The Second Life of James Moriarty: A Short Story

by John Moralee

  The door to Miss Merson’s room opened. She was scowling. “I thought I heard voices. What is going on?”

  “Nothing,” Count Kugarov said. “I must have been turned around in the dark. I should have lit a candle.” He smiled at Miss Merson, then at me. “Henri, it appears I am not familiar with your house in the dark. I do apologise.”

  “No apology is necessary,” I said. “Come – I shall show you the correct way.”

  I escorted him to the bathroom. The scowling Miss Merson sighed and closed her door.

  *

  The next morning I had formulated a plan to rid myself of Count Kugarov that did not involve dirtying my hands with his murder. It was quite simple. I had noticed Mary wore valuable jewellery, including a silver locket that had obvious sentimental value. I suggested we all took a walk after breakfast around the estate – during which I distracted Mary’s attention so I could steal her locket without her feeling my deft fingers removing it. I slipped the locket into Count Kugarov’s pocket as we were heading back to the château. I needed Mary to notice her locket was missing – so I subtly stroked my own neck hoping she would subconsciously mimic my actions, which she did.

  “My locket! It’s gone! My father gave it to me for my sixteenth birthday!” In a panic she looked around. “Where is it?”

  “I will find it,” Count Kugarov said gallantly. “I will retrace your path. I’m sure I will find it, Mary. You must have dropped it during your walk.”

  I could not give Kugarov the time to find the locket upon his person.

  “What’s that?” I said. “Sir, there’s something in your pocket. Why, it looks like my niece’s locket!”

  I had left the chain hanging from his pocket so it was visible, as though the Count had hidden it quickly, making a mistake. The Count looked down and saw the locket on him and did not have to fake his confusion as he pulled it out.

  “Nicholas?” Mary said. “Why do you have my locket?”

  “I don’t understand. I did not put it there. I swear it, Mary!”

  “You stole it,” she said. “Please go. I do not want to see you again.”

  “Someone put it on me,” he said. “It was either your uncle or your companion.”

  “That is an outrageous accusation,” I said. “You are a common thief, sir. Return the locket and go away immediately - or I shall have the police arrest you. I am sure they will investigate you thoroughly to see if you are really the person you claim to be, which I severely doubt.”

  Kugarov returned the locket to the tearful Mary. “I shall leave – but only because I do not wish to distress you by staying where I am not wanted. I am sorry, Mary. I hope one day I can prove my innocence to you. Goodbye.”

  Mary was sobbing in Miss Merson’s embrace when the Count departed on the bridle path leading out of the estate. That was one problem solved as easily as a quadratic equation. For a former professor of mathematics such as I, it was not even a challenge. Mary turned away and ran back to the château, leaving me with Miss Merson.

  “I will go after her,” she said. “Excuse me.”

  Miss Merson chased after Mary. I stared down the bridle path, where Kugarov had disappeared. Kugarov’s final words about proving his innocence had disturbed me, for it was possible that he had meant them. I feared it was not the last time I would see him. Putting the locket on him had seemed an elegant solution. How foolish! It would have been much safer to kill him.

  *

  All day Mary was heartbroken, which allowed me to play the sympathetic, caring uncle, while Miss Merson took on the role of a house servant, serving tea. By the evening Mary was still miserable - but she was no longer talking about Count Kugarov because she was so exhausted. She retired to bed at seven. Miss Merson kept me company for a few hours, knitting her hideous scarf, the incessant rhythmical click-clacking of the needles soon irritating me. When she finally bid me a goodnight, I was tempted to cheer with relief.

  Early the next morning I went out hunting for that evening’s dinner. In the crisp air my walk into the misty woods was bracing – but also invigorating as I stalked my prey, following the trail of a deer. The woods were so peaceful and still it seemed as if time had stopped – until I heard a rustle in the undergrowth. Hoping it was the deer, I raised my rifle and aimed at the source of the sound. A fox appeared with bloody meat in its mouth and blood on its fur. It ran off, leaving me to investigate what it had left behind, which was probably the remains of a rabbit. That was what I expected - until I almost stepped on a dead man’s hand.

