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

In a moment of clarity, I felt every droplet of mist in the night air, heard every tiny sound from the trees. I anticipated danger with a half-sickened, half-excited craving which — I now admit — was close to the hateful love a dope fiend has for the pipe or a drunkard for the bottle. With potential death in the air, I was alive!

Berkins was gone with the Special. As far as I could tell, the woman conductor had not got back on board.

Moriarty strode along the platform, ulster flapping like bat wings, chin thrust out. I wondered if and when he would trouble to take me into his confidence. From experience, I knew he had an idea of what was going on. But frequently it suited him to keep it all to himself, and just tell me when to shoot someone.

Fal Vale Junction was not much of a station. There was a waiting room, with a welcoming open fire and a selection of periodicals on a rack… but it was locked. Out on the platform, without the benefit of the fire, it was freezing. The tearoom was open, in the sense that its door was wedged with a brick… but it was dark and cold. I touched the urn to see if there was still hot water, but it was like ice. Cakes and sandwiches from an earlier decade were on display. Something with teeth and a tail had been in among them and left chew marks and droppings.

‘A warm welcome,’ I commented. ‘I was hoping for one of those famous Cornish clotted cream teas.’

‘Can’t get they yurr,’ Lucas said, guying Berkins.

Outside, the Reverend marched about, sensing things of a spiritual nature. His boots clicked on the flagstones of the platform.

A branch veered off from the line and vanished into a hillside tunnel. A big wheel on the platform worked a set of points which could send trains into this hole. I’d looked up Fal Vale Junction in Bradshaw’s Guide, and not been able to determine where this offshoot ran to. Probably a tin mine, clay pit or unloading dock in Poldhu Cove. Beyond the hill was the coast, which put me in mind of wreckers and smugglers. It wasn’t like Bradshaw to be vague, though. The rails were shiny and well maintained, so the branch was obviously in use.

Moriarty walked nearly to the end of the platform, and peered into the dark as if through a telescope. Could he discern life on some far-distant star? Or was he just fixed on some theoretical point half a mile into the tunnel?

‘I sense a visitor,’ the Reverend said, and stood up straight as if for inspection.

We were all ignoring him now, but he was right. In the dark of the tunnel, a tiny flame burned.

‘It is an apparition of fire,’ Doone announced. ‘We must be calm and receptive. Those who have passed beyond the veil are more frightened of us than we are of them.’

The flame was bigger. No, it was the same size… but coming closer.

Madame Valladon’s hand was in her bag, curled around her revolver, no doubt. She could fire through the seam if she had to.

We watched the light. It bobbed slightly as it advanced.

‘Well met, spirit,’ Doone said, almost singing.

The fake Carnacki touched his fingers to his temples, as if doing a music hall mind-reading act.

‘That is no spirit light,’ Monsieur Sabin declared. ‘It is a railwayman’s dark lantern. There is always, you see, a logical explanation. Have I not proved this? Yes, I have.’

The Frenchman was right.

Now we could see the lantern, swinging from side to side, and make out the man carrying it. He wore a peaked cap, which flashed silver, and a long, black coat.

‘James, is that you?’ the Professor shouted.

‘Yes, James,’ came the answer.

‘Hurry up,’ Moriarty insisted. ‘It’s cold here on the platform.’

‘I’m aware of that. It’s cold here in Cornwall. On winter nights, those tend to be the climactic conditions throughout these isles.’

‘Climatic. “Climactic” refers to a climax or culmination, not the weather,’ the Professor said.

The newcomer shrugged off the correction.

Stationmaster Moriarty trudged along the gravel rail bed and up the incline to the platform, where the Professor waited impatiently. The brothers exchanged beak nods. They walked together towards the rest of us. They shared a stalking gait.

Young James was a Moriarty all right, with piercing eyes behind thin-rimmed spectacles and the beginnings of the family stoop. His face had not yet sunk to the vulture leanness shared by the Colonel and the Professor, but that would come in a few years if nobody hanged him. Walking up to our group, he set down his lantern and took off his cap. He had a fuller, darker head of hair than either of his brothers. He ran his fingers through his locks, probably a sly dig.

‘James, you’re not looking well,’ he said, mildly. ‘The country does not agree with you. You are a city bird.’

‘I say, do you two know each other?’ Lucas asked. ‘I only just realised, same name and all that. Stationmaster Moriarty. Professor Moriarty. You must be father and son?’

At this suggestion, the Jameses made faces as if they’d bitten something sour.

‘They are brothers,’ Sabin said. ‘I am surprised you failed to find that out when you researched our summons here.’

‘Research? Oh I never bother with that. Prejudices the mind. Prods you to premature conclusions.’

‘Tchah,’ said the Frenchman, dismissing Lucas’ pensée.

‘I suppose James told you to keep away from Fal Vale,’ Stationmaster Moriarty said to the Professor. ‘He’s made his position clear, as usual.’

‘I thought you were James?’ Madame Valladon said.

‘No, he is James,’ Doone said. ‘Professor James Moriarty.’

Neither brother explained. Our fellow travellers were left in confusion.

Professor and Stationmaster smirked together, almost undetectably — a family expression which excluded the rest of us. I got a chill from more than the night air.

The brothers didn’t much care for one another, but each knew the other well. I was on as intimate terms with the Prof as he would allow, yet I was often forced to admit I shared rooms with a stranger. Hitherto, it hadn’t bothered me: Moriarty kept secrets from everyone, so why should I be any different? I was his employee, not his friend. We knocked about for mutual advantage, not hale-fellow-well-met nonsense. Sometimes, I despised him more than I hate my old man… with a similar, curious sort of hate commingled with admiration, passion and a sense they were impossible to get away from.

I broke with Sir Augustus to avoid becoming simply ‘the dutiful son’, only to become Moriarty’s Number Two. In many things, the Professor had supplanted pater — whippings were less direct, but no less frequent. With the appearance of Moriarty’s brothers, I realised there were those closer to his cold heart. Family by blood, not association. I’d thought the Professor invincible, beyond human hurt or harm, but it seemed the other Jameses could prick him.

Stationmaster Moriarty produced keys and opened the waiting room. We all pressed eagerly indoors. Thanks to Lucas lifting his hat and getting in the way, Madame Valladon claimed the chair nearest the fire. Sabin wasn’t happy leaving his precious boxes on the platform, but reluctantly did so. Doone said he was sure the spirits wouldn’t disturb Sabin’s belongings.

Only the fake Carnacki kept away from the fire. I wondered if he was wearing a wax nose which would melt if he got too close.

The Stationmaster stood like a man in command, enjoying the company he had put together, anticipating fun and frolics. I’ve known society matrons take pleasure in seating next to each other people they know will quarrel before the fish course is done. ‘Fireworks’ are all part of the entertainment. I wondered if Young James had combined sceptics and believers in this party for similar reasons, then recalled none of this lot were who they said they were. Ergo, this ghost-worm hunt was nothing of the sort.