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

We were using the stage of the Opera House, a space that suggested the dimensions of a ballroom dance floor well enough. The manager of the theatre owed me a favour, which I was intending to call upon if ever a paramour caught my attention enough to warrant a moment of privacy about the stage door; but I decided that this was a more exciting reason to call in my favour and take temporary ownership of the stage.

Moriarty stumbled through a passable imitation of the Modjeska Waltz – the complex patterning was simpler to his numerically inclined mind than the turns of the standard waltz and foxtrot. He placed his hands on his thighs, bending over slightly in a cruel parody of the gentlemanly bow with which the dance had begun, and breathed and wheezed out his hatred of the activity. I made no response to his complaining, and merely amused myself by making faces at the painted cherubim that decorated the opera boxes.

‘So, ah, when,’ he asked, between gulps of breath, ‘we approach the duchess—’

‘I have heard enough criminal machinations,’ I said, and before he could take another gulp of air to protest my use of the word ‘criminal’: ‘Let us run through the middle-turns twice more.’ He made groans of protest, which I ignored. ‘This is the part where the partners change, Professor! It is the most important part of all to get right.’

The professor grumbled his way through the rehearsal and, following that, he suffered regularly for two lessons per week until the date of the ball. I confess, I was surprised that he committed to the full programme. After the first lesson I felt sure he would refuse the scheme. I was starting to wonder if I had underestimated his desire to obtain the Duchess’s brooch.

The ballroom was built to resemble a grand Orangery, or perhaps it was a grand Orangery once upon an era. Its glass-domed ceiling was open to the sky, and we were blessed with a clear canopy of stars. The great space was lit on all sides with candles and framed with gleaming wood, silk and silver. The musicians played a selection of pieces arranged for strings and bassoon. The waiters moved with brisk efficiency around the samovars and between the great teetering settings of sweetmeats and jellies in the shape of castles. And the guests themselves were the prize jewels. Filling the great hall – although not, yet, approaching the dance floor – were dukes and barons, countesses and princesses, and everywhere glinted tiaras and medals.

I suppose the more excitable kind of reporter might have called it ‘glittering’.

We approached the ballroom and my name was announced at the door but the professor was not even asked his. I wonder now whether this was a deliberate move on his part, whether coins had changed hands at an earlier stage in order to bring about this cloak of anonymity. But I was occupied with making the necessary small talk with the other guests as I deposited my furs with a porter (including a minor peer who claimed he had once sent a bouquet to my dressing room, and received no thanks; this was most likely true), and then it was time to descend the stairs to the ballroom. I had no time to quiz the professor as to whether he had made any plans without informing me and, in any case, it was soon put out of my mind. The prince, I noticed, was deliberately avoiding my eye.

We had not been present long when the king had his crystal glass refilled with port, and he tapped on it with what looked like a golden letter opener.

‘My fellow guests!’ he cried, and the hubbub of high society quietened in deference and expectation.

‘You are all most welcome,’ said the king, and he barely concealed a hiccup. I could tell he needed to drink no more port this evening, and the ball had barely begun. ‘We are gathered here to celebrate the coming-of-age of my son and heir, Prince—’ and here he named his son, who I protect here with the same anonymity the professor was currently enjoying by my side. There were several names and titles, and the king named them all. Finally, we were encouraged to applaud the existence of this young man.

‘Thank you, Father,’ said the prince, and at his voice the king sat down heavily, visibly confident in his son finishing the required address. (Perhaps the prince had made deductions that matched my own regarding the king’s capacity to speak with vast quantities of port and brandy wine inside him.)

‘Thank you, everyone,’ he said. ‘I would like to thank you all for attending tonight. I am truly honoured to have so many excellent friends.’ I fought the temptation to snort. ‘In honour of the occasion, I have asked one of the nation’s most skilled composers to create a dance for us. Thank you.’ And he made a gesture at the conductor, and bowed for further applause. It was hardly a triumph of oratory.

I was surprised, furthermore, that the prince had not presented the Dowager Duchess of Croome with the brooch. Professor Moriarty had been insistent that it would happen before we took to the floor, so that he might examine it during his twirl with the duchess. His puzzled frown suggested that we had an accord of confusion.

The conductor gestured for silence and the first, gentle strings of the new composition floated over our heads from the violas and cellos. It would have been pleasant, had I not been with a man plotting something akin to high treason in three-three time.

‘That’s the Modjeska Waltz,’ said I. ‘It is time, Professor, to prove that you belong here.’

‘You mean,’ said he, ‘it is time to prove that we belong here.’

‘No,’ said I. ‘You seem to be forgetting that I was already invited.’

‘Ah! My mistake. You were always on the guest list, of course.’ If the strings had not been soaring at that very moment, I might have thought more carefully about this remark. As it was, we had no time. We reached the floor, bowed and curtsied as required, and positioned ourselves ready to begin the dance.

The understanding reader will indulge me for a moment in a minor side note about the matter of ballroom dancing.

There are two roles in ballroom dance: he who leads, and she who follows. To he who leads, therefore, it follows that even the dance with the speediest and most frequent partner changes will flow as smoothly as if he were dancing alone. To she who follows, each partner brings a host of potential dangers, embarrassing errors and awkward collisions, each new body the host of an unknown collection of possible faults, idiosyncrasies, potential tumbles and physical suffering. For the most part, at the manner of event we were enjoying, the men were, of course, highly practised and considerate partners. But she who follows can never truly relax during such an occasion, as she never knows what her next partner will bring, and how she will need to adjust her own performance so that he who leads can continue to remain unaware of the challenges his dancing brings.

I mention all of this because, to whit, I wish it to be known, formally, dear reader, that I accomplished everything Professor Moriarty did, albeit I frequently found myself going backwards, and in a pair of stolen heels.

But I shall explain the latter in good time. Let us return to the ballroom.

We had successfully performed the first steps of the dance, and had made it beyond the first turn. Ballroom dances proceed in promenade, and I had made sure to begin in a position that gave us a long wall to travel down, to allow the good professor as much time as possible to get into the rhythm of things before we were forced to turn a corner. But eventually, the necessity of moving about a finite space could not be avoided, and the first chaînés en dedans approached us.

The professor’s jaw was set firm, and there was fierce concentration in his eyes. Even the most casual onlooker would know that he was counting. I decided against reminding him of the need to smile, as I felt certain it wouldn’t help his mood. We managed the corner thanks to my subtle steering – I dreaded to think how the professor would get on without a guide. He was in the arms of fate, as were his partners.