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

Mrs Halifax reported that Mad Carew was given to noisy spasms of terror. He was losing faith in the Professor’s ability to save his hide. She’d sent Lotus Lei to the basement with a sixpenny opium pipe which would cost the client seven shillings, in the hope that a puff might calm his nerves. However, at the sight of the celestial poppet, the loon took to gibbering, ‘The brown-skin monks of Nepal have slant eyes.’ In the gloom of the basement, Lotus reminded him of the sect sworn to avenge the stolen eye.

‘Funny thing is,’ I remarked. ‘The Chinese are about the only fanatic race we haven’t offended this week.’

‘I considered adding the Sword of Genghis Khan to our shopping list,’ said the Professor. ‘The hordes of Asia will rally to any who wield it, and I know where it can be found. The Si-Fan would certainly view it falling into Western hands as sacrilege. But the tomb in Mongolia would take months to reach. For the moment, it can stay where it is.’

That was a relief. I’ve reasons for not wanting to go back to Mongolia. Under any circumstances. It’s a worse hole than Bognor Regis.

Discarded on the desk were the cartes de visite of Marshall Alaric Molina de Marnac, Don Rafaele Corbucci and Tyrone Mountmain, Bart. A wavy Nepalese dagger lay beside them, gift of the priests of the little yellow god. The Creeper didn’t run to cards, but the broken-backed corpse left on our doorstep in a laundry basket probably served the same function. Runty Reg wouldn’t be at his post from now on. So, I gathered the interested parties all knew their most precious preciouses were arrayed on our sideboard.

‘I trust we’ve reinforcements coming,’ I said.

The Professor arched an eyebrow.

‘This little lot don’t play tiddlywinks,’ I continued. ‘Runty’s liable to be just the first casualty. Consider that stand which has just set up across the road, feller who’s bawling “Get-a ya tutsi-frutsi ice-a cream-a,” could be a noted opera lover dressed in a white hat and apron. The monks soliciting alms for the poor on the corner creak under their robes — steel jerkins and chain mail long-johns. The friends and relations of the Irishmen we handed over to the peelers this lunchtime are drunker and rowdier than usual in the Pillars of Hercules.

‘It’ll be the Battle of Maiwand out there soon. I doubt that Mrs Halifax standing on our doorstep looking stern will keep the blighters out long.’

Moriarty mused, making more calculations.

‘Not quite yet, I think, Moran. Not quite yet. The constituent elements are volatile, but one more is required for combustion. Now, off with you to Kensington to fetch the Jewel of Seven Stars.’

He patted me warmly on the chest — a unique gesture from him, with which I was not entirely comfortable — and disappeared back into his den.

As few men, I had his trust. Which was terrifying.

Outside, I found Chop by his cab, just about to stick his tongue into an ice cornet freshly purchased from the furious Don Rafaele.

‘Don’t eat that,’ I warned, dashing the cornet into the gutter. It fizzed surprisingly.

More than the usual amount of rubbish and rags were in the street. Some of the piles were shifting. I saw glittering eyes in the trash heaps. Our original Nepalese admirers remained foremost among the array of annoyed maniacs which came along with our Crown jewels.

I climbed into the cab, ignoring the gypsy death signs chalked on the doors, and we were away — for more larceny.

XII

The streetlamps were on, burning blue. Autumn fog gathered, swirling yellow. Chop’s cab rattled down Kensington Palace Road, and drew up at a workman’s hut erected beside a grave-sized hole in the gutter. Signs warned of a gas leak. Simon Carne had watched Trelawny House all day from inside the hut. He wore another of his disguises, as an old Irishman he called ‘Klimo’. Dialect humour was superfluous to the simple lookout job, but Carne was committed.

Other residences on the street had stone roaring lions flanking their driveways. Trelawny House favoured an Egyptian motif: sphinxes stood guard at the gate, the columns beside the front door were covered in hieroglyphs, and a pyramid topped the porch.

Carne gave a brief report. This evening, Margaret Trelawny was entertaining. Carriages had come and gone, depositing well-dressed people who took care not to let their faces be seen. Their coaches were of quality, many with their distinctive coats of arms gummed over with black paper. Vaguely musical sounds and rum, spicy smells emanated from the house.

‘I’ve managed to secure an invitation,’ Carne said.

He led me into the hut, where two of our associates sat on a purple-faced fellow who was securely bound and gagged.

‘Isn’t that Henry Wilcox? The colossus of finance?’ I asked.

At mention of his name, Wilcox writhed and purpled further, about to burst blood vessels. Known for sailing close to the wind in his business and personal life, he had just capsized. I kicked him in the middle. When an opportunity to boot the goolies of capital presents itself, only a fool misses it. Karl Marx said that, and it is the only socialist slogan which makes sense to me.

Carne’s men had taken a gilt-edged card bearing the sign of the ram from their captive, and Wilcox’s bag contained a long white robe and a golden mask with curly horns and a sheepish snout.

Obviously, this was my day for fancy dress.

I got into the ridiculous outfit and took the card.

Wilcox protested into his gag. Another kick quieted him.

I climbed back into the cab and Chop made great show of delivering me to the door of Trelawny House.

The knocker was in the shape of a green-eyed serpent. At a rap, the door was opened by a gigantic black prizefighter wearing harem pantaloons. His face and chest were painted gold. I handed over the ram card, which he dropped into a brazier. He stood aside.

I followed the noise and the — slightly intoxicating — smell. Through a hall filled with the usual clutter of elephant’s foot umbrella stands and potted aspidistras gone to seed, down stone steps into a cellar, where scented oil-lamps cast odd shadows. People dressed like silly buggers gyrated to the plinkings of instruments I couldn’t put names to. A proper knees-up.

The large cellar was decorated like an Egyptian tomb. I should say, decorated with an Egyptian tomb. All around were artefacts looted from the burial place of Queen Tera in the Valley of the Sorcerer. Each item cursed seven ways to sunset.

The guests were all of a type with Wilcox. Robes and masks didn’t conceal thick middles, bald pates and liver-spotted, well-manicured hands. Well-to-do and well connected, I judged. Members of Parliament and the Stock Exchange, commanders of manufacturing empires and shipping lines, high officers of the law and the armed forces, princes of the church and our ancient institutions of learning. More money than sense, more power than they knew what to do with.

So, the hostess was working a high-class racket. With marks like these on her lists, Miss Trelawny was well set-up.

Mixed among the robed, masked guests were professional houris of both sexes, immodestly clad in gold paint and little else. They sported Egyptian fripperies: hawk headdresses, golden snake circlets, ankhs and scarabs, that eye-in-the-squiggle design. Some might have been imported from Eastern climes, but I recognised a body or two from the city’s less exotic vice establishments. Mrs Halifax had mentioned a few of her younger, prettier earners had gone missing lately; that mystery was now solved.

At the far end of the cellar was an altar. Two little black boys waved golden palm fronds at the high priestess of this congregation.