by David Marcum
“Darling, I’m sorry,” he said to his sister, as tears welled in her eyes.
“I didn’t want to believe them, brother!”
“Lestrade, we have your man,” said Holmes. Mr. Daines looked confused, as all his elaborate planning to see his sister take the spot lot foiled around him. In the coming months, not only would his actions end up ruining his life, but they would also ruin her career simply by association.
“Come now, Mr. Daines, you’re coming with us,” said Lestrade, taking them man by the arm and escorting him out of 221b Baker Street. His sister followed sobbing behind.
“Mr. Holmes, I can’t thank you enough,” said Mademoiselle Dipin.
“It was my pleasure to assist.”
“As to your fee...” she insisted.
“Why don’t you treat Watson and me to your next performance, when your foot has healed.” She smiled and nodded cheerfully. She grabbed Holmes by the hands and squeezed.
“Until next time,” said I. She touched my arm and made her way out. When she had left, Holmes walked over to the window and looked out at the street below.
“You surprise me, Watson,» said he.
“Why is that?”
“She was a splendid woman, as far as women go. I gave you plenty of opportunities to be in her presence without me.”
“I don’t understand?” said I.
“I thought you would have invited her for meal. I liked her better than the last.”
“Good gracious, man. Were you trying to arrange something between us then?” He smiled, reached for his pipe and lit it. A few puffs and smoke lifted from the cherrywood pipe.
“Maybe we’ll find you a wife with one of these cases.”
The Deadly Soldier
by Summer Perkins
Someone was trying to kill him. Of that, Professor James Moriarty was certain. For three nights now he’d seen the shadow of a man standing outside his Conduit Street residence. The man stood just out of the way of the gas lamps that lined the street, so only the long silhouette of him was discernable in the light.
When a carriage passed by, it disrupted the play of light on the cobblestones, throwing the shadow into long contrast against the walkway to Moriarty’s home, as if the shadow itself was an insidious beast, lengthening and reaching out to take Moriarty within its grasp.
However, Moriarty was a scientist and believed in nothing of the terror to be found in beasts and shadows. He was rational above all else, and though his pursuer had been careful to keep his face well hidden, his unmoving, attentive posture was that of an army man.
Moriarty had no personal quarrels with Her Majesty’s Army, nor had he recently done business with anyone who had a bone to pick with a man from the service, which made him conclude that this man had been hired by someone else altogether.
While in the practice of thinking, and especially when puzzling over some incredibly intricate piece of mathematics or trying to decide in just such a way how he would deliver a certain client’s request, he had taken to pacing long, sure strides along the floor of his library. The movement of his legs helped energise his brain, and occasionally his fingers would twitch about the window coverings, pulling them back to view the city’s comings and goings.
It was a pity that the gas lamps gave off too much light to accurately see the stars; the view of such a thing would have settled his mind much more than watching the scurrying to-and-fro of the citizens of London as they rode by in hansom cabs or walked arm in arm as lovers - all inconsequential to him, like so many ants upon a hill.
Yet, the stars were obscured from him, so he contented himself with stalking his rooms, thinking and watching. It was during just such an evening days ago that he’d first noticed that shadow of the man standing too still and purposefully ensconced in darkness.
The sight had amused Moriarty; for if the man had been sent to watch him, he’d have a long evening ahead of himself indeed, as the professor had no plans to leave his home that evening.
By the time he’d risen the next morning, the spot on the sidewalk where the man had stood was vacant, and while not putting the situation out of his mind, he filed it away carefully to be recalled if need be, though he had far more important things to think about than mysterious men standing on sidewalks.
Yet the long shadow of the man was back the very next night, and then again the next. Moriarty had noticed him again in one of his pacing turns about his library when he’d pulled aside the curtain to imperiously view his little spot of earth.
As he stood with black silk curtains still grasped in one hand and in full view of the window, he imagined the man must be stalking him, and perhaps compiling information upon his whereabouts to present to a third party. Then Moriarty noticed the silver glint of a gun as it was aimed and oh, wasn’t that just the thing to spice up a dreary evening?
Moriarty was a tall man, nearing fifty, though slender as a matchstick with viper-fast reflexes. The very sight of the gun had sent off the impulse in him to duck before his conscious mind had caught up, and rightly so - his pursuer fired once, then twice, straight through the window.
The glass gave way with a powerful crack and shatter, raining down upon him in slivers like razor-sharp snowflakes. Moriarty, flat on his stomach, face pressed into the dull pattern of the Persian rug that carpeted his library, pulled himself away from the window, not risking raising his head to look out. He scuttled further into the room to reach his own weapon.
Despite being a man of books and cunning, it would be folly of him to not carry a piece for these such very reasons. In the decade since he’d got into his particular brand of criminal acts, he’d made a laundry list of enemies, and attempts on his life had run the gamut from poisoned tea to an attempted kidnapping. Though the latter had been botched from the start and ended rather abruptly when, having been tied to a chair and threatened with the red hot tip of a fire poker, he calmly inquired to the man holding if it he was going to attempt to burn the soul from him. He’d wondered aloud if such a thing were possible if he were lacking a soul to begin with.
