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

It came to me via the usual routes for society gossip, tipping out of the opera boxes down to the ‘merely players’ on the stage below, the news that the King of B— was organising a ball for his son, to be held in the city; and it was perhaps due to my prominence as the Countess of Figaro that season that I was presented with a gilt-edged invitation. I make no claims on my vanity as an actress (or, indeed, as a dancer) as to why the professor called upon me. Neither did he wish to accompany me to the ball for the chance to dabble in society. He hinted towards the fact that he and I were the only two minds ever to best our mutual friend, and that this was the reason for seeking me out, and not attempting to gain entry to the ball another way. This did flatter me, I confess. But I have reason to believe, in the cold mist of dawn, that even this was only a front for obtaining an invitation.

I was in my dressing room shortly after a performance of Mimi, given to great acclaim, although La Bohème does not, artistically, stretch me. A boy brought me a visitor’s card – and although I have thought at length upon it since, I cannot now remember why I chose to pay attention to this card in particular, as so many came my way. Perhaps it was the lack of embarrassing praise, confessions of love, poetic follies, amateur drawings. No, only a request to meet, the naming of a respectable tea house in a fashionable part of London quite far from the theatre, a table number (most intriguing!) and a time. And a coat of arms, which I did not at first recognise. I was curious – perhaps the first moves of the dance between us were being felt out, even then. I told the boy to return to the giver of the card with the news that I agreed to the meeting. After that I was preoccupied with rehearsals and fending off would-be paramours until the appointed date.

The tea house my mysterious companion had chosen was one known for its discretion. Young men hovered around the edges ready for any reason they might be needed, while remaining distant enough that the diners could maintain their privacy. I arrived approximately seven and a half minutes late (as is my wont) only to find the reserved table empty, but, as soon as I had announced my name to the maître d’ and been seated by the window, a cream tea was set before me.

‘I do apologise for the mistake,’ I said, ‘but I have not placed an order.’ I did not wish to deprive the cream tea’s true owners of their afternoon delicacy.

‘No, ’s definitely for this table, miss,’ said the serving boy, as he placed the jam and milk down. ‘Sir says you are welcome to start, miss.’ Only a slight quiver to his hands betrayed his nervousness; new to the role, perhaps. ‘He said to say he’ll b-be with you anon.’ I recognised the stutter over a learnt line.

I thanked the boy – my companion’s impudence was not his fault – and decided to pour my tea. A moment passed which I spent gazing out of the window, before a silver-topped cane passed by my place and, within another moment, a gentleman was sitting opposite me.

He wore a topcoat whose slight shabbiness belied its original expense, and when he removed it I noticed that his grey suit, as fine as it was, was fraying at the edges. The chain of a pocket watch glinted from his velvet waistcoat, and the silver-topped cane was placed gently down, against his chair, frequently toyed with and never out of his reach. The overall impression was of a man who rarely attended such a social event as afternoon tea, although he could afford to do much more.

‘Do I have the pleasure of sitting opposite the great Irene Adler?’ he cried. I nodded, and any nervous tension he was carrying disappeared to be replaced by an eager courtesy that belied his years. ‘It is a pleasure to make your acquaintance at last. I do beg your pardon for my lateness; a measure to determine that I would not be surprised by … any unexpected guests.’ As I was not fully acquainted with the professor’s criminal reputation at this point, this struck me as only mildly eccentric – not justifiably cautious!

‘And you are?’

‘Oh! I do beg your pardon.’ He stood and leaned over awkwardly to shake my hand across the table – thus compiling a baffling set of social inadequacies that marked him out as a professor more readily than the chalk marks on his lapel ever would. ‘James Moriarty, at your service,’ he said.

‘And what brings you to request the pleasure of a cream tea in this particular establishment?’ I said. ‘It is beyond the salary of a poor actress. I imagine also that it is outside of the usual range of experience for a scholar.’

‘I am attempting to establish a social life,’ he said, and gave a nervous laugh that showed he recognised – and respected – my correct deduction of his profession. (Although it was, of course, only half correct.) He then contradicted his stated desire for sociability: ‘Madam, I shall get straight to the point.

‘I have a great interest in the musico-social event that has been recently announced in honour of the Prince of B—. An impudent whelp, by my reckoning, to require his father to throw a ball so that he might reveal himself before everyone like a society debutante.’ He checked his annoyance, and continued. ‘In any case, the event is to be hosted by George Frederick St Clare, the King of B—, one month from today. I do not need to outline these facts to you, of course, as from what I have seen of the society pages, you will be gracing the occasion yourself.’

I nodded. It was a novelty for a man to be so forthright about the extent of his prior research.

He continued: ‘I have invited you here, then, if I may put it bluntly, to beg you to attend with me as your guest.’

This surprised me – I have rarely known such bluntness, and was not expecting such an assertion from a man who seemed to be all elbows, and visibly desperate to return to his inkwells, or his abacus, or some such environment, not a ball for the highest of society. (I still had the man in mind as a shuffling, shy academic at this point, I confess.)

‘I wish to attend the ball, Miss Adler, because I wish to gain a closer inspection of a specific gift the society pages inform us the prince will be presenting to the Dowager Duchess of Croome.’

‘A brooch,’ I said, to show that I was as knowledgeable as he about this event, and did not need it explaining. ‘We believe the prince and his father have designs on arranging a marriage to one of the duchess’s many relatives. This gift is to sweeten the strength between the two families.’

I said we believe to make the professor assume that we were still talking about information gleaned from the society pages and the gossip of chorus girls, but I had heard this from a very close source and knew it to be the case.

‘Indeed,’ he said, and continued to outline his plan. ‘I must be absolutely honest with you, Miss Adler. If the timing is right, and I am able, and, with your good assistance, I will be able to – I wish to obtain the brooch for myself. Merely to inspect it, nothing more. No damage shall be done to it, of course. It is priceless, et cetera. But it is vital that it is in my capable hands by the end of the ball. The trick, as I see it, will be to take it after it has been officially presented to the duchess. The crowd will have seen it go to what is presumed to be its rightful home; and then we get closer to it by means of strategic socialising – I leave this in your responsibility, as an actress – and remove it before we leave the ball.’

‘Well,’ I said, when he had finished. ‘The plan you outline sounds foolish at best; criminal at worst.’

He merely nodded; clearly this much he already knew. So I continued.

‘The chief problem, as I see it, sir, will be convincing the guests that you belong amongst their number. As respected as you may be in your field, this is a grand occasion. There will be few present who do not own, or lay claim to, at least two countries in the Commonwealth.’