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

Not being at all sure what to make of the mystery bottle, Edwin stood it on the table and stroked his chin. While, unsurprisingly, the items arranged before him did not seem overly likely to conceal a hitherto unknown novel about the amazing Alice, they still might contain many deep insights into Dodgson’s life and works. But there really was only one way to be sure whether any of them may have any use at all. And so Edwin resolved to work his way through his finds, one by one. He was tempted to start with the photographs, as he felt they could perhaps be examined more swiftly than the various writings, but Edwin rejected the notion on the grounds that they were also less likely to shed any light on either Dodgson’s mathematical research or his literary endeavours. At first glance, the notes seemed rather unclear, if not decidedly cryptic. They would require quite some time to study properly. Nodding to himself, Edwin resolved to begin by reading the letters from Professor M.

While Edwin was not always the most organised of men, he was reasonably diligent and methodical. He began by sorting the professor’s letters into date order. Then, with the earliest first, he began to read. It quickly became apparent that Charles Dodgson and the professor must have held each other in high regard, either academically or intellectually, and it seemed they may perhaps have been good friends, for in the course of the correspondence, M. had suggested Dodgson might like to play a game of logic and deduction with him. The professor would pose a problem, the solution to which, if Dodgson were to solve it, would lead Dodgson to the location of the next clue.

What a jolly old fellow, thought Edwin. I wish more professors were like him. In Edwin’s own experience, most members of the university staff not only did not possess a sense of humour, they vehemently objected to their students doing anything that might be considered enjoyable under any circumstances.

Reading further, it was obvious Dodgson must have accepted this amusing challenge, for the next few letters each contained complex riddles, mathematical puzzles, codes, cyphers and perplexing problems of the most baffling nature. How Dodgson had unriddled these mysteries remained unknown. Unless … thought Edwin, perhaps the handwritten notes might shed some light on this? But regardless of the methods he had employed, clearly Dodgson had indeed solved M.’s enigmas – and Edwin suspected he would have thoroughly enjoyed the process of doing so. He also wondered whether the professor had been pleased to have his conundrums picked apart so easily, or whether M. would have felt annoyed that an intellect existed to rival his own? Judging by the letters, the professor certainly was something of a genius when it came to plotting out cunning mental tricks and traps. At times his writing suggested a hint of intellectual arrogance. Yet it seemed Dodgson had always been able to best M. in this game of wits.

At last, Edwin began to read the last of the letters from the mysterious Professor M.

In it, M. congratulated Dodgson on how well he had played their game thus far, and then, rather than immediately present another puzzle, Professor M. began to expound upon a somewhat disturbing subject. At least, it would have been unsettling were it not so obviously a joke. It had to have been a light-hearted addition to the game. Surely it must …

At that moment, Edwin was distracted by a pencilled addition to the inked writing of the letter. The professor’s habitual “M.” had been circled on this particular sheet, a line drawn from it, and in the margins, in what looked very much like Dodgson’s handwriting, was a question mark and the comment “Why does M. never sign his name?” This meant very little to Edwin, although for some reason he had a nagging feeling that maybe he should know the identity of Professor M … Then again, Oxford was always awash with so many doctors and professors, it probably wasn’t of any particular significance.

M. had introduced a new topic into this last letter. It would have been scandalous if it were not framed purely as an exercise in logic. The professor had begun by asking a question.

“Have you given any consideration to the problem of how one might commit the perfect crime? From the standpoint of the logician, it is a most interesting subject upon which to formulate an analysis.”

While Edwin would admit that, from an entirely abstract perspective, the question was harmless enough and might be interesting to idly speculate upon, nevertheless there was something about the change in the tone of the writing that subtly disturbed him. The professor continued, expanding on his theme and offering a few hints as to his thoughts on how a “perfect crime” might be constructed – from a purely logical and hypothetical standpoint, of course. As ethically questionable as the subject may have been, Edwin did find M.’s suggestions compelling – but there was a far more startling revelation to come. Having once introduced the subject, within a few paragraphs the professor went on to state that he had, theoretically, devised a method for committing such a “perfect” crime, but then he stopped short of explaining the details of his theorem. There was a trace of sardonic mockery in M.’s writing as he all but boasted of this artfully crafted master plan, constructed upon simple logical premises yet which he also described more than a little challengingly as being “an unsolvable enigma”.

Edwin frowned and again wondered where he had heard of a Professor M. before. He shook his head and returned to read the closing paragraph of the letter:

“Would you like to know the details of my perfect crime? Would you really? The question in my mind remains, are you worthy to know this secret? I propose a final round to our game of logic and deduction. If you solve my greatest riddle (and with this you will either sink or swim) then you will be led to a message in a bottle – you will most certainly recognise this if you are clever enough to find it. In my final letter I shall withhold no secrets, rather I will lay all information before you, demonstrating exactly how a man might commit a perfect crime and yet despite this I most decidedly assure you, the crime is of such a nature that even with evidence fully provided it will never be solved. Here is your puzzle.”

The rest of the sheet of paper had been torn off, but Edwin was not overly interested to know what the professor’s last riddle may have been. Whatever it was, it was perfectly obvious that Dodgson had solved it – the proof was standing on the table before him. Edwin sat, staring at the strange sealed bottle with its enigmatic envelope nestling inside it.

And then another mystery occurred to Edwin. Having deduced the solution to M.’s final puzzle, why then had Charles Dodgson not opened the bottle?

The young man frowned and stared at the letter. All he could see was “Read Me”.

And then he decided that he would.

Somewhat hesitantly, he broke the scarlet wax seal around the top of the bottle, removed the cork and vainly attempted to reach the envelope inside. A strange but not altogether unpleasant fragrance emanated from the bottle, filling his nostrils and almost making him sneeze. It had a heavy note of perfume. Absent-mindedly, he wondered if the letter inside the bottle had been written by a lady, for surely a gentleman would not have scented his writing materials in such a fashion? Unless perhaps he was a foreigner? Edwin was sure there were plenty of European professors with a surname beginning with “M” … Maybe a Professor Medici or a Professor Machiavelli or somesuch? A hint of the Orient had seemed to suggest itself amid the pungent miasma that assailed his nose. A Professor Ming or perhaps a Professor Manchu? It seemed unlikely … After a few moments spent in a fruitless attempt to reach the envelope by alternately inserting a finger into the neck of the bottle and then, abandoning this approach, turning the bottle upside down and shaking it, he eventually decided that the simplest course of action would be to break the bottle. He reached for a heavy candlestick that had been conveniently left upon the table. Remembering that he had been instructed to avoid making a mess, he first carefully wrapped the bottle in a fold of the tablecloth then struck it sharply with the base of the candlestick. Nothing happened, but a second harder blow produced a satisfying splintered cracking sound. Cautiously, Edwin placed the open top of the tea chest under the table, unfolded the tablecloth from around the bottle and let the combination of broken glass and sealed envelope fall into the otherwise empty tea chest. Then he reached carefully inside and retrieved the envelope, which he found was held shut by a blob of black sealing wax bearing the imprint of a skull, with the word “memento” and a larger ornate “M” embossed beneath.