  The hand belonged to Kugarov, whose handsome face would smile no more. He had been buried in a shallow grave and covered with dirt and leaves – but the fox had smelled him and disturbed the grave. I could see where the fox had chewed on his right leg. Unmoved by the grisly sight, I bent down and brushed away the leaves to have a closer look at the dead man. Insect activity revealed to me he had been dead for a day. His body had been buried close to the bridle path where I noted a trace of blood and a trail leading back to the grave. His killer had dragged him there for a hasty burial. Too hastily. A deeper grave would have been better. The cause of his death was not obvious – but I examined him thoroughly and observed something interesting. Kugarov had a small round puncture wound in his neck, spearing his carotid artery. The murder weapon had been something long and narrow. Fascinating.

  I returned to the château in time to greet Mary and Miss Merson for breakfast. One of them was a murderess, but I did not reveal my suspicions. I needed proof before taking action. After breakfast, I excused myself and sneaked up the stairs while the ladies drank tea in the garden.

  I began my search in Miss Merson’s room, where I found her knitting needles in a bag. All her knitting needles were spotlessly clean – so I wondered if I had been incorrect about the murder weapon. I looked through her other luggage. Inside a valise I found a small silk handkerchief stained with dried blood. No nosebleed could explain the sheer amount of blood. Evidently the handkerchief had been used to wipe clean a blood-soaked knitting needle after she had stabbed Kugarov in the neck – but what was her motive?

  I continued my search for an answer. Eventually, I discovered a notebook with Mary’s name written on the pages hundreds of times. I grinned. Miss Merson had been practising Mary’s signature. Everything was clear now. I was not the only person after Mary’s money.

  I left everything as I had found it.

  Mary and Miss Merson were returning to the château when I was coming down the stairs. Mary was unsteady on her feet. “Uncle, I feel unwell. If you do not mind, I will rest for a few hours. I am very sleepy.”

  She stumbled on the stairs – but Miss Merson was there to help her. As they passed me, I noticed the unusual size of Mary’s pupils. She was drugged. Miss Merson must have given her an opiate.

  “I’ll help,” I said. A flash of anger crossed Miss Merson’s face – but she did not object as I helped her take Mary to her room, where she slumped onto her bed.

  “I’ll help her into bed,” Miss Merson said. “A gentleman should not be in a young lady’s room, Mr Villeuve.”

  Dismissed, I waited outside until Miss Merson came out. I could hear Mary snoring – so I knew she was alive.

  “Mr Villeuve, while Mary rests shall we enjoy tea in the garden?”

  “Very well,” I said, though I had no intention of drinking tea with her. I only accepted her offer to lead her away from Mary’s room.

  We started walking down the hall. Miss Merson paused momentarily as she passed her room before walking on.

  “The hair is missing,” she said.

  “Pardon?” I said.

  “I applied a hair across my door so I would know if anyone went in,” she said. “You have been searching through my things - which means you know what I did to the imposter Kugarov. Let’s stop pretending to be ordinary people. I know who you really are, Professor Moriarty.”

  “What?” I said, shocked by my name coming from her lips. “Why do you ca
ll me that name?”

  “Do not insult my intelligence by denying it, Professor,” she said in a tougher unladylike voice. “I am highly observant. I saw you steal Mary’s locket and deposit it on Kugarov with expert skill. I knew then you were not Mary’s uncle, though it did take me a little while to work out your real identity. This morning I searched your room and found a knife under your pillow – hardly something an ordinary man would keep there. And then I remembered reading about the disappearance of Professor James Moriarty in this area just a week ago. You match his description. I do not believe in coincidence. Here is my theory. You survived the Falls and murdered Mary’s uncle before we arrived. You killed her uncle like I killed Kugarov. We are after the same thing, Professor. We both want the girl’s money and don’t want someone like Kugarov getting in our way. We are kindred spirits – mastercriminals. I suggest we work together and share her money equally. For weeks I have tried to find out the girl’s codeword so I can pretend to be her at her bank – but I have not yet learnt it. The girl is surprisingly cautious about sharing it with anyone. If you do not interfere with my plan, I shall obtain it from her by drugging her until the answer slips from her lips. We just have to keep her here in a state of delirium. I have an ample supply of laudanum. Once I know her codeword, I can disguise myself as her and steal all her money. Will you help me?”

  “Your plan certainly appeals. What do you plan for Mary once the deed is done?”

  “I do not like loose ends, Professor. She will have to die in a tragic accident.”

  “That is not acceptable to me,” I said. “I will not let you kill Mary. She is innocent.”

