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

“No,” Moriarty said.

“Good,” Martin replied, and walked on.

Martin had clearly been down in the tunnels before, and Moriarty once more noted that one might move and act, unseen, beneath the surface of things. He allowed himself a smile in the semi-darkness.

“I know the way,” Martin said, and then added, in a more sinister tone, “it’s like the valley of the shadow of death, isn’t it? Like in the psalms they taught us at school.”

Moriarty thought that, in the close, dark environment, fear was more of a concern than the shadow of death.

Underfoot, the surface was treacherous and slippery, and Moriarty stepped with care. Martin seemed unconcerned how closely he was following, and it occurred to Moriarty that Martin would not care if he slipped and fell and was swept away. He had the money from the game, and that was as far as his interest went.

“When will I get my share of the winnings?” he asked.

Martin glanced back at him, and Moriarty could not see the expression on the boy’s face, but his tone made it clear he was scowling.

“Later,” Martin said. “When we’re back above ground.”

He said it without conviction. Moriarty frowned slightly, but still he followed, and they stepped around a corner, and came to a point where the tunnel system opened up and the flow of the Fleet dropped some twenty or so feet, like a miniature waterfall. The sound was very loud now, and the stench even more pungent and close. Moriarty tried to breathe through his mouth, but it made little difference.

Ahead of him, Martin had slowed down, and was peering over the edge of their narrow walkway into the maelstrom below.

“Quite a drop,” Martin shouted. “This path leads to the way out.”

Martin started to make his way carefully along a narrow brick ledge, and again the florins clinked in his coat.

“You could give me my share of the money,” Moriarty said, giving Martin a second chance. “It would be less heavy for you.”

Martin turned and looked at Moriarty then and, even in the near-dark, Moriarty could see the glint of his teeth as he smiled, though it was not in friendship, or even as between business associates. It was jarringly similar to the smile of the mathematics tutor as he stated the nature of Moriarty’s punishment; the smile of someone who believes he has the upper hand, and will win the argument by virtue of age and position. My might, the smile seemed to say, will serve to make me right.

And, as he recognised this and realised what it meant for his prospects of obtaining the money he had earned, Moriarty knew what he had to do.

The smile fell from Martin’s face as he saw Moriarty coming at him with his long arms outstretched. Instinctively, Martin stepped away, but this took his left foot over the brink, and his arms whirled in space for a few seconds. With the florins clinking in his pockets, he lost his balance, and over he went.

Moriarty had stopped advancing after a few steps, but was still close enough to see Martin fall back into the filthy deluge. He hit the surface with a splash, and quickly came up again, choking and spluttering, but then the current took him and bounced his head off the tunnel wall with a muted crack, and he was borne away by the tide.

Moriarty watched, seeing the unconscious boy first bobbing on the surface and then slowly sliding under, the weight of his winnings taking him down, until distance and darkness conspired to make it impossible to see any more.

After a moment of standing and looking and feeling nothing at all, Moriarty started walking once again, following the ledge in what he judged was a southerly direction. He knew he would have to surface soon, but was confident that the three men would have given up the chase by the time he did so. As he walked, he thought about what he had learned this day: that items and events which went unseen might yet have influence, that accidents could be made to happen, and that one might manipulate others through well-chosen ideas and well-timed words whilst remaining unconnected to the events that transpired.

And, he mused, fast-flowing water could swiftly remove a hindrance, leaving no trace.

Half a mile further down the road and observed by no one, Moriarty emerged from beneath the city street, and started making his way back to school. Despite going home without his share of the winnings from the card game, he knew he had gained much this day, that the lessons he had learned would prove more valuable in the years to come than anything that might be taught in a classroom.

The old man, his back bowed and hunched, rested one trembling hand against a lamppost. From his expression, his rheumy eyes might have seen nothing at all. Or, perhaps, he merely watched the Whitechapel crowds that eddied and flowed on the dirty cobbles around him. But an astute observer, had there been such to study him, might have noticed that his venerable head tilted a bit and his gaze grew sharper when a dark-haired lad, cap pulled low over his face, approached.

The lad looked like any tradesman’s apprentice, albeit cleaner than most. His pants bore only a few scuffs and patches and his hand, when he moved it from his pocket to pull his cap down lower on his forehead, was pale and nearly clean. He walked briskly past the old man and down a side street, as if bound on an errand for his master.

The man unbent slightly and walked after the lad, shedding a few years with his strides as he moved. The two might have been nothing more than two men hurrying on errands, or looking for a pint before nightfall. There was no reason for the old man not to walk down that particular street in the London dusk and settling fog. No reason for him to take a different direction from the lad’s, if such was not his destination.

Ahead of him, the boy stopped to look up at a nondescript shop, a former tailor’s establishment with rooms above it. His movement exposed an expanse of pink cheek, one still too young to have known a razor’s edge. Then, as if he knew that he was being watched, he spun on his heel and began walking briskly away, his strides stopping just short of a run.

The man followed, his walk still slow and a little unsteady. The youth might have outpaced him easily enough, vanishing into the fog that was drifting to cover the end of the street, if another man hadn’t stepped out in front of him. The boy went to dodge around him, but was stopped by heavy hands on his collar and his arm.

“I’ve been looking for you, Miss Adler. Or, should I say, Mrs Norton?” The old man’s voice was deep and hollow, with a touch of the sibilant. That voice alone might have been enough to halt a brave man in his tracks.

The boy struggled against his captor, his expression shifting swiftly from annoyance to fear, then that abruptly smoothed over with a bland, puzzled expression. “You got the wrong lad, guv. I ain’t no Miss Adler or any Mrs Norton.” His voice was nasal with an accent that echoed London’s backstreets and poorer quarters. “Chilton, apprentice to Master Carragher, the printer, that’s who I be.”

“Let us not waste time with these games, Mrs Norton. You have something that I need, and I fancy that I have something of yours.” The old man gestured and they heard a distant whistle. Shortly thereafter, a black coach rolled up to the cobbles next to them. The horse snorted and tossed its head, making the harness jingle, and the boy jumped, his face at once a painting of fear and suspicion.

He, or rather, she, looked at the old man, “Who are you?” Looking at the erstwhile lad now, that same astute observer might have seen a lass in boy’s clothes, as her confidence ebbed away. Or, perhaps, he would have seen just a very frightened boy, though he might not understand the reason for that fear.