Anthony Horowitz - Moriarty

The man from Scotland Yard paused, his hand clenched around the top of the walking stick. ‘You understand, sir, that I am here following orders given to me by my superiors.’

‘You have my word that I will not interfere in any way.’

The two Swiss policemen were waiting for us. Jones came to a decision and nodded. ‘ Er kommt mit uns.’ He turned to me. ‘You can join us.’

‘I am truly grateful to you,’ I said. ‘And I give you my word that you won’t regret it.’

We left my luggage at the police station and crossed the village, following the main road past a scattering of houses. All the while Jones and Gessner spoke in German, keeping their voices low. At length we arrived at the church of St Michael, a queer little building with its bright red roof and rather top-heavy bell tower. The policemen unlocked the door for us and stood back as we stepped inside. I bowed my head in front of the altar but Inspector Jones, I noticed, did not. We came to a flight of steps leading down to the crypt and he indicated that he wished to continue with me alone. Gessner needed little persuasion: even in the coolness of the church with its thick stone walls, the smell of death was already apparent.

The body was as I have described it. When living, the man who lay stretched out in front of us would have been unusually tall though with stooped shoulders. I could imagine him a librarian or perhaps a lecturer in a university, which, of course, James Moriarty had once been. His clothes, black and old-fashioned, clung to him like seaweed—I fancied they were still wet. There are many ways to die but few leave a nastier imprint on the human frame than drowning. His flesh was heavy and foul. Its colour was hideous to describe.

‘We cannot be certain that this is Moriarty,’ I suggested. ‘You were quite correct when you said that I could not identify him. But can you?’

Jones shook his head. ‘I never set eyes on him. Nor did any of my colleagues. Moriarty lived in the shadows most of his life and made a virtue of it. It is possible that in due course we will be able to find someone who worked with him in his capacity as a professor of mathematics, and be assured that I will set about just such an investigation on my return. For the present, however, I will say this much. The man in front of us is the right age and the clothes he is wearing are undoubtedly English. You see the pocket watch? It is silver-cased and clearly marked, “John Myers of London”. He did not come here for the pleasures of the countryside. He died at the same time as Sherlock Holmes. So I ask you again. Who else can he be?’

‘Has the body been searched?’

‘The Swiss police went through the pockets, yes.’

‘And there was nothing?’

‘A few coins. A handkerchief. Nothing more. What is it you were hoping to find?’

I had been waiting for the question. I did not hesitate. I knew that everything, certainly my immediate future, hung on my answer. Even now I can see us, standing alone in the dark crypt with the body stretched out before us. ‘Moriarty received a letter on the twenty-second or the twenty-third of April,’ I explained. ‘It was written by a criminal very well known to Pinkerton’s, a man in every respect as wicked and as dangerous as Moriarty himself, inviting him to a meeting. Although it would appear that Moriarty is dead, I still hoped I might find it about his person, or if not, then perhaps at his place of residence.’

‘It is this man that interests you and not Moriarty?’

‘He is the reason I am here.’

Jones shook his head. ‘Sergeant Gessner was explaining to me as we came here that the police have already made enquiries and have been unable to discover where Moriarty was staying. He may have established his base in a village nearby but if so he certainly used an assumed name. There is nowhere outside here that we can search. What makes you think he might have this letter on him?’

‘Perhaps I’m grasping at straws,’ I said. ‘No, I’ll admit it. I am grasping at straws. But the way these people work… sometimes they use signs and symbols as a method of identification. The letter itself could become a passport—and if so, Moriarty would have kept it close.’

‘If you wish, we can examine him one more time.’

‘I think we must.’

It was a grisly task. The body, cold and waterlogged, felt utterly inhuman in our hands and as we turned it, we could almost feel the flesh separating itself from the bones. The clothes were slimy. Reaching into the jacket, I found the shirt had been rucked back and my hand briefly came into contact with dead, white skin. Although there had been no prior arrangement between us, I concentrated on the upper part of the body while Jones busied himself with the lower. Just like the police before us, we found nothing. The pockets were empty. If they had contained anything more than the few items Jones had mentioned, the rushing waters of the Reichenbach Falls must have brutally ripped them away. We worked in silence. Finally, I reeled away, the gorge rising in my throat.

‘There is nothing,’ I said. ‘You were right. It was a waste of time.’

‘One moment.’ Jones had seen something. He reached out and took hold of the dead man’s jacket, examining the stitching around the breast pocket.

‘I’ve looked,’ I said. ‘There’s nothing there.’

‘Not the pocket,’ Jones said. ‘Look at this seam. This stitching has no business being here. I think it has been added later.’ He rubbed the fabric between his fingers. ‘There might be something inside the lining.’

I leaned forward. He was right. A line of stitches stretched out a couple of inches below the pocket. ‘I have a knife,’ I said. I took out the jackknife that I always carried with me and handed it to my new friend.

Jones inserted the point into the seam and gently sliced down. I watched as the stitches were cut through and the material came away. There was a secret pocket in the dead man’s jacket—and there was indeed something inside. Jones eased out a folded square of paper. It was still wet and might have disintegrated had he not handled it with the greatest delicacy. Using the flat blade of the knife he laid it on the stone table next to the body. Carefully, he unfolded it, a single page covered in handwriting that could have been a child’s.

We leaned over together. This is what we read:

HoLmES WaS CeRtAiNLY NOt A DIFFiCulT mAn to LiVe WItH. He wAs QuIeT iN HiS WAYs and his hABiTS wErE REgulAr. iT wAs RARE fOR HIm To BE up AfTeR TEN at nighT aND hE hAD INVariABLY breAKfasteD AND GoNE OUT BeFOrE i RoSe in The morNINg. SOMEtImEs He SPeNt hiS DAy At ThE ChEmiCaL lABoRatORY, SoMeTimes IN THE dIsSeCting ROoms And oCcAsionaLly iN lOnG WALKs whICH ApPeAREd TO taKE HIM INtO THE LOwEsT PORTioNs OF thE CITy. nothINg COuld exCEeD HiS ENErgY WHeN tHE wORkING FiT WAs upOn HiM.

If Jones was disappointed, he didn’t show it. But this wasn’t the letter that I had described. It did not seem to be relevant in any way at all.

‘What do you make of it?’ he asked.

‘I… I do not know what to say.’ I read the words a second time. ‘I know this text,’ I continued. ‘Of course I know it. This is part of a narrative written by Dr John Watson. It has been copied from Lippincott’s Magazine!’

‘I think you will find it was actually from Beeton’s Christmas Annual,’ Jones corrected me. ‘It is from Chapter Three of A Study in Scarlet . But that does not make it any the less mysterious. I take it this is not what you expected to find.’

‘It was the last thing I expected.’

‘It is certainly very puzzling. But I have been here long enough. I suggest we retreat from this grim place and fortify ourselves with a glass of wine.’