  “The great Moriarty has a conscience?” she said. “That is a weakness I do not have. Very well. I have another proposal.” She produced a knife from her bag – my knife - holding it with her gloved hand. “I found this hidden under your pillows, Professor. It has your finger marks upon it. I will tell the police you used it to kill Kugarov when he came back to see Mary. I will also tell them I saw you kill him. You tried to kill me for being a witness – but I got the knife from you and stabbed you with it to save my life. What do you say to that proposal, Professor?”

  “Killing me will not help you steal Mary’s money,” I said. “It will only make it more difficult.”

  “True – but it will eliminate you as competition!”

  She attacked me with the knife gripped in her fist, stabbing towards my heart, but even in my weakened state I defended myself, stepping aside and blocking her first blow with my forearm. I was cut – but the wound was not deep. The pain angered me. Quickly, I whipped off my jacket and wrapped it around my arm as additional protection. Unarmed, I had to retreat while avoiding her savage attacks. The woman held nothing back – slashing and stabbing me as I backed away down the passage with blood running from a dozen cuts. I kicked out at her legs hoping to knock her down – but Miss Merson dodged my counter-attack and grinned like she was enjoying herself. I felt myself weakening as I reached the top of the stairs. If this battle continued much longer, I would lose my life to a mere woman. That thought enraged my sensibilities. I pretended to stumble down the first step – leaving myself vulnerable to a lethal attack. She fell for my move – charging with the knife stabbing down towards my exposed neck. Timing it perfectly, I ducked my head and slammed into her as she brought her knife down. I knocked the wind out of her. Her knife struck my back instead of my neck – while I grabbed her ankles and lifted her into the air. She yelled with alarm as I hurled her over the bannister and watched her plummet down into the hallway below, where her body impacted with the hard stone floor. When she hit the ground, her yell ended abruptly, filling the château with silence. I grabbed the bannister rail unsteadily and looked down at her twisted body. I felt no joy. I felt disappointed. She would have been an apt pupil if she had not tried to murder me. I sighed and looked around for my knife, which I would have to wipe clean of my fingerprints. It was not on the stairs, nor was it in Miss Merson’s hand. Puzzled, I caught sight of my shadow against the wall. The knife was jutting out of my back. I touched it with my fingers – but I did not pull it out. I’d bleed to death in minutes if I did that.

  “Mary!” I shouted. “Mary!”

  I was an atheist – but I prayed she would wake up and hear me.

  *

  I awoke in a hospital ward a fortnight later – guarded by a police officer. Mary was there. She told me what she had done to save me. She had found me on the stairs almost dead, though I had no memory of that happening. Wisely, she had not removed the knife from my back. Instead, she had hurried to the village to get a doctor. While I was unconscious, the local police had found Kugarov’s body in the woods and the bloodied handkerchief among Miss Merson’s belongings, connecting her to the crime. They had also found her notebook, which had proved to them she had intended to impersonate Mary. A detective was with Mary. He asked me a few questions about my attacker. I told him Miss Merson had attacked me when I had grown concerned about Mary’s sudden illness. “I wanted to call a doctor – but Miss Merson did not want me to do that. I was going to do it anyway – which was probably why she attacked me.”

  “We found laudanum in her possessions,” the detective told me. “I believe she slipped it into your niece’s tea to render her susceptible to suggestion. Miss Merson wanted to steal her identity so she could rob her.”

  “That’s terrible,” I said.

  “It is fortunate you were there,” he said. “You are a hero, sir.”

  The dullard had no idea I was Moriarty when he said goodbye and left me alone with Mary. She sat by my bed and squeezed my hand. “Oh, Uncle, I was so worried. The doctors told me you nearly died. How are you feeling?”

  I had no pain – but something was wrong with me. I read that in Mary’s concerned expression. There were tears on her cheeks. I tried sitting up – but I could not move my legs.

  “My legs are numb. What is wrong with me, Mary?”

  She hesitated before answering. “The knife injured your spine. The Swiss doctors are not sure if you will be able to walk again. They think you will be paralysed below the waist.”

  I stared down my body at my immobile legs.

  Mary was crying. “But I believe you will recover! I will take you back to England, where you can see the best doctors in the world. I have already hired a nurse to look after you until you are well again, Uncle. And even if the paralysis is permanent, I will be there for you.”

  The nurse brought in a wicker wheelchair. It looked like a prison – but I looked at Mary, who was waiting for my reaction.

  I smiled. “I love a new challenge,” I said.

  John Moralee © 2015

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