‘I am hardly having a debutante’s delight,’ I replied.
‘Let us take the brooch now, and escape this infernal place.’ The ordeal of dancing had made him anxious to commence the scheme and hasten our opportunity to leave. I sympathised, but it was far too soon, and I opened my mouth to protest. ‘The duchess is ahead,’ he said. ‘Let us—’
‘Professor!’ I hissed, ‘the prince has not yet presented—’ But I was too late. After what followed, I feared I could never again spend time in polite society.
To describe the horror briefly: with the insistent strength of the professor pulling me along, we danced out into a glittering tailspin, rocketed past the four couples ahead of us and stumbled directly into the duchess as she danced with a dashing dragoon.
I heard a crack in my right foot, and braced myself for agonising pain. Fortunately – or perhaps unfortunately, given what happened after – it had come from my shoe, not my foot, and an examination revealed the heel had broken. I wanted to scream with frustration; damn the professor and his entire expedition!
The prince ran to the aid of the duchess and continued to studiously ignore me as he helped her walk to the edge of the dance floor. In response, the dragoon made a show of helping me arise and walk to safety. This was difficult, given the condition of my newly broken shoes, which I confess I allowed the dragoon to assume was a limp born of injury.
The biggest concern – and the focus of the rest of the guests – was directed at the professor himself. He had performed his out-of-control waltz so well the ballroom was humming with worries about the frailty of the man. Eventually, he had assured everyone of his health to their satisfaction, and he joined me. I was still sitting where the dragoon had placed me, having bid him adieu so he might jostle with the prince for care of the duchess. All the attention was focused on that end of the ballroom, while at the other, the professor approached the actress.
‘I have it!’ said Moriarty, hissing at me through great excitement. He took out the pocket watch from his waistcoat, and I saw the red glint of the ruby setting.
So the prince had presented the duchess with the brooch – at an earlier, private moment, before the ball began! I wondered, and the reader will forgive my vanity, whether this had something to do with my own presence.
‘You have successfully committed a serious crime,’ I said, ‘but I fear we have greater problems. The stumble has damaged the heel of one of my shoes.’
‘No matter!’ he cried. ‘Let us ask my good friend the porter whether he might find us any spares lying about the place.’ And, before I could protest, I was being steered to this curious man’s station, which through the whole evening had been maintained with military stillness and concentration by the door. They had a whispered conversation beyond my earshot, after which the porter swiftly disappeared.
(I have since wondered whether this mysterious porter fits descriptions I have heard of one Colonel Sebastian Moran. Although the porter does roughly match what I know of this dastardly gentleman’s description, I would not feel comfortable confirming this as fact. For one, surely such a figure as the colonel would be instantly recognisable to a great number of those present at the ball. Instead, I am afraid to say that the identity of the professor’s wicked assistant still eludes me. I understand he has many helpers spread throughout his home city and beyond.)
The porter brought me a box he assured me contained a pair of replacement shoes, and said, ‘The prince was keeping these for just such an emergency.’ Then he winked at me! – after which he returned to his place by the door. I sighed, no longer able to contain my foreboding about the recent turn of events, and opened the box. The shoes beneath the crepe paper were very fine. They were shining with diamonds and decorated with a delicate filigree. Further inspection revealed the coat of arms on the sole – to my horror, I realised that these shoes belonged to none other than the Dowager Duchess of Croome!
I could not return the shoes without making it obvious to the whole ball that I knew the dowager duchess was keeping spare items of her wardrobe in the prince’s stores.
Moriarty smiled and, for the first time, I felt I was able to see through the passionate mathematician and eccentric if harmless scholar. I saw an entirely different person lurking beneath. I felt I was looking into the eyes of the very devil.
‘And now, my dear Miss Adler,’ said the professor, ‘perhaps one more dance, or we might take a turn about the samovar, and I propose we leave the evening. I have had quite enough of high society, and, I assume, so have you. Waiter! Champagne!’
