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

That bitch was smirking and cooing in German with her dashing Count — useless language for love-making, German, but she made it sound obscene enough to get what she wanted. I felt my colour rising. To my mind, there’d been too much clever talk lately… and not enough blood. Much of Moriarty’s lecture in the tomb was above my head. I was no diabolical mastermind. In this company, I got lumped in with knife-women, bag-carriers, bodyguards, sneak thieves and fast swords. When Moriarty knocked heads with the Lord of Strange Deaths, Countess Cagliostro and Dr Nikola — even the upstart Mabuse, the crass Quartz and whoever this Grand Vampire was — I might as well sit in the kiddies’ corner with imbeciles like ‘Bunny’ Manders and the Creeper.

Normally, at this juncture, I would have suggested a pie and a pint at the Spaniards. Maybe a round or two of whist. This company could surely boast other practiced hands with the pasteboards.

But it hadn’t been that sort of Thoroughgood funeral. Bulstrode & Sons were paid and gone, and Old Mr Bulstrode had graciously accepted rubbings from brasses found in a section of Barchester Cathedral definitely not open to the public. Everyone wanted to get away as swiftly as possible.

‘Houses don’t burgle themselves,’ Raffles said. I suspected he’d said it before and would say it again. ‘Let’s do this again soon. Another Thoroughood must be on his deathbed somewhere. Toodle-oo.’

All our colleagues had crimes to get to.

Our carriages lined up outside the cemetery. Chop and the other coachmen stood in a silent knot, out-staring each other, hands casually near concealed weapons. A word or a gesture could spark a fuse, and they’d pull guns, hatchets and long knives and go to work. Soldiers all, the coachmen were almost disappointed that the party broke up without bodies strewn on Kingstead Hill.

Some of the company left with ceremony, in ostentatious coaches. Quartz had hired something bulletproof and enormous, prompting me to ponder two or three different ways someone riding in such a secure monstrosity could be murdered. Others made a point of vanishing without trace when no one was looking. Mabuse and Alraune: there one moment, gone the next. Irma Vep only pretended to leave, bless her. She slid behind a lichen-pockmarked angel, keeping an ear out for fresh developments.

As host — theoretically nearest and dearest of the imaginary deceased — Moriarty remained while the rest were beetling off. Sophy, of course, was with us, dabbing a hankie under her veil. Irene lingered a while and tried to tweak the Prof by flirting with him. She’d have got more of a rise from the statue of Weary Death at the door of the Forsyte tomb. As ever, that bitch was after something but wouldn’t say what it was. If the hussy wanted to know the time, she’d make suggestive gestures with an unlit cigarette then half-inch your watch while you were striking a lucifer.

Finally, she gave up and fetched Rupert away to the Café Royal.

Moriarty, head oscillating, was deep in thought again. With him, it was either a lecture lasting for pages and pages or pin-drop dead silence. He had no chit-chat in him.

Sophy lifted her veil and cut off the waterworks.

‘I wish I’d snaffled one of Raffles’ Sullivans,’ I said.

Sophy produced the cracksman’s cigarette case from her widow’s weeds. For the first time, the Greek woman smiled broadly.

‘I take… for practice,’ she said.

I laughed out loud. Raffles would be livid.

‘Did you haul anything else out of him?’

‘Yes,’ she said, handing me back my wallet. The French postcards were all there, including the one I swore was Irene Adler wearing a domino mask and little else. I’d not felt a thing and could swear I’d not let the cricketer near me.

‘Cheeky bugger,’ I said, admiring the deftness of the lift. ‘Hah, that’s funny, you know, because Raffles is…’

‘One of those. Yes. We have them in Greece.’

‘Of course you do. Practically invented it.’

‘His friend, though. “Bunny”. Him… not so much. He like the French girl. Irma Vep.’

Another reason for Raffles to blow his top. When they got home, Manders would get an old-fashioned thrashing. The duo had been in it together since school, when the soppy new bug had fagged for the captain of the eleven. At Eton, they made me slave to a prefect, supposedly to build ‘character’. It worked, but not the way they wanted. After I stabbed Timkins with a letter-opener, he polished my boots and cooked my breakfast. Goes to show how folks take differently to the old school tie.

I doubted Irma would be interested in the Manders clot, but didn’t shout out to ask. She could look after her own love-life.

While I was gossiping with Sophy, Moriarty kept thinking.

Eventually, he snapped out of it and had Chop drive us home — with a detour to call at the Hospital for Sick Children in Great Ormond Street. There, the Professor approached a matron to ask after three particular patients. These unfortunates had been wasp-stung during a picnic in Crystal Palace, hosted by a charitable society with a mania for getting unwashed slum tykes into the open air for healthy living and physical jerks. With practiced tact, the woman gave the sad news that one urchin had succumbed, another gone blind and the third wouldn’t stop shaking. Quietly pleased with himself, Moriarty noted the results of the experiment in a little book. A delicate girl, being discharged after being cured of fainting spells, took one look at the crow-black Prof, head bobbing like a vulture and hands knotted like a praying mantis, and had a relapse. Some brats — like some dogs and one or two horses — have the knack: they know a wrong’un straight off. Moriarty should have been more worried about common children than phantom heroes.

VII

Back in Conduit Street, something was up. My hunter’s instincts pricked and my whiskers twitched. Mrs Halifax was queerly excited by our return, and a peculiar air of conspiracy prevailed among the tarts. A long parcel had arrived, from Germany, and sat on my desk. Not something I was expecting.

‘It is the custom, I believe, to include a card with such presentations, Moran,’ Moriarty said, suddenly too close to me. ‘In this case, it would be contrary to my ruling on not leaving an evidentiary paper chain. Furthermore, no sentiment is required, for I believe — though others have argued the matter — you would not welcome such were it to be extended…’

I’d no idea what he was waffling about. One of us might have gone mad, but I’d be hard pressed to say which. First, a gathering of the world’s premier criminals for a summit. Then, experiments with wasp stings. Now, what…?

Moriarty trailed off, and gave Sophy the nod. She turned down the gaslights. It was evening dark out, and the room became a jungle of shadows. I tensed, prepared for attack. Had the Prof hired the woman to murder me and then replace me? Was I to be driven from the tribe like an old, broken-tusked elephant who can no longer trumpet? I’d not go without a scrap. Reaching for the pistol holstered in the small of my back, I discovered someone — Raffles, you bounder!? — had lifted it. So, it was just teeth and claws! If this were how it ended, I was ready to give an account of myself which would not be forgotten.

Then Mrs Halifax entered the darkened room, proudly bearing a cake — solid, brandy-saturated stodge under an inch of lemon cream — surmounted by a forest of thin candles. Little flickering flames lit up the room and the faces of the girls of the house — well, those who weren’t presently occupée — as they trouped in after the Madame. Fairy Mary Purbright, Throttler Parker, Filthy Fanny and other faithfuls of the Firm were also in the procession. Chop brought up the rear, pushing a trolley which bore ice buckets full of champagne bottles and a tray of Waterford crystal glasses.