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

‘What is this?’ I asked.

‘Originally, Venic of Melchester’s hideaway. Recently, put back in use. Look…’

Iron animal cages were at present empty, gnawed animal bones strewn in the straw. Drinking bowls bore the marks of chewing. Posts set in the ground had iron rings and shackles.

‘Red Shuck’s lair,’ Moriarty said. ‘Here, our demon has been trained to viciousness. Here, he has been reddened…’

Under a tarpaulin, we found brushes and pots of dye.

‘He?’

I counted six cages.

‘Strictly speaking, they.’

I saw spoor on the dirt. Not the fantastic, elongated, claw-toed prints of the plaster cast, but tracks I was more familiar with. I’d seen enough in the snows of the Steppe.

‘Wolf,’ I said.

‘White wolf,’ concurred Moriarty. ‘Large, not inexpensive. Imported from the Russias. I made enquiries with the usual importers of exotic animals about recent purchases of unusual canines. As a professional courtesy, Singapore Charlie was forthcoming. You know the Lord of Strange Deaths’ fondness for spiders and such…’

I did — though that’s not a story I want to go into now, or indeed ever.

‘Some months ago, a customer paid cash for six white wolves, giving the name “Pagan Sorrow”. Wolf fur is prized, but I fear dye makes these pelts unsaleable.’

‘Except to Stoke. He’ll be happy with fox-red tails, just so long as Red Shuck is brought down.’

Moriarty nodded in agreement.

‘It’s not just Red Shuck, though. Someone — this “Pagan Sorrow” — whistled up the doggies and sicced ’em on Stoke…’ I continued.

‘Indeed.’

‘And tricked up the plaster cast? To sell the Red Shuck story?’

‘Quite so.’

‘Cunning bastard!’

Moriarty shrugged, allowing a neatness to the scheme.

‘Moriarty, if these cages are empty… where are the wolves?’

The Professor looked at me. ‘I’m sure we shall find them before they find us.’

With that comforting thought, we were on our way again.

XV

Outside Trantridge Hall we found Dan’l, standing guard, Gertie at the ready.

‘Saul said you wuz done for. Et by a dog demon.’

‘Saul’s not the first and won’t be the last to report my death. He’s alive then?’

‘Came back in a state. Said hounds of Hell were after him.’

‘So they were.’ I noted the plural.

Inside, we found the company in the dining room. A Guy Fawkes’ Night bonfire roared and spit on the huge grate. A carved, bloody side of beef was hacked to the bone on a platter. Stoke, drunk and affrighted, sunk in an armchair. Mod, in a scarlet satin dress, poured for the Master. Braham paced in front of the fire. Thring stood by, with a trolley of bottles fetched up from the cellar.

Saul, it seems, had gone early to bed after an exhausting day.

Mod swarmed up at me in a froth of concern.

‘Sebastian,’ she cooed, ‘it’s such a relief you are living! We thought you’d perished in The Chase. Another victim of the Curse of the d’Urbervilles.’

‘No, that was Nakszynski.’

She touched my bandaged head and kissed my cheek.

‘You’ve been heroically wounded. Who did those splints for you? I’ll change them properly. You’ll take brandy, of course. And supper.’

I warmed under the spell of feminine attentions. Mod cocked her head, as if only just noticing I was not unaccompanied.

‘This is Professor Moriarty,’ I said. ‘My associate.’

She curtseyed and extended a hand which the Prof did not take. He sized Mod up with a single watery-eyed glare.

Moriarty distrusted and disliked women. I only distrust them.

‘Moriarty and Moran — f-kload of use you’ve been,’ blustered Stoke from the depths of his chair. ‘Nakszynski’s dead, and the dog’s not.’

Moriarty looked at our client.

‘You will have your pelt,’ he assured the craven sot. ‘But, first, Mr — Derby is it? — would you fetch down the portrait which hangs above the mantelpiece? The one on the left. Yes, the fellow in the armour. I wish to examine it…’

Braham was surprised to be so addressed.

‘Are you sure?’ he responded. ‘It’s a dirty, ugly thing.’

‘If I were not sure, I would not make the request. Now, in the name of your Master, please comply.’

In his sozzled fug, Stoke gave a shoulder hitch which indicated his manager should follow Moriarty’s orders.

‘It’s Sir Pagan Plantagenet d’Urberville,’ said Mod to the Professor. ‘Last night, Parson Tringham told us…’

Moriarty waved her silent. She pouted, but recovered.

Braham carried a tall-backed chair close to the fire and stood on it. He had to stretch to heft the picture off its hooks. Flames licked at his trousers. He wobbled on the chair, finding his burden unwieldy. Sticky canvas parted from the frame in a curl.

‘Careful, you shitbird,’ shouted Stoke. ‘That’s my f--ing property!’

Braham stopped the music hall comedy turn and deliberately chucked the picture onto the fire. He reached into his jacket and pulled a pistol.

Making the most expensive left-hand shot of my life, I plugged Braham under the chin. Silver ploughed up through his skull. The top of his head spattered over Uncle Si’s portrait. Braham dropped like a liquid turd from a loose-bowelled elephant.

I assumed my chances with his sister were up the chimney.

Moving fast, Moriarty fetched the picture off of the fire and laid it on the table. He blotted out flames with a napkin.

Mod had her hand in her mouth, stopping a scream.

Braham lay where he fell. No point even checking to see if he was dead. Still, I kicked his gun out of his hand, into a far corner of the room.

Stoke tried to focus. Dan’l hurried in, summoned by the shot.

Thring squeaked and ran. I drew a bead on his back as he made for the kitchen door.

‘Let him go,’ Moriarty said, still concerned with the painting. ‘The butler has nothing to do with it.’

The Professor took the peeled-up corner of the portrait, then ripped the canvas from the frame. Pagan Plantagenet’s picture had been glued over the portrait of a handsome, weak-faced young man.

‘Remind you of anyone?’ asked the Professor.

The hair was dark — otherwise, it was Saul Derby to the life.

This had to be Simon’s son and intended heir, the rake who was too stupid not to turn his back on a woman when a knife happened to be within easy reach.

I felt a sharp pain in my back. Craning around, I saw a meat fork stuck out of my left shoulder. It had been pulled from the beef and put into me. Mod, less solicitous of my health than before, twisted the fork. Pain ran down my arm. My revolver fell from nerveless fingers.

I was no longer in a position to sneer at the late Alexander Stoked’Urberville.

From the foyer, a whistle sounded.

The doors opened. In walked Saul Derby, accompanied by four wolves. The pack trotted in step with him — big mouths open, spit-ropes hanging from fangs, eyes bright, fur thick with reddle and gore.

One animal broke ranks and loped over to Braham to lick salty mess from his head. Saul whistled, sharply. The wolf sat up, alert.

Sauntering as if he owned the Hall, pets matching his pace, Saul came to the table. He admired the portrait as if looking in a flattering mirror. Then, he took notice of the picture’s discoverer.

‘Professor Moriarty, I presume,’ he said, mildly.

Moriarty nodded and responded ‘…and you are “Pagan Sorrow”. Sorrow Durbeyfield.’

Saul regarded the Prof with admiration.

‘You could call yourself Sorrow Clare, if you took your mother’s married name,’ continued Moriarty. ‘Or claim the name and estates of your father, variously called Alexander Stoke, Stoke-d’Urberville or plain d’Urberville.’