The robbery was discovered shortly before the last dance of the evening, when the prince and duchess came together and presumably attempted a secret look at the brooch that bound them together. By that point the professor had already bid me adieu, and the porter had opened the door for him, bowing him through it. We had made some more small talk with the various guests, and taken a few turns around the ballroom, but we did not dance again. When the time came to escape the evening, Moriarty was comfortable leaving me on my own, satisfied that putting me in a pair of stolen shoes would stop me from drawing any attention to myself. The duchess’s outcry at the discovery of the stolen brooch had set the ballroom alight, and the prince (and the dragoon) called for their pistols. Soon the ball had dissipated into uproar and, if one listened carefully, one could already hear the newspapers preparing the story. This would not be limited to the society pages.
Moriarty had the reputation, among those who knew him as a criminal, of pulling off a stunning coup de crime. He had removed a priceless brooch from under the nose of the Prince of B—. (And the king, too, although he had been snoring in his chair since the welcome speeches.) News of the theft mingled in the air above the guests as they whispered and screamed, and shot up into the sky, spreading across London. Those listening out for tales of crime – perhaps in Baker Street, over the sound of their violin – would surely know instantly that Moriarty was responsible for such a terrible accomplishment.
But, I am happy to say, if I did contribute to the professor’s already formidable reputation in this city, let it be known that I did, at least, remove some of the satisfaction in this particular case. I may have aided Moriarty the master criminal, but I scuppered Moriarty the mathematician.
Even as the uproar began, I was leaving the Orangery. In the grounds, before I hailed a hansom, I paused by the hedge maze and felt beneath my breast. I removed the brooch from an inner pocket of my coat. I had sewn the pocket in myself, and used it to store the trinkets of paramours I felt could afford to lose the weight. I looked at the stone. The professor had not noticed my taking it from his waistcoat pocket as he beckoned a waiter to pour champagne, with which he toasted our success. To store it in my skirts I only required a split-second loss of concentration from the good professor; I got it when he tipped the porter a salute, and a wink.
The asteroid fragment itself was not stunning to look at; it was grey and did not sparkle. One could hardly countenance that it had dropped on to our humble orb from the depths of space, only to be locked into a ruby-studded mount for a dowager duchess to aid the politicking of a sycophantic prince.
I ground the asteroid to dust beneath the heel of my stolen shoes, and hailed a cab to return me to London, and thence to continue my own travels.
To this day I could not say, looking back over my dance with Professor Moriarty moment by moment, who was leading, and who followed behind.
Moriarty’s Luck
L.C. Tyler
The old Queen had been dead for over a year, but the weather was much the same. In Baker Street, the gas lamps were obscured in equal measure by the yellow mist that had rolled in off the Thames and the large white snowflakes that had been falling since teatime. A dozen cabs had rattled past, all fully occupied, at first to our resigned amusement but increasingly to our profound annoyance. We had a table waiting for us at Simpson’s in the Strand at seven o’clock, but we were still no more than a few yards from our rooms
.
Holmes took out his gold half-hunter and frowned. ‘I think, Watson, that we should abandon any hope of transport in this weather and resign ourselves to walking to our destination. If we put our best foot forward, we shall still be at Simpson’s on time.’
‘Walk from Baker Street to the Strand in twenty-five minutes?’ I exclaimed. ‘It will take thirty-five at least.’
Holmes smiled for the first time since we had set out. ‘Twenty-five and not a minute more. If we are not at our table by seven, Watson, then I shall be happy to pay the bill for both of us at the end of the evening.’
I shook my head doubtfully. ‘If we are there by seven, which I do not think possible, then I shall of course pay.’
‘It is in the nature of wagers, Watson, that there is some reciprocity of risk, though the “mug” bears most of it. I hope you have some cash with you.’
‘Mug?’ I enquired.
‘A technical term,’ said Holmes.
I patted the pockets of my ulster and felt my wallet’s reassuring shape. ‘Of course,’ I said. ‘And I give you my word, Holmes, as a former officer and as a gentleman, that I shall not deliberately lag behind.’
