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

Then, within sight of freedom, calamity. A root, or perhaps a claw, caught my foot and graceful Nuth, catlike Nuth, went end over end in the dirt. As I scrambled upright, a black shape flowed towards me, teeth shining like stickpins. There was a flash, and a sound like a boiling tea-kettle, and the shape receded, dripping something foul.

“Up, Mr Nuth,” the Professor intoned, sword-stick extended. Sweat creased his withered features, and I realised that it had been he who had been on my heels. He glanced down at me and smiled, as if he’d read my thoughts. “You have been here before, Mr Nuth. I am no fool, to wander in the dark without a guide.”

As I got to my feet, I saw that we were barely a hair’s breadth from the forest’s edge, but I knew that if we made for it, the gnoles would surely pull us down. The Professor knew it as well, and made no move to run. Instead, he said, “Quite something, that.”

“What?”

“The house – it is not theirs. Or, not their lair. No, they live beneath it, beneath this whole dratted wood, like rats in the walls, or worms in the earth, burrowed down deep in the soil. They stretch down as deep as the tree roots, I expect.” He paused and raised his sword-stick as a gnole drew too close. “Back away, sir. Thank you. But they go down, not out. Only to the circumference of this wood, else all of London would be as a molehill. Curiouser and curiouser.” He looked at me. “There are no emeralds.”

“No,” I said.

“A shame. But treasures are a trifle, compared to knowledge.”

“What of survival?” I asked hoarsely, as the gnoles closed in on us, hemming us in.

“Ah, even better.” Moriarty eyed the gnoles the way a hyena might eye a circling lion: wary respect, tinged with cunning calculation. Moriarty, as I had come to learn, was always calculating. Always thinking, always weaving his schemes, plots and stratagems. That was his art, as thievery was mine. He held up two fingers, and gestured curtly.

The shot, when it came, made no sound. I heard it nonetheless, for I have long practised the skill of hearing what is not there. In the empty space between the breeze and the rasp of creaking branches, I heard the whisper of the bullet as it passed over my shoulder. And then, more loudly, I heard the pumpkingroan of the lead gnole’s head as it split open and spilled out its dark contents on the forest floor. I blinked in shock, and I fancy the gnoles did as well.

Moriarty held up his hand. “Mr Nuth, take one step back. You are in Colonel Moran’s line of fire, by several millimetres.”

I hesitated. The gnoles watched me. Moriarty watched me. Then I took one step back. The gnoles began to move. Moriarty gestured again, and another indistinct shape slumped, strange skull split by the passage of a bullet.

“There is a line, gentlemen,” Moriarty called out. “A line you cannot cross. I have moved it by several paces, as you can observe. It will return to its original place when we are safely away. You understand?” He twitched his hand. It was the gnoles’ turn to hesitate. Then, as one, they shuffled back. His smile was more terrible than any undulation of the gnolish physiognomy I had yet observed. He nodded. “Yes. You can be taught. Good. Perhaps there is a future for you yet in this world.” His smile faded. “Then, perhaps not.” He lowered his hand.

A third and final shot stretched out from the unseen shooter’s weapon and struck a branch, dropping it at the feet of the gnoles. Moriarty held them with his gaze, slightly stooped, hands behind his back, his sword-stick held loosely. Then, without a word, he turned away and strode past me. “Come, Mr Nuth. It has been a tiresome day, and I would be done with forests and the things that creep within them.”

We did not have far to walk. A trap and horse was waiting for us, a man holding the reins. He tipped his cap to Moriarty, as the latter climbed aboard. He ignored me. I did not speak until the horse had plodded along for some time. “What of the others?” I asked.

“I fancy there will be no others. If I am wrong, they will seek me out and I will compensate them accordingly,” he said. Something of my feelings must have crossed my face, for he said, “Cost is subjective, Mr Nuth. And treasures but a trifle. You know that as well as I, I fancy.”

“You knew that they would defeat your machine,” I said.

Moriarty oscillated his head towards me. “I planned for it, yes. That is what I do, Mr Nuth. I plan,” he said. He tapped his veined brow for emphasis. “The devil, as they say, is in the details.”

“You knew that they would pursue us,” I continued. “You wanted them to. You practically taunted them into it, with all your crashing and shootings. Why?”

Moriarty cocked his head. “You tell me, Mr Nuth. You are observant, sir. Surely you have come to some conclusion of your own.”

I met his gaze. He had the air of a tutor, waiting for a student to unravel some theorem. The Professor, at his art. Then, I had it. “You wanted to see if your theory were correct,” I said, slowly.

He smiled, and I knew instantly that I had guessed wrong. He patted my shoulder, as if comforting a particularly dull-witted child. “Stick to your trade, Mr Nuth. And I shall stick to mine.”

And so I did.

And, you may ask, did I ever discern the true motivations behind the Professor’s lesson to the gnoles?

Oh no, my friend.

No one ever learns what the Professor does not wish them to know.

It was Uncle James who taught me to swim. He underlined how important it was. Pointed out that one day it might even save my life. My father, who is a pragmatist, argued with him. He insisted that, as we lived inland and I was not in the habit of frequenting lakes or rivers, it was an unnecessary skill to acquire. ‘Far better for the child to learn to read and perhaps to sew,’ he grumbled, challenging his brother for once. ‘And certainly to cook,’ he added, looking slyly across at me. But already I felt rebellious. I slipped my hand into Uncle James’s and he bent down and winked at me, patting my head. I treasure that memory now. I believe I was eight years old at the time and I knew that if it came to it Uncle James had a stronger character than my father. It would be my father who would back down.

And so it proved. Little more than a week later, my father silently handed me a bathing suit and Uncle James winked at me again. ‘Come, Cicely my dear,’ he said to me. ‘Shall we now go for a drive in the country?’

My father grumbled again and made weak objection. ‘She should be helping her mother. There is work to do around the station, beds to be made, weeds to be lifted, platforms to be swept.’ Uncle James silenced his babble with a stare. It was then that I first realized that my father was not simply in awe of his brother. He was afraid. He soon dropped his eyes and contented himself with bustling importantly around the station, waving flags and strutting up and down the platform.

Uncle James watched him for a moment, almost pityingly, then we left.

He drove me to a nearby lake and left me discreetly in the carriage while I donned my bathing dress and the horses grazed. He himself was soon handsomely attired in a black woollen bathing suit. Tall and thin with a large domed forehead, (an indication of his outstanding mathematical ability) and the bowed shoulders of an academic, he still looked as though he could swim the length and breadth of the lake. I looked up at him, trustingly. He then led me to the water’s edge. It was a warm day but I shivered. I was anxious for Uncle James not to perceive my anxiety and so masked it with a smile, trying to display a confidence I was far from feeling. Of course I wanted to learn to swim, even if only to please him, and yet I was seized with fearfulness as I looked over the lake. The waters were calm, but, as I watched, a small wave lifted and tossed white foam into the air before dropping back into the surface with a loud and threatening splash as though to scare me away. Was this perhaps a premonition? If it was my uncle did not seem to recognize it as such, merely taking a step or two towards the water’s edge and scooping deep breaths in in preparation for the exertion. The lake was near our house and but a short drive away. It would have been easy for me to escape the swimming lesson and run back home. But, as I glanced back along the track and heard the sound of a train puffing into the station, I knew that I could not let my uncle down by showing cowardice. He believed in me. I had to learn to swim at least a stroke or two before I returned to my home.