Whether it was his perfectly calm demeanor at the question, as if they were discussing something of no more importance than the weather over tea, or the fact that the pupils of Moriarty’s eyes were coal black and betrayed no fear, he found the poker being dropped and his kidnapper backing away, muttering something about “This ain’t worth it - the crazy bastard,” under his breath. At the time, he’d laughed.
He laughed again, crawling across his floor three hours after sunset with broken glass crunching under his knees and the elbows of his jacket. The laugh was a low, unholy rumble, mad and lacking in any real mirth. It was a laugh that cautioned you’ll be sorry. He got to his knees when he reached his piano, deft fingers feeling across the wooden seat, finding the catch underneath. Once opened, he lifted up the false bottom to unearth an opening the length of the seat in which he kept a loaded rifle.
Outside he heard voices. There had been shrieks at the shot and the tramping of feet - probably someone running to call a constable. He lived in too respectable a neighbourhood not to warrant the concern of the police when something as alarming as gunshots occurred.
How disappointing. I’d have liked to deal with him himself, Moriarty mused from his crouched position; his long spindly fingers still wrapped around the handle of the gun aimed directly at his window. He only stood once he’d heard an authoritative voice call, “Is there anyone inside?” with the accompanying light from a shining torch.
He rose in a fluid, near-serpentine movement, lowering his gun slightly - though not all the way in case the soldier was only pretending to be police - and took stock of his own countenance. His jacket and trousers were rumpled from his abrupt movements and a fine layer of white dust coated the dark garments. This he immediately tried to brush from his clothing, disliking the way it
marred the fabric.
His features, too, he schooled into the look of bewildered apprehension he assumed the situation called for, his brow furrowing, eyes widening slightly. His lips, already a rather thin slash in his face, going even thinner with faux fear. By the time the constable peered in at him through the window, Moriarty was playing his part quite well.
“Alright in there, sir?” the constable inquired, reaching in through the broken glass of the window with his torch to widen the gap in the curtains. As his ruddy looking face came further into view, Moriarty lowered his gun completely and abandoned it on the closed piano bench, giving a nod.
“Quite alright now,” he assured the policeman. “Though those gunshots were indeed a shock. Would you like to come in?”
The officer nodded his agreement and Moriarty crossed the room to let him in the front door. He showed the man into the library where the assault had taken place.
After a cursory glance around the room, both men’s eyes followed the trajectory of the bullets, both of which were lodged into the spines of books upon Moriarty’s shelf opposite the window. One had even pierced the spine of his own work, Dynamics of an Asteroid, and oh, whoever this shooter was would pay dearly for that.
“Do you have any idea who might want you dead?” the constable inquired, head tilted up to look into Moriarty’s eyes.
Moriarty pretended to pause momentarily, as if to consider the question before replying in the negative. “I’m afraid not. I don’t have any enemies as far as I’m aware. I suppose this means you weren’t able to apprehend the suspect?”
The constable shook his head. “The ruffian must’ve fled the scene before I arrived.”
“Pity, that.”
Again, the constable glanced around, taking in the opulence of the room. Though Moriarty’s upper-class residence wasn’t out of place in Westminster, he did own rather a large collection of both ancient and new texts, not to mention a nice looking piano and a telescope in the corner of the room.
“Could be a thwarted robbery,” the constable mused. “That wouldn’t be uncommon in a neighbourhood like this. Thieves prey upon the wealthy.”
Moriarty suppressed an eye roll. A thief, this assailant was not, nor could he imagine there being much call for astronomy books and scientific apparatuses to fence on the black market.
His gaze once again drew to the bullet holes. Judging by their relative height, the first shot would’ve struck him square in the chest had he not ducked, and the second was likely the assailant’s second attempt to get him before he hit the floor. The fact that the man had got off two quick shots in succession like that spoke of his experience, which further bolstered Moriarty’s suspicion that the man responsible had a military background.
The constable pulled him out of his musings by speaking once more. “I could have some of my boys do a patrol of your street if you’d like, to make sure he doesn’t come back.”
“No, no,” Moriarty waved the suggestion away. “I’m sure I’ll be perfectly alright here.” He did have use for a police officer, but he’d already had one in his employ who understood the sort of business he conducted. “If I have further need for the police, I’ll speak with Inspector Turner at the CID.”
The constable’s brows rose nearly to his hairline at the mention of the name. “Oh sure, of course, sir. I didn’t know you were friends with the higher ups.”
Moriarty just gave him a tight nod, growing bored and impatient with the constable’s dull, bumbling presence, and crossed the room, opening his front door swiftly for him in an effective dismissal.
That night Moriarty was unable to sleep. The boarded up window marred the perfection of his library, looking crude and out of place, like a scar marring otherwise perfect skin. He shut the curtains to block it from view, but even having retired to his bedroom, he still could not rest for knowing it was there, so back down to the library he went, resuming his pacing. Upon every turn of his heel he glared at the window, eyes narrowed and full of simmering fury that doubled with each passing hour.
