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

‘In daylight, Braham grew back his balls and concluded a fox or a weasel was the guilty party. Maybe a fox and a weasel, working together. Nasty critters, foxes and weasels. I ordered new wire fences around the coops, stouter timbers… and restocked the place. No fox-weasel is going to fright me off my land. I got more of the Red Shuck story from Lazy-Eye Jack and Mod. It isn’t happenstance Trantridge Hall got raided and howled at. This was direct challenge to me and my position.

‘Next night, there was howling again… further off from the house. I’d set night-guards, but they didn’t see anything. I was all for charging into The Chase and killing whatever and whoever was behind the racket. Again, I was cautioned against this. After a moment, I saw Braham’s right and I’m wrong. Not because a demon dog is waiting in the clearing where wicked Sir Pagan was devoured… but because I knew this was a trick to draw me into the wild woods where I could be done away with in such manner a ghost can take the blame. No law’s ever hanged a ghost. So, I insisted we all go back to bed and ignore the rumuckus. I personally had a fine night’s sleep.

‘Next morning, one of the tenants, Git Priddle, was missing some sheep who’d bled a deal before being fetched off, but that’s his problem. Payment was still due and, after the Albino knocked Priddle about a bit, was forthcoming. I know there is subterfuge round Trantridge and still suspect a red hand in it, though Venn hasn’t been sighted since he took his back-stripes. I took advantage of the rent-collection round to have the estate entirely searched, prying into every barn and pen to conduct a census of livestock necessary for the accounts, and to see if anyone, or any creature, is concealed. We turned up beasts scurvy tenants were keeping off the rolls and clipped ears with wirecutters to discourage the practice. I’m in two minds about Git Priddle’s famous black ram, which strikes me as more likely in hiding than done for, but it didn’t show up. No trace of the reddleman either. And no Red Shuck.

‘By day, I had The Chase searched, though that’s the definition of futile endeavour. Next night, last of the full moon, I thought to get ahead of Red Shuck and frame my own trap. Leaving the Hall and grounds unguarded would be too obvious, so I had the boys sit up after dark, complaining loudly at the inconvenience, then slope off in the small hours as if shirking duty. Trick of it was that, well before sundown, without letting anyone else in on it, Lazy-Eye secreted himself by the coops under a blanket of twigs and leaves which makes him look, even smell, like a garbage heap. The old Injun fighter can lay still for days if need be. Among the aliases on his ”Wanted — Dead or Alive“ poster is “Ambush Jack”. He had orders to shoot any c--sucker who showed face on the grounds. That night, there was no howling. I figured Ambush Jack trumps Red Shuck…

‘Lazy-Eye wasn’t at his post the next morning. His blanket was flung aside and tracks led into The Chase. Dan’l and I set out after him. Trail was plain even in the early morning mist. When we found Jack, in a clearing, he wasn’t yet dead. Blood bubbled out of his throat. Air whistled through a hole. He died without saying anything. His holster was empty. We found the gun yards away, still in his hand — Jack’s hand wasn’t on the end of his arm any more. I’m no tracker, but I could tell something’s been about from the broken bushes and trampled grass. In soft earth, we found this…’

From his coat pocket, Stoke produced an object wrapped in a red scarf. He passed it to Moriarty, who unwound the scarf.

‘Your department, I think, Moran,’ he said, and tossed it over.

I’d seen similar things. It was a plaster of Paris impression of a pawprint, or at least a dent in the ground made by something shaped like a big animal’s foot. From the shape, the print was dog or a wolf, but the span suggested something the size of tiger or rhino.

‘The detail which springs out of the foolishness of the legend,’ continued Stoke, ‘is that Red Shuck persecutes d’Urbervilles whenever one of the family is “a tyrant or villain”. I’m not given to the vice of self-deception. My tenants view me as tyrant and villain. If that’s their comfort, fine. So long as they work and pay and bow and scrape. My plan for Trantridge depends on me being tyrant and villain. My conviction, from study of German economics, is that what was once categorised as tyrannical and villainous is, in modern times, respectable and even necessary. That aside, it’s my personal whim to play tyrant and villain. As Master of Trantridge, it is my lawful right. This is why I have brought my business to you…’

Moriarty nodded.

‘Red Shuck may be a phantom and a fraud, but it’s killed my top boy. I can’t let that go. Word about Lazy-Eye Jack spread over the county afore noon. And suddenly everyone’s talking up that damned Red Shuck. Already, Trantridgers grumble about paying rents and following orders. A few beatings, and even a barn-burning, and they’re still not trodden down enough. They whisper that Venic of Melchester has come back in demon dog form to serve me as he served wicked Sir Pagan. This interferes with my affairs, do you understand? My position depends on the exercise of terror. By me, not against me. When I walk about, peasants must crap their britches. They must be in mind of Diggory Venn’s bloody back, or Git Priddle’s black eye, or the Kail lad’s clipped ear, or the poorhouse hells they’ll fetch up in if I turn them off the land. I cannot be seen to be afraid. I cannot be struck at without returning the blow tenfold. I had it from an old-time Georgia overseer: if one slave runs, hang ten. Most don’t have the salt for it, not least because the ones you hang are your own property and their worth comes off your book. But once you do it, they tend their own pens, keep their own troublemakers in shackle.

‘In Wessex, I might be able to hang a shepherd or two, but ten would be more trouble than they’re worth. So, I pick a family at random, the Balls, and evict ’em, set to wander and beg on the roads and wind up destitute, derelict and, I fervently hope, dead. That’s for Lazy-Eye Jack. But it’s not enough. While the parson’s ghost tale is going round, I can’t press on with my economic plan. So there must be no more bedtime stories, no whispers that New Master will get his comeuppance, not even a hope of deliverance. You understand? The dog must be killed, even if it doesn’t exist. I’ve come to you, Professor, because I need the story killed. Now, can you do that?’

The Professor pondered. Stoke glared intently, playing with his still-glowing cheroot stub.

‘Your problem — though inherently absurd — has features of interest,’ Moriarty said.

I was interested enough by the mention of £5,000 for a pelt.

Stoke let out breath. People aren’t usually relieved when Moriarty involves himself in their affairs, but I suppose it has to happen from time to time.

‘Legends of spectral avengers abound,’ said the Prof, ‘and encourage a persistent fiction that “evil-doers” who, by ingenuity and endeavour, evade human justice must answer to supernatural authority. Such fables are a hindrance to the Calling of Crime. By eliminating your Red Shuck, we chip away at the monument of this myth. I shall accept your commission…’

And the five thousand plums!

‘… and replace the fairy tale of Virtue Triumphant with the brute fact of Wickedness Rewarded. A philosophical — nay, a mathematical — point must be proved. Your problem provides an opportunity to serve the cause of Higher Thought.’

Moriarty read his German economics too. It’s all very well to theorise that wickedness, cruelty, self-interest and the whims of the few overriding the bleats of the many are essential to the furtherance of an efficient, modern society. But, to me, deep-thinkers like Moriarty, Nietzsche and Machiavelli miss an essential truth — it’s a lot of jolly good fun being an ‘evil-doer’. None of these coves seem to relish being a total rotter — though Moriarty, at least, did not confine his evil to theory like some of the windier philosophers. I believe that — in his tiny, shrivelled, eight-months-gone apple of a heart — the Professor got spasms of enjoyment from his crimes, for it’s a sad rogue who strives his life long to increase the miseries of his fellow man without getting at least a warm feeling when he sees others beggared or dumped in unmarked graves on his account. Everyone knows I’m a sentimental soul.