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

He watched me slyly. ‘I have to warn you of this person,’ he said, ‘and his sidekick, whose primary function, it would seem, is to make my adversary appear more intelligent than he is.’

I listened and learned. He was silent for a moment before he added softly, ‘I may not always be here for you.’

I pretended I had not heard this unwelcome sentiment.

Even more softly, almost a whisper to himself, he mused, ‘He comes ever closer. I must protect you from him.’

Before I continue with my explanations, I must tell you that from that day I met some of my uncle’s associates: Colonel Moran, who was unsure how to treat me and became embarrassed and awkward in my presence as well as alarmed that my uncle was sharing so much confidence with me. Sometimes I would hear him talk to my uncle. ‘James, for goodness’ sake. She is just a child. Do not trust her with such knowledge.’ And his glare at me contained hostility and something else. Something that appraised and frightened me. It was almost as though he perceived me as a rival? A rival? Ridiculous. I was a child. But, all the same, when I felt the chill of those cold blue eyes on me, I would clutch my uncle’s hand tightly, wanting protection. And when Colonel Sebastian Moran looked down at me, as I clutched my uncle’s hand, to my surprise, behind the ice I saw something else – fear. One day, I thought, there might well be conflict. And if I did not have my uncle to protect me would the Colonel still fear me? Or should I fear him? I wondered at this and, like a man flexing his muscles, I tested my own mental strength and found it equal to his.

Uncle James stuck up for me. ‘A child indeed, Sebastian. Twelve years old by the year but with the intelligence of an adult. Surpassing many – no most – adults.’ His face clouded and I knew he would like to have been able to substitute most for all . But his mathematical brain forced him to commit to facts and so even then he had to acknowledge the presence of the other.

‘Why,’ he continued playfully, ‘this is a woman of awesome intelligence still in a child’s body.’ And he would parade me, like a dancing dog, to add up columns of figures or remember some complex cipher. He would show my talents off like a clown taught to catch biscuits in his mouth. And he would have a look of pride when I proved him right time and time again and the words he whispered in my ear made me glow. ‘Well done, Cicely, my dear.’

And, once, I even met Porlock, the traitor, who trailed pathetically behind them, the jackal feeding off the lion’s leavings, the remora cleaning the parasites from the skin of the shark. A lesser being in all ways and, it proved, a traitorous one.

The weak link in the chain who will meet his maker sooner than he thinks. Wait for me, Porlock. I will find you.

So back to the tragedy and its aftermath.

I knew Uncle James was a man who had enemies, a man who was frequently misunderstood. He had told me as such. Sometimes, he would not visit for weeks and I would become anxious and fret, worrying that these enemies were moving closer. ‘Where is Uncle James?’ I would demand of my father and he would pretend at first not to hear me, but busy himself around the station, reluctant to give me an answer. I believe that my father was, in fact, jealous of the relationship between myself and his brother. Perhaps, if not jealous then wary. It fretted him and made him jumpy and nervous. He was suspicious of all strangers, which could make life difficult, as his job as a stationmaster brought him into contact with the general public. He pondered my question as to where his brother was and when he had thought of an answer (for this is what I believe he did, made it all up), he would feed me some far-fetched tale, ‘He is lecturing in Germany’, or ‘researching into some new astronomical phenomenon’. After Uncle James had left the university over a misunderstanding, my father would say he was, ‘away on Army exercises’, as he was subsequently an Army coach. Even, once or twice, when my father could think of no more convincing argument, he would come up with, ‘taking himself a holiday’. Said gruffly in the knowledge that I was aware it was a lie. But I did not pursue the truth.

Uncle James was, of course, an academic, a man who had written books and such men do make enemies, but these jealous rivals (as I initially supposed them to be) seemed to annoy him greatly.

He asked me one day just before my fifteenth birthday what I thought of him being called a criminal.

I thought carefully before I made reply. Slipped my hand in his and looked up trustingly. ‘By whom are you called this?’ And when he did not provide an answer, I continued. ‘It depends on your point of view,’ I said coolly. ‘Crime is simply disagreeing with rules set by a government. Perhaps there are times when those rules should be—’ again I chose my word with great care ‘—ignored.’

He looked utterly thrilled at this. ‘It depends on your point of view,’ he repeated, smiling. ‘Rules should be ignored.’ Then, bright-eyed, ‘Cicely, we need to work. The time has come.’

It began as a game – almost a board game – though I was perfectly aware that it was, in fact, a test. He drew plans of a building. Doorway, windows, access front and back. A burglar alarm and a safe. He looked at me sideways, his face curious and alight. ‘With what do you associate a safe?’

‘With money, Uncle.’

‘And so they protect it.’

I dropped my eyes back over the diagram and saw at once what detail he had filled in. ‘But,’ I began and his eyes now were aflame.

‘That is true. So the test is, my dearest child, how do you gain access to the building without attracting attention? And then how do you extract the money from the safe?’ He held up one long bony index finger. ‘Not you, my dear,’ he said quickly. ‘I would not risk you. This is a theoretical problem. We employ others to carry out the deed. Others less important. We are the conductor of the orchestra, they the second fiddles. And we take steps to ensure that should events go awry they are not aware of our identity. This is an important detail, Cicely. You see, my dear, this is a game of no risk. For remember, even with the best of planning things can go wrong. Events can become subject to the rule of chance, which is no rule at all but the sad tendency of events to entangle themselves and introduce entropy, chaos and what less scientific brains might call bad luck. A policeman wandering tardily on a beat when he should have been long gone. A nosey neighbour, a barking dog. An obstruction. The risks are endless. No. We are, you and I, simply the brains behind it. That is our role. We have the ideas and the means to think of a way through the maze. We can evaluate possibilities; work out risk potential. They cannot. They are simple henchmen. The foot soldiers in our game.’

Another eagle’s glance. ‘And, tell me, Cicely, what if you should doubt the loyalty of one of these – erm – henchmen?’

I simply looked at him. Words were quite unnecessary. Our looks exchanged a thousand of them, flowing in a river of silent conversation. All the dark deeds and punishment meted out to traitors, the cruelty that was sometimes necessary to discipline. We understood one another.

I hardened my eyes and my mouth and uttered one word: ‘Dispensable.’

He smiled his agreement, nodding that large head like a wise old mandarin. His hand twitched as though he would have patted me on the head. But he remembered himself and desisted, straightening his shoulders and moving back.

Then he returned to the question and the diagram. ‘And so?’

I looked down and immediately saw the weak points. The burglar alarm on the outside of the building was a simple hammer attached to a bell. A piece of leather inserted before the door was opened would muffle the sound sufficiently. I relayed this fact to Uncle James and his mouth curved with pleasure. ‘That,’ he said, ‘was too simple a test.’ His gaze returned to the diagram and his finger moved to point out the second obstacle he had drawn. ‘And the safe?’