, ‘any boy who has not a perfect attendance record for the lessons of Mister ***** [Editor, name redacted, again, to protect the parties concerned] shall not be eligible to apply for the prize, or for the scholarship. Thus we shall be sure it will be awarded to a pupil both virtuous and steady in his diligent studentship.
‘Perhaps this will serve to teach a lesson greater than any other – that our highest purpose must be not to further our own interests but to serve the benefit of all. He who fails to learn this lesson should find himself awarded not a dunce’s cap, but a far worse fate. He shall be cast out, despised and undoubtedly, ultim ately, he shall fail both as a student and as a human being.’
The atmosphere in the room seemed to drop a couple of degrees. I knew Moriarty must be not only defeated, but humiliated.
As everyone filed out, his head turned away and I caught his eye. For once, I felt the chill of the bereft void of his heart. This was the look I was used to seeing on the faces of boys left abandoned, alone and scared. This was the expression that I had seen lacking on the day his father’s carriage had pulled away. Yet it was not his family he mourned for, but a life he could never have, that he’d seen paraded in front of him like a piece of glittering, unearthly mineral. I sensed again the unimaginable losses he’d suffered, and my heart ached.
I went to bed with a mixture of dread, sorrow and unspecified agitation that was only exacerbated by the lack of the company of Esther, the young chambermaid I’d recently averred not to see again. I tossed in my cold sheets that night, and yearned for her kinds words and soft touch.
That night, the security guard was posted outside the locked ballroom door. The dog was installed at the front office, certain to wake at the slightest twitch. We retired to bed, pretending that the foreboding hanging over the place was of our imagination only. Around dawn, I believe, I fell into a dark and dreamless sleep.
The next morning, the guard was sprawled on his back on the floor, apparently unconscious. He did not come round when slapped, or when shouted at, but only a half-hour later when cold water was thrown at his face. He remained groggy and could barely speak. The door, of course, was lying open, the treasure gone. The dog, while conscious, had not made a glimmer of noise and the front door remained locked and apparently untampered with.
The head immediately ordered the school to be locked and searched. While he did not say so explicitly, Moriarty’s room was bound to be subject to the most rigorous search of all. I was witness to it, for the head rounded up two of us younger tutors to do the dirty work under his supervision. On my knees, I hunted for loose boards, checked every possible cranny within that small room. We turned the mattress, pulled every book from the shelf, removed the panel to check behind the pipes. Throughout, Moriarty stood unmoving, a wry smile twisting his mouth, and at last the headmaster, shaking his head, ordered his case to be opened.
‘I doubt anyone would be so damn stupid as to put such a thing in their suitcase, but let us check to be sure we have done a thorough job.’
As the suitcase was pulled from under his bed, however, I saw in Moriarty’s hands the tiniest shake, as if he had stopped himself from moving forward. I watched with my breath held, both wanting and not wanting the irregular, curious brightly studded surface of the meteorite to appear.
Inside: folded clothes; a writing case; a bound Bible – and, lying atop all this, a large, wax-faced doll. The head lifted her with a mixed expression, part disgust, part suppressed hilarity. The doll had a wistful expression on her foxed, worn face, arched brows, a rosebud mouth and hair in ringlets. The forehead seemed curiously shaped, and I thought I saw in its protuberance an echo of Moriarty’s own strangely domed brow. The head, still apparently lost for words, lifted the doll’s skirts as if he im agined he might find the meteorite hidden beneath them.
‘Moriarty?’ the head barked, shaking the limp cloth body of the wretched doll at his pupil’s face. Moriarty, meanwhile, looked for once almost on the verge of tears. Was this the real boy, underneath all his scheming and plots? Were we seeing him at last, stripped of his shell and as vulnerable as any frightened child? Two high spots on his cheeks echoed the pink of the doll’s own cheeks, though his colour was, against that pallor of his, unworldly, like that of a fever victim. I thought I saw in his eyes genuine turmoil at that moment.
‘I … I cannot sleep without her,’ he whispered at last, and I believe I have never felt so utterly wrong and terrible in my whole career since. ‘Please do not take her from me. Please.’ The boy looked close to tears, his pale blue eyes shining wretchedly. ‘She was … my mother’s.’
The head, meanwhile, was shaking his head, and examining the doll with utter bemusement.
‘Sir,’ I interrupted, blurting out the words before I’d had a chance to think, ‘I beg you to consider the difficulty a child faces in a strange house with the lack of a mother to send him comforting letters or keepsakes. The loneliness would be intolerable. He may well find some small measure of emotional solace in the figure of such a toy.’
The head looked at
me curiously.
‘Even were a child in need of stern guidance, even were he in danger of growing from a delinquent boy into a sinful adult, surely a doll could do no harm? Is the offer of childish solace not more likely to appease a troubled youth’s mind than provoke it?’
The head glared at me. Then at Moriarty, who was breathing heavily. At last, he shrugged. I fancy he may have discovered that usually dormant part of himself that genuinely cared for the well-being of children, and wished them to be if not happy, then at least quietly stoic.
‘God have mercy on you,’ he muttered at last, and flung the doll back in the case, before nodding to us that our hunt was finished in this room.
I nodded as I passed Moriarty, and he stood chin fixed ahead, showing not the slightest sign of gratitude. I fancied there may have been, though, deep in his murky eyes, a flicker that may have been the burning of a tiny coal of human warmth.
The hunt continued – oh, we turned the place upside down. In the chemistry laboratory, beakers and bottles were left strewn on the benches, and the chemistry tutor subsequently deduced that bleach and acetone and a puddle of melted ice had been mixed and made into chloroform – the method of knocking the poor guard unconscious. The head spat and fumed and came as near to cursing as his Calvinist upbringing would allow. A vein pulsed on his head and I saw in wonder that it seemed to bulge, as if his very brain were swelled with fury.
The Mammoth Book of the Adventures of Professor Moriarty Page 47