Kim Newman - Professor Moriarty The Hound of the D'Urbervilles

Moriarty’s facial tendons were tight as leather drum skin dried in the sun, making his face a skull-mask rictus of glee. His eyes lit up like Chinese lanterns. I’d wager every muscle in the old ascetic’s stringy body was tight with sordid pleasure. He got like that when he had his way. Other fellahs might pop a bottle of fizz or nip down to Mrs H.’s for a turn with a trollop, but the Professor just went into these brain-spasms of evil ecstasy.

Huxley left the hall in disgust, followed by a dignified procession. Some of his colleagues, perhaps pettier, stayed to jeer. The draper’s clerk poked his head in, and asked if he’d missed anything.

‘Wait, don’t leave,’ Stent said, vainly. He viciously pressed a stud on his copper tube. No one caught fire. ‘There’s danger in disbelief. The Marsians are coming! You fools, you must listen. If you don’t support me, you’re next! They’re here! The Marsians are among us!’

At that moment, Moriarty gave a signal.

Our people stood up in their seats — one or two were stationed ‘backstage’ — and lobbed struggling missiles at Stent. Out of water, the squid didn’t last long — but they fought hard, as Polly and I can bear witness, getting tentacles around something convenient and squeezing madly while internal pressure blew them up like balloons. It was a sight to see, but most of the paying customers were gone.

A volley of squid fell upon Stent. He yelled and slipped, knocking over the lectern. Tentacles wound around his legs, his waist, one hand. A squid fixed to his lower face like a mask, beak thrust into his mouth in a ghastly kiss, shutting off his screams. Plastered with vampyroteuthis, he threw a full-on fit, back arching, limbs twitching. Eventually, attendants came and pried burst, dead creatures off him.

Arronax tried to lodge a protest at this mistreatment of rare specimens, but slipped into French to do it and was properly ignored. There are idiot Englishwomen (of both sexes) who would be generally happier to see children whipped, starved, laughed at, shot and mounted in the Moran den than brook any abuse of their ‘furry or feathered friends’ — but it was a rare crank, like Pop-eyed Pierre, who gave two hoots for anything with tentacles and a beak.

With all our wriggling shots fired, the Professor gave the nod — and our picked men melted into the crowds, well paid and frankly little the wiser for tonight’s business. When Moriarty handed over coin and told you to bowl a squid at an astronomer, your wisest course was to ask ‘over-arm or roundarm?’ and get on with play.

As a strait-waistcoat was strapped around him, Stent begged for an infusion of Dr T.’s. He had the shakes, the sweats and the abdabs at the same time. All his strings were cut.

It so happened that the director of Purfleet Asylum — a far less pleasing official residence than Flamsteed — was in the audience, and well positioned to take the babbling madman off Lady Caroline’s hands. I think she had papers already drawn up, assuming control of all Sir Nevil’s estates and monies. Being the second daughter of an Earl doesn’t come with much ready cash, but getting hold of the Stent fortune would do her for a while. I made a note to look her up.

The Astronomer Royal was carried from Burlington House, strapped to a stretcher.

We lingered in the imposing hallway, lined with portraits of past presidents. The attendants paused for a moment. Moriarty leaned over his now-broken nemesis.

Stent’s eyes rolled upwards. His cheeks were striped red and dotted with horribly familiar sucker marks. He tried to focus on the face looming over him, the thin-lipped leering countenance of the author of The Dynamics of an Asteroid.

‘I have, I think, made my point,’ said Professor Moriarty. ‘And you, Stent, have finally learned your lesson.’

I

As I entered our reception room, a slicing noise alerted me. A stick slashed at my head. I arrested its arc with a quick grab. As part of an unending ‘testing process’, Moriarty often tried to catch associates off guard. Some, not having my jungle-honed instincts, got broken heads.

I let the cane go and the Prof handed it to me.

Some lackwit had called while we weren’t in. Mrs Halifax had turfed him out, but he’d left his stick behind. That foul October, London was full of fools tapping through vile, yellow fog. Angry blighters collided at every corner and laid about each other like Italian duellists. Pickpockets left watches, but snatched canes.

‘Moran, what can you deduce about the owner of this item?’

Moriarty had picked up a craze for deductions. Don’t know where he got it from. Don’t bloody care. When I met him, he was set against guessing games. Still, when he was in a mood for ratiocination, it was best to humour him.

‘Apart from that he’s a forgetful sod, you mean?’

The Prof leered at my pleasantry.

I paced, swinging the stick, deliberately just missing scientific implements, pots of inestimable value and souvenirs of crimes past. Moriarty hissed as prized fetishes were in peril. Served him right for the blasted ‘testing process’. I seldom miss a shot, but confess I’ve sometimes missed just missing. A stuffed dodo under glass wobbled. Moriarty’s eyes glowed like wreckers’ lights. I stopped larking.

The stick was a specimen of the ‘Calcutta Clobberer’ or ‘Chicago Good-Night’. A decent heft, solid lead handle and longer than usual. It had seen hard use. Stains dried to black; I knew my night-work — fresh, they’d been red.

I spouted my deductions.

‘I should say this belongs to a chap who makes a habit of dashing the brains out of puppies, breaking the shins of beggars and throwing his weight around. A right bastard, I’ll be bound. Oh, and taller than the average. Does that cover it?’

Moriarty’s head craned from side to side. ‘As it happens, our prospective client’s legitimacy is in dispute.’

Hah! A client.

That wasn’t much of a deduction. Visitors to our Conduit Street HQ either wanted a consultation or were dragged squealing into Mrs Halifax’s basement with a flour sack over their heads. In basement cases, I’d often use my favourite cane — a flexible, steel-cored ‘house prefect’s coach-whip’, relic of cherished boyhood days. Many conversations flow better if punctuated with thwacks.

‘Anyone we know?’ I asked.

Moriarty flicked a calling card at me, putting spin on it. As I bent down to pick it up, he showed teeth in a mirthless gurn.

JASPER STOKE, TRANTRIDGE, WESSEX.

In a long life spent at gaming tables, in brothels, up mountains and in the bush, I’ve gained valuable insights into human nature. Anyone called ‘Jasper’ is an arrogant, untrustworthy scoundrel. Anyone called ‘Cedric’ is liable to be worse. And anyone called ‘Piers’ should be shot on sight. Don’t say you’ve never learned anything from my memoirs, for these are True Facts.

In the criminous line, arrogant, untrustworthy scoundrels might be valued customers. The Prof’s reputation for ingenious mercilessness convinces Jaspers and Cedrics to modify their habits in one particular. Your slick wastrel thinks nought of running up sky-high tabs on the never-never with tradesmen. However, the most unreliable gadabout — even a Piers — understands that a bill from Professor Moriarty must be settled to the farthing the instant it falls due. Otherwise, the flour sack and the Eton whip are but the beginning of a hard education.

‘Wessex,’ I spat. ‘Been through it on a train a time or two. Sheep-shagger country. Nothing worth shooting except wild ponies and potty parsons. Can’t say I’ve heard of Jasper Stoke. Is Trantridge a village or a house?’