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

At Æbelø, the Jannike moored alongside a rickety old pier. We disembarked. A Gideon lorry waited for us. We piled in the back and it whisked us through the night at terrifying speed and bonerattling intensity. In my younger days, I would have found such a ride distasteful at best. Now, it was excruciating. How poor Mycroft survived it, I’ll never know. He had surprised me several times tonight, but by then he looked quite worse for wear.

The facility we approached bore a wrenchingly familiar aspect: one that hovered between prison and hospital.

It was both.

Mycroft introduced me to one Dr Østergaard, who spoke excellent English. Østergaard explained that he was in charge of the “ Sektion til Særlige Patienter ” – “Section for Special Patients” – in Ward 6.

It was a madhouse, in every connotation.

Beds were crammed as close together as possible. Each patient was cuffed at four points – wrists and ankles. They strained against their cuffs, rabid. Teeth snapped and bit. Some had been forced to wear muzzles. Even those made an unholy noise, through structures insufficient to cope with their bestial howling. Now and then, peals of human laughter would echo through the torrent of animal noises. From the depths of Ward 6, I heard screamed obscenities. Some metal frames had been reinforced with extra struts; Østergaard explained that this was because patients exhibited exceptional strength, as had Mary.

“Disease progression is rapid,” said Østergaard. “From a patient’s first presentation with dizziness to the condition you see here takes only a few days. After that, further progression can take months. Periods of lucidity are followed by severe instances of disorientation. Our best diagnosis is encephalitis of unknown infectious origin. Until last month, we had seen only five cases in the entire country. We could not implicate an infectious agent, or any connection between the patients. Then, this month – well, here they are. All from Vigelsø Island, yet we can find no vector of transmission—”

While I observed, one man seemed to experience a lucid period, recovering just enough mental facility to beg for—

I could not hear it again. I plugged my ears. I fled.

Grimly, I confirmed to Mycroft that the patients in Ward 6 were the victims of Moriarty’s nameless compound.

The professor was again doubled over, weeping. He trembled uncontrollably, bleating apologies. He’d been sick several times. So had I, in the washroom just outside Ward 6. I did not share that fact with either of them.

“Vigelsø,” Mycroft said. “It isn’t far from here. Bloodhound is already en route. A gunboat,” he added, seeing my quizzical look. “But it falls to me to get Moriarty there. He can reset or disable the navigation system. Sorry, Watson, but you’re coming along.”

I nodded at Moriarty, who was still weeping. “Can he do it if he’s in that state?”

“How should I know, old man? You’re the physician. You’re the world expert, Watson. Even Østergaard’s still playing catchup. What’s the prognosis?”

I said, “Professor?”

“They were just numbers!” he howled. “Facts, figures … It was a high dose, Watson! You understand that, yes? I only wished to kill you! How you escaped exposure, I don’t …”

He descended again into paroxysms of grief.

Tears flowed: Moriarty’s and mine.

I had not escaped exposure at all, I deduced. Months of attending to Mary’s care …

I squelched my emotions. I turned to Mycroft and said: “We must hope our dear professor has one of his spells of lucidity soon.”

We returned to the Jannike and set out for the island of Vigelsø.

Some time after we left Æbelø, Moriarty recovered his composure. He stared ahead blankly. He approached catatonia.

But when I addressed him directly, he responded.

He grew stone-faced.

“I withdraw my apology,” said Moriarty. “The last several hours are foggy to me. Whatever I said, disregard it. I was not in my right mind.”

Mycroft and I shared a look of surprise.

Moriarty began weeping again.

Dawn broke the horizon just as we came within sight of the small island’s barren coast. The lightening sky showed the outline of a lighthouse. Offshore, Bloodhound could be seen, her great teninch gun still pouring smoke.

My eyes were red. My head throbbed. I felt a great weight in my chest.

Moriarty sprawled on the deck of the Jannike , catatonic again.

Mycroft held out my revolver. “Can I trust you with this, Watson?”

I took the pistol and held it as we approached shore.

On the shore, there was fighting. Bloodhound had landed troops, who advanced on what appeared to be a lighthouse. In the dim light, I saw flashes. Riflemen atop the lighthouse were firing back at the advancing troops.

Atop the lighthouse, glass shattered. Shards of it glittered in the dawn’s building rays. Fragments of stone and long strips of metal peeled away from the top of the tower.

Mycroft stepped over the sprawled professor and ran for the pilot-house, waving and gesturing. The Jannike picked up speed – near, now, to running aground.

Rifle shots ricocheted as the Jannike reached the pier near the lighthouse. It was too close for self-preservation, but even so, we were too late. Smoke and flame poured from the base of the lighthouse.

Our troops fell back, repelled by the blast. Bloodhound fired. The boom of its great gun was lost in the snarl from the rocket-ship. The shell went wide, detonating on the beach.

The roar of the firing rocket engines drowned out all speech and all sound, also. Beneath the ruins of what had been the light room atop the tower, the silver tip of the rocket-ship could be seen. It was a conical spearhead, polished and featureless but for a single hatch near the top. The rocket-ship trembled with the force of its firing engines.

It was, I admit, quite a wondrous sight. It might have been a vision of the future. Ten years hence, twenty, with passenger service from Hamburg to London in one hour. One hour hence: London as Bedlam.

Twin futures held me enthralled, and would not let go – even when Moriarty came up behind me.

He felled me with a spanner, while I gaped at impending doom or salvation – or both at once. His blow laid me out on the deck and, when Mycroft hauled me to my knees at the railing, my vision swam.

I no longer saw futures: just two Moriartys, swimming before me, scaling two ladders outside of two lighthouses. He neared the top as they resolved into one. Mycroft had field glasses. The professor was blackened, parts of his clothing alight. The spanner he’d hit me with – I presume – was tucked into the rear of his belt.

He reached the railing and leapt atop the great silver rocket. He withdrew the spanner and fitted it into what looked like a hatch. The flames at the base grew more intense.

The hatch came open. Moriarty dove inside the nose of the vessel just as the rocket-ship started to rise. The walls of the lighthouse gave way. Silver fins became visible at the base as the great silver body rose into the air.

Its speed increased. Day had come. Bloodhound fired again, but the rocket-ship had ascended to the point where the teninch gun could not reach it.

The vessel rose into the air at an increasing pace. The silver ship became lost in the flames of its engines … and then, all heaven was engulfed in sun-fire.

I covered my eyes. Mycroft pushed me down. Shrapnel rained down around the Jannike , striking the water with great force. The remains of one great silver fin ripped through the trawler’s front railing and hit the water so close to us that I felt the spray and the steam hissing around it.