Holmes smiled again. ‘As for the guarantee that you offer for your conduct, I think that arch-villain Colonel Moran could have claimed the same distinction. In this new century, His Majesty’s commission is no assurance of gentlemanly behaviour.’
I was about to protest that the morals of the late Professor Moriarty’s henchman could not be allowed to blacken the character of the entire British Army, or even of his own rather unfashionable regiment, but Holmes, giving no such assurances of his own, had already set off at a brisk pace. For some time we proceeded in silence. I was struggling a little to keep up and Holmes’s eyes were fixed on some distant point. He seemed to be recalculating our arrival time as we passed each landmark. Though we walked no faster than I had feared we might, I had not counted on Holmes’s detailed knowledge of the geography of London. Twice we took short cuts that had me baffled for a moment, until we emerged again into some familiar street. The race, it appeared, would be won by brainpower rather than leg muscle alone. But, no sooner had I become convinced that my friend had the better of me and that I would be paying for dinner, than Holmes came to a sudden and unannounced halt at the corner of Bentinck Street and Welbeck Street. He took out his watch again and studied it before replacing it in his waistcoat pocket.
‘Excellent. We have four and a half minutes in hand, Watson. Time I think to have my shoes polished by this gentleman here.’
Holmes indicated an old man, crouched beside his paraphernalia of blacking tins and brushes, wrapped in an old brown overcoat and with a scarf wound round the lower part of his face. There was something about the decrepitude of the figure that invoked disgust but, in a mind as noble as Holmes’s, pity too. He removed an overly generous half-crown from his pocket and held it between two fingers.
‘This is for you, my man, if you can clean these boots to perfection in precisely four minutes,’ he said.
The old bootblack looked up. Perhaps he had been dozing, in spite of the cold, because Holmes’s voice had clearly startled him. But he set to work without a word, dabbing his cloth nimbly and expertly. When he had applied the blacking to one boot however he paused and observed: ‘I see, Mr Holmes, that these boots formerly pinched, but that you have now worn them in satisfactorily.’
Holmes in his turn suddenly looked startled. The great detective was of course used to making deductions of this sort himself, but rarely had anyone returned the favour and analysed either his character or his footwear in this way. His reply was clipped and somewhat ungracious. ‘I should like to know how you have come to that conclusion.’
The bootblack looked up, taking in both Holmes and myself with a long, slow stare. I noticed for the first time his bulbous forehead and piercing eyes.
‘As a bootblack,’ he said, ‘I have acquired an extensive knowledge of shoes and boots of all sorts – ladies’ and gents’ alike. These are clearly expensive and well made but they are of a pattern that was fashionable three or four years ago. They are, however, like new. The heels, always the first part of a shoe to suffer, are still perfect. Why would you buy an expensive pair of boots and then not wear them? The answer is simple: that they were initially very uncomfortable. But you are wearing them now and you and your friend approached at some speed, proving that you now feel no discomfort at all – hence I must conclude that you have finally worn them in.’
I laughed and applauded this strange reversal of roles. I turned to Holmes expecting him also to congratulate the old man but he was scowling at him.
‘You finally recognise me then?’ sneered the bootblack.
‘How could I not?’
‘Who is this person, Holmes?’ I asked.
‘Someone you know well, but have never seen, except for a moment as his train sped past us at Canterbury,’ said Holmes. ‘Somebody neither of us ever expected to see again.’
‘Professor Moriarty?’ I said, in disbelief. ‘But …’
The old man unwound his scarf and, for the first time, I found myself face to face with my friend’s most implacable enemy. There was an old scar that ran from his temple to his jawline. ‘You thought I was dead?’ he asked.
‘If you don’t think it impolite of me, I had rather hoped so,’ said Holmes. ‘We struggled. I overcame you. I saw you fall …’
Moriarty shook his head. ‘It is true that I slipped from that ledge above the Reichenbach Falls.’
‘That was no slip,’ I interjected. ‘Holmes defeated you by using the ancient art of baritsu. Had he not, he would have perished at your hands.’
