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

I had a momentary respite when the first change arrived. The professor positively had to be pushed away from me. I enjoyed the small talk of a friendly young man who claimed to be a writer and wit living in the city, who told me he had witnessed my Desdemona at the Royal and enjoyed it immensely.

Having not yet played Desdemona, I made do with giving him the ghost of a smile.

When Moriarty returned, he clutched my wrist as if it were the only thing keeping him on the floor.

‘It is nonsense,’ he said, already out of breath, ‘to change on the three, when mathematically it is not at all expedient—’ Mercifully, he was whisked away again. It took another minute or two of rapid changing of partners – I enjoyed the solid steps of a considerate brigadier and suffered through a clumsy duke with far too loose a shoulder line, and damp hands – until we were together once again for the next quarter-turn.

‘I despise this,’ said the professor.

‘I am hardly having a debutante’s delight,’ I replied.

‘Let us take the brooch now, and escape this infernal place.’ The ordeal of dancing had made him anxious to commence the scheme and hasten our opportunity to leave. I sympathised, but it was far too soon, and I opened my mouth to protest. ‘The duchess is ahead,’ he said. ‘Let us—’

‘Professor!’ I hissed, ‘the prince has not yet presented—’ But I was too late. After what followed, I feared I could never again spend time in polite society.

To describe the horror briefly: with the insistent strength of the professor pulling me along, we danced out into a glittering tailspin, rocketed past the four couples ahead of us and stumbled directly into the duchess as she danced with a dashing dragoon.

I heard a crack in my right foot, and braced myself for agonising pain. Fortunately – or perhaps unfortunately, given what happened after – it had come from my shoe, not my foot, and an examination revealed the heel had broken. I wanted to scream with frustration; damn the professor and his entire expedition!

The prince ran to the aid of the duchess and continued to studiously ignore me as he helped her walk to the edge of the dance floor. In response, the dragoon made a show of helping me arise and walk to safety. This was difficult, given the condition of my newly broken shoes, which I confess I allowed the dragoon to assume was a limp born of injury.

The biggest concern – and the focus of the rest of the guests – was directed at the professor himself. He had performed his out-of-control waltz so well the ballroom was humming with worries about the frailty of the man. Eventually, he had assured everyone of his health to their satisfaction, and he joined me. I was still sitting where the dragoon had placed me, having bid him adieu so he might jostle with the prince for care of the duchess. All the attention was focused on that end of the ballroom, while at the other, the professor approached the actress.

‘I have it!’ said Moriarty, hissing at me through great excitement. He took out the pocket watch from his waistcoat, and I saw the red glint of the ruby setting.

So the prince had presented the duchess with the brooch – at an earlier, private moment, before the ball began! I wondered, and the reader will forgive my vanity, whether this had something to do with my own presence.

‘You have successfully committed a serious crime,’ I said, ‘but I fear we have greater problems. The stumble has damaged the heel of one of my shoes.’

‘No matter!’ he cried. ‘Let us ask my good friend the porter whether he might find us any spares lying about the place.’ And, before I could protest, I was being steered to this curious man’s station, which through the whole evening had been maintained with military stillness and concentration by the door. They had a whispered conversation beyond my earshot, after which the porter swiftly disappeared.

(I have since wondered whether this mysterious porter fits descriptions I have heard of one Colonel Sebastian Moran. Although the porter does roughly match what I know of this dastardly gentleman’s description, I would not feel comfortable confirming this as fact. For one, surely such a figure as the colonel would be instantly recognisable to a great number of those present at the ball. Instead, I am afraid to say that the identity of the professor’s wicked assistant still eludes me. I understand he has many helpers spread throughout his home city and beyond.)

The porter brought me a box he assured me contained a pair of replacement shoes, and said, ‘The prince was keeping these for just such an emergency.’ Then he winked at me! – after which he returned to his place by the door. I sighed, no longer able to contain my foreboding about the recent turn of events, and opened the box. The shoes beneath the crepe paper were very fine. They were shining with diamonds and decorated with a delicate filigree. Further inspection revealed the coat of arms on the sole – to my horror, I realised that these shoes belonged to none other than the Dowager Duchess of Croome!

I could not return the shoes without making it obvious to the whole ball that I knew the dowager duchess was keeping spare items of her wardrobe in the prince’s stores.

Moriarty smiled and, for the first time, I felt I was able to see through the passionate mathematician and eccentric if harmless scholar. I saw an entirely different person lurking beneath. I felt I was looking into the eyes of the very devil.

‘And now, my dear Miss Adler,’ said the professor, ‘perhaps one more dance, or we might take a turn about the samovar, and I propose we leave the evening. I have had quite enough of high society, and, I assume, so have you. Waiter! Champagne!’

The robbery was discovered shortly before the last dance of the evening, when the prince and duchess came together and presumably attempted a secret look at the brooch that bound them together. By that point the professor had already bid me adieu, and the porter had opened the door for him, bowing him through it. We had made some more small talk with the various guests, and taken a few turns around the ballroom, but we did not dance again. When the time came to escape the evening, Moriarty was comfortable leaving me on my own, satisfied that putting me in a pair of stolen shoes would stop me from drawing any attention to myself. The duchess’s outcry at the discovery of the stolen brooch had set the ballroom alight, and the prince (and the dragoon) called for their pistols. Soon the ball had dissipated into uproar and, if one listened carefully, one could already hear the newspapers preparing the story. This would not be limited to the society pages.

Moriarty had the reputation, among those who knew him as a criminal, of pulling off a stunning coup de crime . He had removed a priceless brooch from under the nose of the Prince of B—. (And the king, too, although he had been snoring in his chair since the welcome speeches.) News of the theft mingled in the air above the guests as they whispered and screamed, and shot up into the sky, spreading across London. Those listening out for tales of crime – perhaps in Baker Street, over the sound of their violin – would surely know instantly that Moriarty was responsible for such a terrible accomplishment.

But, I am happy to say, if I did contribute to the professor’s already formidable reputation in this city, let it be known that I did, at least, remove some of the satisfaction in this particular case. I may have aided Moriarty the master criminal, but I scuppered Moriarty the mathematician.

Even as the uproar began, I was leaving the Orangery. In the grounds, before I hailed a hansom, I paused by the hedge maze and felt beneath my breast. I removed the brooch from an inner pocket of my coat. I had sewn the pocket in myself, and used it to store the trinkets of paramours I felt could afford to lose the weight. I looked at the stone. The professor had not noticed my taking it from his waistcoat pocket as he beckoned a waiter to pour champagne, with which he toasted our success. To store it in my skirts I only required a split-second loss of concentration from the good professor; I got it when he tipped the porter a salute, and a wink.