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

A detached observer might have perhaps noticed that throughout all of this, Moriarty remained unaffected, an island of preternatural calm. Perhaps the merest curl of a smile was caught in that thin mouth of his, like the hook at the end of a fishing line. He was, somehow, nobody’s fag. The butt of nobody’s cruel jokes – although the boys that year seemed close to a pack of frightened feral dogs, and blood drawn, punches thrown, almost nightly. This, in a beloved palace of learning, dedicated to the highest arts of humanity! I had planned to study the Greek plays that first term, but decided immediately to concentrate on less inflammatory works.

Anyway, Moriarty. He spent much of his time in his room. How he came to have his own ‘room’ is itself unexplained. The boys, especially the first years, were confined to the coldest, most miserable barracks on the upper floors. Yet Moriarty, due to vague murmurs about his health and a queer determination on the part of the housekeeper who oversaw the dormitories, found himself installed in a quite comfortable little cabin on the first floor. It overlooked the stairs, being in truth a glorified closet, and, from there, he could survey the comings and goings of almost everyone in the school.

He had soon taken his measure of the staff and established a network of allies and lackeys who fed him steadily with information, gossip and any other useful thing that he decided he required.

There were never any overt signs to identify Moriarty as the artist behind all the chaos, although a thoughtful observer might have considered the utter absence of involvement telling in itself. Thus, the head found himself in a most untenable position – tortured by suspicions he could not voice without making accus ation, bound by a moral and financial debt to the boy’s family, and caught between his own wish to suppress any burgeoning trouble and the need to root out the demon at the heart of the multifarious plots and schemes.

‘This school,’ he said one night, while clutching a glass of whisky that I expect was not his first of the evening, and peering hard at the dying embers in the fireplace, ‘has been my life. The damn thing may be the end of me, too.’

As Christmas approached, it certainly seemed the institution was in jeopardy. Three boys left, after some hysterical scenes involving parents, newspapers and, if I recall, a nest of rats. A small fire broke out in the library, after which Moriarty was – rather than being implicated and interviewed – somehow excused from his English lessons.

But once he had the place running to his liking, things seemed to settle. Although, in retrospect, it was the uneasy tension of a prison with malcontent inhabitants awaiting the next disaster, rather than the true peace of a contented community of fellows dedicated to self-improvement.

Over the next few terms, he and the head came to a place of watchful, antagonistic stalemate. Moriarty showed no interest in the arts, and, privately, I was relieved, although curiosity occasionally tormented me – what damage had been done to the boy’s soul to have him act this way? Was it possession by a demonic force? Blood circulation, a disease of the brain? If he were feeble-minded, we were past the days of beating or bleeding the idiocy out of him. Besides, he seemed unnaturally intelligent. On occasion, after reading on the Phenomena of Soul and Mind, I mused on the causes of cruelty within one so young.

But, for the most part, I merely gave my lessons. They utterly lacked the fervour of my initial resolve, for I had learned the safety of sinking into the shadows. The boys adapted, as children do, and apart from one or two who were removed or begged to leave, carried on with their education as best they could.

Inevitably, Moriarty grew bored. Though he wanted for nothing – keeping a store of fine port, sugared almonds and cigars in his little closet, and a small army of boys to do his bidding, shine his shoes, write his letters home, and read the paper to him – he found himself outgrowing his role as secret oligarch soon enough. It was then that he took to mathematics, with an astonishing ease – apparently the one discipline for which he would not prefer to enlist another child to carry out the curriculum on his behalf. Within a month, his mathematics tutor was petitioning the head to have him apply to a school on the Continent known for its mathematical prowess. Whether that was out of a genuine belief in the boy’s ability, or whether the poor man, who had developed various nervous tics and smelled frequently of sour alcohol, merely wished to relieve himself of the boy’s presence, I cannot say. In any case, Moriarty refused to consider moving.

Now, he was the ex officio maths genius of the school, and still waging a half-secret war against order and institution. When he at last pushed his luck to the limit and beyond, calling his maths tutor ‘a buffoon’, mocking him openly in class and questioning his reasoning, qualifications and ability, the head had no choice – in the face of threatened resignation of the tutor – but to suspend the boy from all maths classes. This would likely not have bothered a boy like Moriarty, who truth be told was far ahead of any teaching on the subject that could have been offered him in our school. Unfortunately for all of us, though, his suspension coincided with another event. The combination resulted in a most calamitous series of events.

It happened that the school was bequeathed by a wealthy and grateful benefactor – an alumnus who had gone on to great things within the service of science – a rare treasure of incredible preciousness and value. A ceremony was planned with all the pomp and fanfare that the head could muster. Perhaps in an effort to turn around the flagging reputation of the school, which had lately started to suffer a drop in applications, he determined to make a great fuss of the occasion. The entire body of staff and pupils, as well as some local dignitaries, including the mayor and a few learned professors from the university, were invited to an announcement, whereby the treasure would be presented to the school and a prize competition launched.

The day was to be held in the school’s grand but chilly ballroom. Situated at the heart of the school, it was a windowless hall with ornate plasterwork and grandiose Corinthian pillars lining the walls. A small stage stood at one end, and the room was kept locked due to the presence of a glass cabinet of trophies. The gift was to be displayed in the centre – a new velvet-lined plinth having been made especially for it.

What was the priceless object? No one knew, but the alumnus had insisted on stringent security. Nobody was to be admitted to the hall alone. Cleaners would attend in pairs, overseen by a tutor. The entire preparation was shrouded in secrecy, and a new and impressive cast-iron lock was fitted to the door; guaranteed pick proof, we were assured. The night watchman-cumcaretaker borrowed a fearsome dog, named somewhat unimaginatively Cerberus, which slavered and growled appropriately and was installed at the man’s office by the front door to ward off thieves – though whether these were shadowy criminals from outside, or inhabitants of the school itself was not quite spelled out.

Some weeks before the ceremony, I was handed a note written in Moriarty’s cramped, but precise handwriting. It begged for my intercession, for he had lately felt he had some concerns related to sinfulness, and believed I was understanding in these matters. Every hair on the nape of my neck stood on end, reader, and I felt a dryness in my mouth. Nobody was associated with the boy without a measure of unease or, in the case of smaller boys, outright fear.

I attended his room as requested, feeling that if there was the smallest chance this was really a boy in need, as implied in the short but apparently sincere note, it was my godly duty to attend. I admit, also, that one small part was curious to speak with this little demon alone and gauge for myself if he was, as his chemistry tutor claimed, truly evil.