‘Baritsu?’ Moriarty sneered. ‘Was that what he called that strange posturing and flailing of his arms? Was that why he uttered those shrill noises that he possibly imagined to be Japanese? The path was wet. I had been waiting there for some time. It is hardly surprising that I could not keep my footing. I simply stumbled and fell. But the pool below the waterfall is deep. Very deep. Quite improbably deep. I was temporarily stunned as I struck the water, but its coldness revived me. I rose to the surface, but swimming in that torrent was impossible. I was swept along by the current and dragged under again, this time striking my head against a rock. I do not know what happened next, but some minutes or hours or chapters later I found myself being pulled ashore by a Swiss peasant. He and his wife carried me home, more dead than alive – I mean figuratively rather than mathematically obviously because otherwise I would on balance have been dead.’
‘That all sounds very unlikely,’ I said.
‘Not as unlikely as some of the explanations I have heard for Mr Holmes’s survival,’ said Moriarty.
‘Fair comment,’ said Holmes.
‘Go on,’ I said. I’d never been quite sure that baritsu really existed. I hoped that the rest of Holmes’s account of his survival could be trusted.
‘They nursed me,’ Moriarty continued, ‘for two months, until I had recovered – at least physically. In return they asked for nothing. Nothing at all. Their simple everyday kindness humbled me. When I left I tried to give them all I had with me – my money, my watch – but they refused to take anything. I went on my way determined to lead a better and nobler life. I returned to England to resume my academic career.’
‘Then how do you find yourself here?’
Moriarty gave a bitter laugh. ‘Publications,’ he said. ‘As a university head of department you have a great deal of administrative work that the university expects you to carry out. Then you have students to teach, however asinine and unteachable they may be. Finally, you must undertake research and publish in the leading journals. Most academics find that it is difficult to do all three, and very few of them also run a criminal empire spanning much of western Europe. Of course, it was the research that suffered – it always does. Each time I went to an interview I was faced with the question: “Professor Moriarty, I see that you haven’t published si
nce 1889. Why is that?”’
‘Eighteen eighty-nine? Your famous paper on mathematics?’ asked Holmes. ‘What was it called again?’
‘Towards a post-modernist re-evaluation of the binomial theorem,’ said Moriarty with a sigh.
‘Of course,’ said Holmes. ‘A masterpiece.’
‘Your criminal activities counted against you,’ I said. ‘You could not have hoped for employment, even at one of the newer institutions.’
Moriarty laughed again. ‘How little you know of our universities,’ he said. ‘All vice chancellors are obliged to maximise revenue from any legitimate source. There was one selection panel which, when I told them how I had extorted ten million marks from the government of Saxony, were completely lost in thought for five whole minutes. In the rejection letter that followed, they said that, if they had imagined for a moment that the trick would have worked twice, they would have had no hesitation in offering me a Chair.’ His voice tailed off wistfully.
Holmes stood there, one boot covered in blacking, the half-crown still held between his fingers. ‘But, you have now come to this …’
‘Indeed. While you are able to buy the very best boots and leave them in your wardrobe, I am obliged to wear a coat that scarcely keeps out the snow on a night such as this. The hovel in which I live has neither food nor coal in it. We have been obliged to burn the doors to keep warm. The landlord long ago sold the roof to some venture capitalists. Even the bare walls now form part of a toxic property bond. I share the bed with three others, none of whom are in any way to my liking. But I am trying to live honestly, as you can see.’
‘And would be insulted by any suggestion of charity, no doubt,’ I said.
‘I didn’t say that,’ said Moriarty. ‘I definitely didn’t say that.’ Though still kneeling, he had grasped Holmes by his coat. ‘A guinea, sir? You’d never even miss it.’
‘Holmes!’ I exclaimed. ‘This is the wretch who tried to murder you – and would have done had you not known … er … baritsu. He is the man who was, for years, at the heart of every major crime that was committed in London, and at least one in Saxony. You cannot possibly offer him a penny.’
The Mammoth Book of the Adventures of Professor Moriarty Page 60