‘A simple matter of a stethoscope, Uncle. The turn of a wheel and the recognition of clicks as the cogs fall into place.’
He looked even more pleased. ‘We shall have to increase the difficulty, my dear. That was too easy.’
And so he did. He gave me tests of people protecting themselves in moated houses, of others who surrounded themselves with bodyguards, of traitors who appeared to have vanished into thin air. Of lost identities, of inconvenient corpses, of murders made to look like accidents, and other deaths rearranged to mimic suicide. He gave me names of folk suitable for each job, both men and women, dedicated to carrying out his solutions to problems.
We enjoyed planning our ventures together, sparring as worthy partners as we exchanged ideas and searched for solutions to the most difficult of problems. No problem, I thought one day, with the conceit and confidence of the young, was insurmountable once we had both set our brains to tease it out.
And the spark that kept me alight? His approval initially followed by his admiration, never expressed by other than a light hand on my shoulder, a glow of pride in his eyes and a rare smile.
The problems he set grew ever more challenging. From access to difficult sites to people who protected themselves with locks and chains. But there is no lock that cannot be picked, with patience, a steady hand and a finely tuned ear. And so we sat with our lists of minions and their skills, with plans of buildings, with obstacles to be removed and we matched talent to chore. Then, shortly before my sixteenth birthday, I saw my uncle for the last time. This time he seemed agitated. Troubled – deep in his soul. ‘My enemies close in on me,’ he said, speaking quickly. ‘Time is short and I must leave you, but only for a little while.’ He then confided in me, telling me a secret. One he had kept from me until this time.
I never saw him again. My father remained stubbornly quiet on the matter however many times I pestered him and my mother simply looked blank at my questions, paling and stuttering out the fact that she did not know – anything.
Imagine then my horror to learn of his murder at the hands of that one of his enemies. And for the events to be told as a story, a tale perhaps, to be related to children to frighten them if they failed to behave. Presented as a little light entertainment to be enjoyed by people over their morning toast and marmalade. A small narrative to be gasped and gossiped over at the club. Cheap entertainment for the masses.
I read the detail presented in so cavalier a fashion with mounting fury. The decoying of the doctor, the finding of the Alpinestock. Small details that hammered home my determination to exact revenge. I read on. The two lines of footprints – none to return, the torn brambles and ferns, the letter he had allowed his adversary to write, with the manners of the perfect gentleman he was. And then I too peered over the brink at the terrible falls and saw the white foam I had first seen on the lake. I heard the roar of water in my ears and knew I would never see my uncle again.
Initially, I had only one consolation: that his arch-enemy, spawn of the very devil, had died alongside him.
And then Colonel Moran came to the station to pay his respects, but he seemed distracted.
‘What is it?’ I asked.
‘I am uneasy,’ was his reply. ‘I am not so sure the adversary is so easy to destroy.’
And so it proved.
It took time, but the stooge could not resist crowing at a later date, relating another version.
A most graphic account of my uncle’s death sourced by the eyewitness, the arch-enemy my uncle had needed to destroy. ‘… he, with a horrible scream, kicked madly for a few seconds and clawed the air with both his hands. But, for all his efforts, he could not get his balance and over he went. With my face over the brink, I saw him fall for a long way. And then he struck a rock, bounced off, and splashed into the water.’
I read the account again, so carelessly presented for the entertainment, perhaps reassurance, of the masses and the cold fury spread through me, from my toes to my head, as though I had drunk hemlock. I put my hands over my face to block out light. Not dead then, after all?
Like Christ himself is the arch-enemy to be resurrected? I read of two of my uncle’s henchmen to be dragged before the courts. Colonel Sebastian Moran and ‘Porlock’, the traitor. Paraded in front of the public. By the arch-enemy’s hand.
I made my vow. Resurrected only to be destroyed – next time for ever.
So the moment has now come for me to let you into the secret my uncle confided in me.
I shall relate it exactly how it was told to me.
It was a little before my sixteenth birthday and we were sitting in the station waiting room, a room we had taken over as a base for our operations. Simply putting the ‘Waiting Room Closed’ sign over the door and drawing the blind was an easy way to deter the public.
‘Cicely,’ he said in a soft and gentle voice. ‘I think the time is right for me to tell you a secret.’
I was instantly alerted. ‘If you wish, Uncle.’
He sighed. ‘You are a week short of sixteen, Cicely, old enough now to know what I could not tell you before. I could not have told this to a child.’ He drew in a deep breath and looked disturbed. ‘It involves a lady of whom I was very fond. The only lady whom I have ever considered worthy of my affection. We were – intimate.’
I wondered why he was telling me this but listened.
‘It became evident that there would be issue.’
I held my breath.
He looked away from me. ‘My brother, a poverty-struck stationmaster, and his wife, in poor health and unable to provide him with the child he so longed for. I knew my lifestyle was not conducive or safe for a child unable to protect itself. Merely to share the child’s parenthood would have signed the same child’s death warrant.’ He fixed me with his eyes. ‘You understand what I am saying?’
I did not answer. Nor did I breathe as he continued.
‘And so a bargain was struck that suited us both. But, looking at you, dear Cicely, I see there is more of me in you than I had thought. You have not grown up the daughter of a stationmaster or of a reckless society beauty. You are pure me. You have my intelligence and caution. You have my almost intuitive sense of approaching danger. You have skill and bravery. A method of planning even I can admire. You are a true child of your father. I mean not the father you believe to be yours but your blood father.’ He then whispered the secret in my ear.
And I will share with you that same secret, dear reader .
I whisper it very softly into your ear so others shall not learn of it. For with that knowledge would come, riding on the wings, triumphant as a Valkyrie swooping down on a dead warrior, danger. For my uncle had many enemies, some of whom will meet me one day. One in particular I already have in my sights. And his little stooge, the scribbler. I shall take my revenge. But I have one great advantage. Neither the king-devil nor his backscratcher knows of my existence.
For I am Moriarty’s daughter.
Author’s note:
As anyone knows who is a fan of the Sherlock Holmes stories there are discrepancies in the facts we know about Professor Moriarty. In his first appearance in ‘The Final Problem’, Moriarty is merely referred to as Professor Moriarty. No forename is mentioned. Watson does, however, refer to the name of another family member when he writes of ‘the recent letters in which Colonel James Moriarty defends the memory of his brother’.
In ‘The Adventure of the Empty House’, Holmes refers to Moriarty as Professor James Moriarty. This is the only time Moriarty is given a first name and, oddly, it is the same as that of his purported brother.
Читать дальше