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

Moriarty ignored me. “For some time, rocketry was limited by its reliance on solid fuels. A Russian mathematician named Tsiolkovsky proposed a model by which a new high-density liquid fuel could be used, in combination with the de Laval nozzle used in steam engines, to propel a rocket faster than the speed of sound!”

“Impossible!” I said.

“Improbable, perhaps, on the face of it … but it pains me to tell you that not only is it possible, however unlikely – it has been done !”

“By you?”

Moriarty waved his hand dismissively. “My contribution, I’ll grant, was significant. The mathematical calculations required are complex, to say the least. After your friend destroyed my means of financial support—”

“Criminal!” I hissed. “An empire of thieves and killers!”

“—I was left with no choice but to seek out employment. I was approached by an agent of a foreign government—”

“Which government?” I demanded.

“One that does not yet exist,” Mycroft said. “Or no government at all, if you prefer.”

“Anarchists?”

“That is our deduction,” said Mycroft.

“He called himself Von Szabovich,” said Moriarty. “I believe that was a bit of an inside joke. He claimed, at various times, to be of German, Russian and Austrian origin, but his speech hinted at none of those. From our few meetings, I deduced the man’s accent to be fabricated, and his mother tongue to be English.”

“In fact,” said Mycroft, “his name is MacQuaid. He is known to us. He is an American chemist of Irish descent, educated at the finest schools there – or he was an American. He was expelled for his terrorist activities. That was after the Boston Fenians expelled him with extensive prejudice. The Irish want nothing to do with him, but he bears the Crown significant ill will.”

“That is putting it mildly,” said Moriarty. “This Von Szabovich shared with me designs for a liquid-fuelled rocket-ship intended to ferry up to twelve passengers at greater speed than even the fastest locomotive. He engaged me in performing necessary calculations for construction, fuel consumption, and navigation between Hamburg and London. I was sceptical, but, as I mentioned, I was in some dire financial straits. Once I saw his design, I realized it was possible to make his design work.”

I said: “Travel by air? Twelve passengers? Impossible.”

“As I said, improbable,” Moriarty replied. “And, yes, impossible. The original specifications called for twelve passengers. My calculations established that Von Szabovich’s design would carry only two.”

“Even that …”

“Once I deduced that the design was feasible, even for only two passengers, I became something close to a partner. In return,” Moriarty said, speaking now with some difficulty, “I sought Von Szabovich’s help as a chemical engineer to utilize the formula for a certain … compound … that had been designed by associates of mine in years past, but never manufactured … and most certainly never tested. They had no stomach for its proposed effects.”

I felt a great weight come upon me. My hand found its way into my coat. I gripped the butt of my pistol.

“What sort of compound, Professor?”

I shall never forget the look on his face. It was some amalgam, I believe, of self-satisfaction and guilt.

I stood up. “What compound, Moriarty? Tell me!” I had guessed an answer, but I doubted its probability. All else was impossible, however. Who else could do such a thing?

“What did you create, Moriarty?” My pistol was in my hand.

Mycroft was out of his chair before I could aim. I had never seen Mycroft move quickly before. Now, he was so swift his movements blurred.

Mycroft’s arm seized mine in an arcane embrace; I felt a great pain in my elbow. With a sweep of one enormous leg, he struck the backs of my knees. I collapsed into a kneeling position. The pistol discharged once, into the ceiling, before Mycroft seized it from me. I was deafened.

Moriarty stared, unperturbed.

Mycroft said: “He killed your wife, Watson, naturally.”

Now on all fours, I trembled.

Mycroft bent down and patted me soothingly. “Justice in due time,” Mycroft said. “For now, the Crown has business with both of you. There’s a boat waiting. Make haste!”

Staring at Moriarty in dismay, I said: “You are the Devil!”

Moriarty glanced at Mycroft. “Me or him?”

“You!” I said. “Both of you!”

Moriarty said mildly, “If it improves matters, Watson … I was trying to kill you.”

In 1805, the Royal Navy bombarded Copenhagen and seized neutral Denmark’s shipping fleet to aid Britain against Napoleon. Now, in that same harbour, there waited for us a modest steam trawler called the Jannike .

It was some trouble getting there, given that Copenhagen’s version of the Diogenes Club was in quite an uproar – its first ever of such magnitude. In such an establishment, discharging a firearm was an act for which there was no precedent and no official rule. It took even Mycroft some effort to extract us from the resultant tumult. This was achieved only once I had been formally banned from re-entry for life.

When we finally made our escape, there came with us three younger men of the club, who turned out to be in Mycroft’s employ. Their names, as Mycroft informed me, were Adams, Baker and Cowell. We did not greet each other. We did not shake hands. The men remained true to the club’s tenets even outside its walls; so did the crew of the Jannike . This was to my own taste, given my bilious spirit.

The ease and discretion with which the Jannike handled its passengers told me that they were almost certainly smugglers of one form or another. This would not otherwise have concerned me, but the night’s events had shaken my faith in Mycroft’s reason. Until tonight, I had always trusted Mycroft to deal with trustworthy scoundrels.

Sherlock Holmes’s assertion that Mycroft was more than he appeared seemed far more credible now after tonight’s events. My old friend had claimed that, at times, Mycroft is the British government. If that was true, there was far more than just culpability for Mary’s death at stake.

Mycroft retained my pistol, despite my many requests for its return. Perhaps he was wise. I watched Moriarty’s every move with simmering fury.

The Jannike weighed anchor.

I sat in the hold, glaring, thinking of tragedies passed.

Mary had taken a year to die. It was not the last year that a husband would wish for.

By the end, the diagnosis would remain acute encephalitis of unknown but presumably infectious origin. The contagion in question had never been identified.

Onset had been rapid and catastrophic. My wife had become violent, assaulting me and harming herself. She rushed into the street and assaulted passers-by, screaming. Later, she attacked the staff at Bethlehem. She was restrained. The mouth I had kissed for a lifetime became that of a monster.

After three days, she recovered from her first period of violent agitation and came to her senses. She wept for a time, in remorse and fear. We spoke. For twenty-three hours, she remained rational.

Then change came again. Her condition worsened over the course of an hour. She grew still more agitated. Her second attack was more violent than the first. Sedation provided no relief. The most powerful opiates had no effect on the patient’s arousal. Only physical restraint kept my wife from destroying herself – and harming or killing her tenders at Bethlehem in the process.

That was the first week.

For a year, her oscillations varied. She passed through periods of bestial disposition, ranging from one hour to one week, only to return briefly to periods of lucidity. In the former, she would take no normal food, only meat, freshly killed but uncooked.