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

He lit a candle and surveyed his new surroundings. The space inside the walls was no wider than a yard, roughly plastered, the floor muffled by faded strips of carpeting; all immaculately clean. Those who knew of and used this maze had no intention of arriving at their destination covered in dust or shreds of cobweb – no matter how private or unheeded. Moriarty forged ahead. There would be narrow steps leading up to the next floor, and from his eidetic map he knew it was a mere dozen feet away, in the darkness beyond the candlelight.

The steps loomed out of the blackness: half the width of the passage, constructed of smoothly rendered brick so that even the heaviest tread would be muffled. Moriarty ascended, admitting to himself that now his goal was but scant feet away he was experiencing a further quiver of anticipation.

The steps ended at what appeared to be a blank wall. Raising his candle, Moriarty made out the outline of another disguised panel; one that, should Schlüter’s plans be accurate, must lead directly into the chambers where Wilhelm slumbered in blithe ignorance. There was a dark spot on the smooth panel at eye level. Moriarty leaned forward: it was a lens set into the panel, no bigger than his smallest fingernail. Pressing an eye to it, the professor saw a distorted view of the chamber beyond. A single candle flickered from a dresser in the furthest reach of the room, next to a wide doorway, casting a thin, uncertain light. Other than a figure bundled upon an opulent bed, the room appeared to be empty of human occupants.

Moriarty snuffed his candle and left it upon the top step rather than risk even the smallest trace of dripped wax in the room beyond. After carefully easing the panel open, he stepped into the dim room and engaged in a second, more thorough visual search. The four-post bed had a single occupant; the walls were partly clad in a wood that looked black in the poor light, the rest papered by what Moriarty was surprised to recognise as either a William Morris design or a clever copy. The bed and windows were hung with drapes of a matching pattern. He found it repugnant.

A swift glance at his watch told him there were twenty-eight minutes remaining. He removed a tiny paper bundle from a coat pocket, silently approaching the bed across a thick carpet. The emperor lay on his back, breathing slowly and with the faintest rattle. In the candlelight, his face, neat moustache and bristling side-whiskers were all a matching sallow shade. From the paper bundle, Moriarty removed a needle, careful not to graze himself on the sharp tip. Kneeling at the bedside he took the emperor’s left hand and slid it across the covers. The old man hitched a breath and the professor froze, not moving until the German’s breathing returned to its steady, soft rattle. Fitting a jeweller’s loupe to his left eye, Moriarty leaned close to the hand, bringing the needle up to a fingernail. Gently, knowing a sudden, sharp prick might awaken the old man and all would be undone, he slid the needle under the nail, breaking the skin with a gentle scratch. Wilhelm coughed, but the professor held the hand steady. He allowed ten seconds to pass before removing the inoculating needle and packing it once more in the paper. There was a faint red mark under the nail where no one would think to look. The emperor was ill; if he should take a more serious turn and ultimately die, even the most suspicious of doctors could see nothing unusual in that.

Moriarty stood, once again consulting his watch: there were eighteen minutes before the emperor would next be checked. He gazed at the sleeping man, awarding him a brief bow. “ In Frieden ruhen, Herr Kaiser .” Then he left through the secret Morris-patterned panel.

Hawes opened the study door and stood aside, allowing Moriarty entrance. “Welcome back, sir. I read in the newspapers that your journey was fruitful.” The porter tactfully failed to enquire why the professor had not returned immediately: it was almost three months since the passing of Emperor Wilhelm.

Moriarty responded with a skeletal smile, placing a valise upon his writing desk. Hawes assisted with the removal of his overcoat, cradling it across an arm. “And that German gentleman has visited, sir. Five times.”

Moriarty removed his notebook and ledger from his bag, placing both on the desk. “And I fancy he will be shortly dropping by a sixth time: his hired informants will have already passed on the news of my return to England.”

“Of course, sir. Will there be anything else?”

“You need only show in His Grace when he arrives.” Moriarty looked at his watch. “I anticipate his arrival within the half-hour.”

“Very good, sir.” The porter closed the study door softly behind him.

Moriarty breathed in the air of his venerable study. It was good to be home. The sun blazed through his window, lighting the room even as the rays left his writing desk in shadow. The only change was the painting hanging above his chair, replacing the Greuze: a bucolic scene of cloying sentimentality that he loathed instantly. It was perfect. He sat, opening both notebook and ledger. Taking up a pen, he began copying figures from the notebook into the larger volume, totalling them, and comparing it to the original figure he had presented for the duke’s approval. The numbers were gratifyingly close.

He leaned back in his chair, content now to await Duke Leofric’s arrival.

Moriarty had many reasons for remaining so long in Berlin. He had wished to observe the fruits of his deed at close quarters, and it had been necessary to enact certain precautions. After the successful completion of the contract, he considered it unwise to quit the country whilst the health of anyone who might later bear witness against him continued in a robust manner. He did not imagine Eisenerz to be such a fool that he could not solve the equation, and his respective share within it. And even though Moriarty did not consider the Serb to be any form of threat, the man had swiftly deleted himself from the balance: killed in a drunken brawl with two Austrians.

Eisenerz’s eradication was neither so casual nor straightforward, for he was by nature and experience discreet and circumspect. Nevertheless, for all his caution, Eisenerz died under the wheels of a runaway dray on the Königgrätzer Strasse, less than four hours before the kaiser drew his final breath. Moriarty had arranged for an anonymous wreath to be laid during the man’s funeral; after all, in the days before his accident, Eisenerz had arranged introductions between Heinrich Schiffersohn and many of the more ambitious businessmen from German society. Moriarty saw it as a gesture of heartfelt thanks.

As expected, even though terminally ill, Wilhelm’s son had been invested as the Emperor Friedrich III; and equally expected, as Moriarty sat in his study awaiting Duke Leofric, it was clear that Friedrich was only days away from joining his father. Even though it had been no more complex than the simplest subtraction, the professor still felt pride in his achievement. That he was present added a certain piquancy to the affair.

There was a knock on his door. “The Duke Leofric is here, sir,” announced Hawes.

Moriarty glanced up, frowning. He had been lost in rêverie; most regrettable. “Show him in,” he said, closing both books and piling them neatly on his right. Leofric swept into the study, an air of brash confidence roiling in his wake. He dropped his hat on to the desk and sat without an invitation, one hand resting on his walking stick. Moriarty lay back in his chair, retreating into the dimness behind the sunlight streaming through his window.

“The news from Germany seems to agree with you, Your Grace.”

Leofric’s pale face spread in a wide grin. “And why should it not? Soon we shall have another kaiser – a fresher, more invigorated one. Through which the Fatherland may finally realise its destiny.”