At the first light of dawn, he decided he could wait no longer to leave the house. He’d go to Clapham and see Andrew Turner right away.
Turner had been a former client of his. At the time, the up and coming constable had been aiming for the job of detective and it had come down to he and another man in the end. The other man, a Mr. Charles Woodlite, had at least a decade in age on Turner, and had been working as a constable a handful of years longer. That was where Moriarty had come in. At Turner’s behest, Moriarty had arranged for Woodlite to be struck by a runaway carriage, killing him and leaving Turner as the only available candidate for the job.
Moriarty had been pleased to take on work for a member of the police and had waved away payment, telling him instead that if the time arose when Moriarty needed his particular services, he would call upon him. That had been a good eight months back, and they’d thus far parted ways without any contact, though with the attempt on his life, Moriarty now saw need for him.
When he came to the row house in which Turner lived, he gave three solemn raps on the door, and then waited a few moments before repeating the action when he heard no movement from within.
He imagined Turner and his family were still asleep upstairs, though that was no concern of his. He needed a job done and he expected his wishes to be attended to posthaste.
Finally, the door opened, revealing a sleep-rumpled Turner, his short blond hair tousled and sticking up on end. He was still in pyjamas and a plain navy blue cotton dressing gown, the sash of which he was still tying as he opened the door.
Upon seeing Moriarty, his posture immediately changed, eyes widening first in recognition, then apprehension, back straightening as though he were a marionette whose strings had suddenly been jerked. “Professor...” he trailed off, seemingly at a loss, before swallowing thickly. When he spoke again, his voice was hushed. “It’s early, what can I do for you?”
Moriarty made no mention of the time, though he was pleased to see the immediate deference and subtle hint of fear Turner gave off at the sight of him. “You can invite me in, for a start.”
Immediately, Turner stepped back, allowing Moriarty into his home. “Can I get you anything?” he asked. “Tea?” He hesitated and added, “My wife and child are still asleep upstairs,” by way of explanation for his lowered voice.
Moriarty took no care to lower his own tone, speaking instead in the same cold commanding note as ever. “No tea. This isn’t a social call. We have business to discuss.”
“Right.” Turner nodded, his Adam’s Apple bobbing again as he swallowed apprehensively, taking Moriarty’s coat and hat before leading him into a sparsely decorated parlour. He immediately set about starting a fire in the fireplace while he beckoned Moriarty to take a seat on the sofa. “What can I do for you?”
Moriarty perched on the edge of the sofa, noticing the stitching worn threadbare in places. His lip curled up in a sneer of distaste, the lack of sleep he’d suffered only serving to make him all the more impatient and demanding. He explained the events of the previous evening in few words before arriving at the point of his visit. “I believe my assailant will try again. I’ll need you to tail me over the next few days and keep an eye out for anyone else who might be doing the same.”
He spoke the words to Turner’s back, watching him stoke the fire with a poker before the man finally stood, turning to face Moriarty again. “Have you filed a report on it? I could try my best to get assigned to your case.”
Moriarty’s head swiveled on his neck, turning from one side to the other slowly, as if to stretch his muscles, though his eyes never left Turner’s. It gave the appearance of a snake sizing up a rodent it was about to devour. “I’m not interested in filing a report,” he answered at length, his tone clipped. “When my pursuer is apprehended, I’ll not be handing him over to the pol
ice. I’d far prefer to deal with him myself.”
The threat within those words were unmistakable, and Turner, of anyone, should know just what sort of things Moriarty did when he’d decided to deal with someone on his own terms. Turner nodded again, though he still looked unsure, his hands toying once more with the sash of his dressing gown. “Westminster isn’t in my division. I’m not allowed to patrol whichever part of London I choose. Perhaps there is something else I could-”
Moriarty had heard enough and cut him off before he was able to get another word out. “The man pursuing me is clearly dangerous. Is it not your job to make London a safer place for all citizens?” he inquired. “With a wife and child, I’d imagine you’d want our streets to be free of murderers.”
Turner swallowed again. “I-”
“It’s just that it would be a shame,” Moriarty continued smoothly, as if the Inspector hadn’t spoken, “if something were to happen to your child. An infant girl, am I correct? Rebecca.” He hummed the name out, a slow smile spreading his severe, bloodless lips even thinner.
Colour bloomed high on Turner’s cheeks; anger and fear making him gawp at Moriarty wordlessly for a moment, before he reached up to run a shaking hand through his unkempt hair. “I - I can start as soon as you need me to.”
“Glad to hear you’ve come around to the idea. Get dressed, Inspector. You have a long day ahead of you.”
Moriarty’s pursuer was more intelligent than he’d originally given him credit, because after employing Turner to tail him, he saw neither hide nor hair of anyone following him or acting suspiciously.
He would have assumed the soldier had given it up as a bad job now that Moriarty had an Inspector watching out for him, if not for the fact that the last three men he’d had appointments with had turned up murdered.