Maxim Jakubowski - The Mammoth Book of the Adventures of Professor Moriarty

I arrived. Madame Satine’s . There was no sign, but the door knocker could not be mistaken for anything other than what it was: the face of a gargoyle, with one claw-tipped human finger vertically across its lips. “Madame Satine will keep all your secrets,” it said. I was glad of that, at least; of those, I had few, but just one was enough to have broken me.

I knocked. Above the gargoyle was a Judas gate. The panel opened. Out glared a pair of suspicious sky-blue eyes, crow’s feet quite visible. It was a man.

“ Ja? Hvad vil du have ?”

The Danes can be said to be jarringly informal when at their best. Even so, this was hardly the kind of reception I expected from such a place.

“ Taler du Engelsk ?” I asked.

“Yes, yes, what is it?”

“Madame Satine’s?”

“Name!” the man said bluntly.

“Ormond Sacker,” I told him.

The Judas gate closed; the oak door opened. The man did not say “Come in,” but I did.

Inside was a sparsely furnished entryway. The man who admitted me seemed ancient; he wore a long blond beard like some caricature of a Nordic warrior of old. He did not look at me, nor did he speak. He merely motioned me into a corridor draped with tapestries and lit with a long row of flickering gas lamps. The floor was thick with rugs. The point of the furnishings was obvious; even the sound of my own footsteps was swallowed up by the cocoon of rich fabric. The silence seemed oppressive. I heard no music, no clink of glasses from beyond the heavy door at the end of the corridor.

I deduced that I had just stumbled into Europe’s grimmest brothel.

The bearded man did not bid me farewell. He merely opened the door, pointed me through sternly, and pushed past me to return to his post.

What lay beyond that door surprised me. It was not a house of ill repute, but a club as one might see in London. It was not empty of patrons, as the absolute silence might have suggested. In fact, it was quite packed with men, mostly blond-haired and blue-eyed – more than a score of them. They were seated in armchairs, mostly engrossed in books and periodicals. Some merely glared at their drinks, pale lips tight.

No word was spoken. No sound was made. In fact, the silence was so complete that my gasp of surprise drew considerable notice.

A dozen or more of the club’s patrons glared at me warningly. They seemed ready to come to blows should my faux pas be repeated.

But I could not be faulted for my outcry, for two things had struck me at once. First was the realization that this could be none other than some Copenhagen branch of the Diogenes Club.

Second was the fact that one of those armchairs was occupied by none other than Mycroft Holmes.

I felt a sense of relief. This was not a trap. And it was good to see a familiar face in a foreign capital.

I started towards Mycroft with hand outstretched. He had not yet looked up to see me. As I approached, I realized the man sitting next to him was a familiar figure, but I could not place him. My pace abated, I stared at the stranger in growing discomfort.

The stranger scrawled furiously in a journal, his hands awkwardly close together. Faint scratching could be heard from his pencil, but he drew no glares of reproach from the club’s other members, as I had. I moved close enough to read the man’s notebook and realized that his wrists were cuffed.

He was scrawling equations.

Anger flared. His name came to my lips unbidden.

I cried, “Moriarty!”

There was an audible rustling, as men shifted in their seats. Volley after volley of tight-lipped and wide-eyed glares were hurled in my direction. The members were furious. This was an outrage!

But no one could be more furious or outraged than I, for I know this was Professor James Moriarty. I had only glimpsed him once, from a distance, but I had witnessed that image many times more in my mind’s eye.

I reached into the pocket of my greatcoat, my hand closing on my revolver. But I did not draw it. Moriarty was handcuffed. Was he Mycroft’s prisoner?

Moriarty looked up at me with saturnine defiance. Mycroft looked up and seemed unsurprised to see me. He did not even look at Moriarty.

Mycroft raised one finger at me, insisting that I wait.

I did so, staring in frank disbelief.

Mycroft went on reading, completing the page he was on and continuing into the next. I could see he was near the end of a chapter.

Moriarty went back to his calculations, scrawling furiously.

While I stood waiting, a club attendant approached me and held out a small slip of paper. He frowned at me apologetically. I took the ticket. On it was scrawled: “Ormond Sacks: 1 demerit.” I crumpled it in my hand and threw it angrily on the floor. More glares followed.

Mycroft at last finished his chapter, replaced his bookmark with great care, and set the volume on the table. Its spine said: Principles of Bee-Keeping .

Mycroft stood and gestured first at me, then at Moriarty. He pointed insistently down a nearby corridor.

Mycroft was followed by Moriarty. I followed him. I did not relish the thought of that villain behind me … even in handcuffs.

The room to which Mycroft led me was Copenhagen’s version of the Strangers’ Room, known as the one place in the Diogenes Club where conversation is permitted – or, at least, not forbidden . The room was furnished with Spartan flavour – to discourage its use, I suspected. We sat in hard-backed chairs.

Moriarty said, “It’s a pleasure to finally meet you, Dr Watson.”

“Go to the Devil!” I sputtered.

Moriarty, apparently, knew better than to extend me his hand. He shrugged and sat down at the table.

“Good to see you, Watson.” Mycroft did extend his hand, but I would not shake it. Instead, I pointed at Moriarty.

“To the Devil!” I said.

“Yes, yes, in good time, Watson, of that I’ve no doubt. But for now, things are afoot that require us to engage the professor. Have a seat, Watson.”

“I won’t sit with that … that … explain yourself, Mycroft! That man should hang!”

“And he would have, already – or suffered an even less pleasant fate – if he had not alerted us to something that requires us to employ him.”

“Us? What is that supposed to mean, Mycroft … Bethlehem?”

“The Crown,” Mycroft said drily. “But it’s good of you to bring that up. Have a seat.”

“Your employer?” I sputtered. “What branch of Bedlam, exactly?”

“It is fortuitous that you bring up Bethlehem Hospital, Watson. We shall talk about that. But, first, take a seat. Professor Moriarty is unarmed, I assure you. He knows no arcane and invented martial arts, unlike my late brother.”

I reddened. “How dare you! I wrote that as a way to …” I realized I did not know the answer. “My readers refused to believe he was dead.” I gestured wildly at the professor. “I saw you fall, Moriarty! You, and Sherlock Holmes! Both of you. How did you escape?”

“Irrelevant!” Mycroft said. “There’s time for that later. If you would, Professor, please relate your crimes to Dr Watson.”

Moriarty’s eyes narrowed. He seemed haunted … almost human. Much to my chagrin, I realized that I had invented a man in my own mind, drawn from the few grandiose claims that Sherlock Holmes had made before his death. I knew nothing of the man himself.

Moriarty began: “What do you know about rocketry, Dr Watson?”

“Little,” I said. “Nothing. I saw a few in Afghanistan. That was quite some time ago.”

“You are aware that some believe man will one day use rockets to explore the heavens?”

“I think we have our hands quite full here,” I said, glaring at Mycroft, “if men like you are to go free.”