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

The asteroid fragment itself was not stunning to look at; it was grey and did not sparkle. One could hardly countenance that it had dropped on to our humble orb from the depths of space, only to be locked into a ruby-studded mount for a dowager duchess to aid the politicking of a sycophantic prince.

I ground the asteroid to dust beneath the heel of my stolen shoes, and hailed a cab to return me to London, and thence to continue my own travels.

To this day I could not say, looking back over my dance with Professor Moriarty moment by moment, who was leading, and who followed behind.

The old Queen had been dead for over a year, but the weather was much the same. In Baker Street, the gas lamps were obscured in equal measure by the yellow mist that had rolled in off the Thames and the large white snowflakes that had been falling since teatime. A dozen cabs had rattled past, all fully occupied, at first to our resigned amusement but increasingly to our profound annoyance. We had a table waiting for us at Simpson’s in the Strand at seven o’clock, but we were still no more than a few yards from our rooms.

Holmes took out his gold half-hunter and frowned. ‘I think, Watson, that we should abandon any hope of transport in this weather and resign ourselves to walking to our destination. If we put our best foot forward, we shall still be at Simpson’s on time.’

‘Walk from Baker Street to the Strand in twenty-five minutes?’ I exclaimed. ‘It will take thirty-five at least.’

Holmes smiled for the first time since we had set out. ‘Twenty-five and not a minute more. If we are not at our table by seven, Watson, then I shall be happy to pay the bill for both of us at the end of the evening.’

I shook my head doubtfully. ‘If we are there by seven, which I do not think possible, then I shall of course pay.’

‘It is in the nature of wagers, Watson, that there is some reciprocity of risk, though the “mug” bears most of it. I hope you have some cash with you.’

‘Mug?’ I enquired.

‘A technical term,’ said Holmes.

I patted the pockets of my ulster and felt my wallet’s reassuring shape. ‘Of course,’ I said. ‘And I give you my word, Holmes, as a former officer and as a gentleman, that I shall not deliberately lag behind.’

Holmes smiled again. ‘As for the guarantee that you offer for your conduct, I think that arch-villain Colonel Moran could have claimed the same distinction. In this new century, His Majesty’s commission is no assurance of gentlemanly behaviour.’

I was about to protest that the morals of the late Professor Moriarty’s henchman could not be allowed to blacken the character of the entire British Army, or even of his own rather unfashionable regiment, but Holmes, giving no such assurances of his own, had already set off at a brisk pace. For some time we proceeded in silence. I was struggling a little to keep up and Holmes’s eyes were fixed on some distant point. He seemed to be recalculating our arrival time as we passed each landmark. Though we walked no faster than I had feared we might, I had not counted on Holmes’s detailed knowledge of the geography of London. Twice we took short cuts that had me baffled for a moment, until we emerged again into some familiar street. The race, it appeared, would be won by brainpower rather than leg muscle alone. But, no sooner had I become convinced that my friend had the better of me and that I would be paying for dinner, than Holmes came to a sudden and unannounced halt at the corner of Bentinck Street and Welbeck Street. He took out his watch again and studied it before replacing it in his waistcoat pocket.

‘Excellent. We have four and a half minutes in hand, Watson. Time I think to have my shoes polished by this gentleman here.’

Holmes indicated an old man, crouched beside his paraphernalia of blacking tins and brushes, wrapped in an old brown overcoat and with a scarf wound round the lower part of his face. There was something about the decrepitude of the figure that invoked disgust but, in a mind as noble as Holmes’s, pity too. He removed an overly generous half-crown from his pocket and held it between two fingers.

‘This is for you, my man, if you can clean these boots to perfection in precisely four minutes,’ he said.

The old bootblack looked up. Perhaps he had been dozing, in spite of the cold, because Holmes’s voice had clearly startled him. But he set to work without a word, dabbing his cloth nimbly and expertly. When he had applied the blacking to one boot however he paused and observed: ‘I see, Mr Holmes, that these boots formerly pinched, but that you have now worn them in satisfactorily.’

Holmes in his turn suddenly looked startled. The great detective was of course used to making deductions of this sort himself, but rarely had anyone returned the favour and analysed either his character or his footwear in this way. His reply was clipped and somewhat ungracious. ‘I should like to know how you have come to that conclusion.’

The bootblack looked up, taking in both Holmes and myself with a long, slow stare. I noticed for the first time his bulbous forehead and piercing eyes.

‘As a bootblack,’ he said, ‘I have acquired an extensive knowledge of shoes and boots of all sorts – ladies’ and gents’ alike. These are clearly expensive and well made but they are of a pattern that was fashionable three or four years ago. They are, however, like new. The heels, always the first part of a shoe to suffer, are still perfect. Why would you buy an expensive pair of boots and then not wear them? The answer is simple: that they were initially very uncomfortable. But you are wearing them now and you and your friend approached at some speed, proving that you now feel no discomfort at all – hence I must conclude that you have finally worn them in.’

I laughed and applauded this strange reversal of roles. I turned to Holmes expecting him also to congratulate the old man but he was scowling at him.

‘You finally recognise me then?’ sneered the bootblack.

‘How could I not?’

‘Who is this person, Holmes?’ I asked.

‘Someone you know well, but have never seen, except for a moment as his train sped past us at Canterbury,’ said Holmes. ‘Somebody neither of us ever expected to see again.’

‘Professor Moriarty?’ I said, in disbelief. ‘But …’

The old man unwound his scarf and, for the first time, I found myself face to face with my friend’s most implacable enemy. There was an old scar that ran from his temple to his jawline. ‘You thought I was dead?’ he asked.

‘If you don’t think it impolite of me, I had rather hoped so,’ said Holmes. ‘We struggled. I overcame you. I saw you fall …’

Moriarty shook his head. ‘It is true that I slipped from that ledge above the Reichenbach Falls.’

‘That was no slip,’ I interjected. ‘Holmes defeated you by using the ancient art of baritsu. Had he not, he would have perished at your hands.’

‘Baritsu?’ Moriarty sneered. ‘Was that what he called that strange posturing and flailing of his arms? Was that why he uttered those shrill noises that he possibly imagined to be Japanese? The path was wet. I had been waiting there for some time. It is hardly surprising that I could not keep my footing. I simply stumbled and fell. But the pool below the waterfall is deep. Very deep. Quite improbably deep. I was temporarily stunned as I struck the water, but its coldness revived me. I rose to the surface, but swimming in that torrent was impossible. I was swept along by the current and dragged under again, this time striking my head against a rock. I do not know what happened next, but some minutes or hours or chapters later I found myself being pulled ashore by a Swiss peasant. He and his wife carried me home, more dead than alive – I mean figuratively rather than mathematically obviously because otherwise I would on balance have been dead.’