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

My thanks to you again, Mr Dickens.

Yours faithfully,

When I had finished reading that letter for the first time, all those years ago, I did something quite extraordinary. Even now, I cannot explain why I did it. Or how. It simply happened. I could not hold my hand still that day.

I took up my pen and ink and did this.

Yours faithfully,

K. H. Rochesmolles

Rosie stands in the semi-dark, London fog licking at her face like a rambunctious dog who’s been out running on the fens all day and brings the cold and earthy smell of the outdoors into your warm with him. Only two more girls to go and then it would be her turn. And the girl ahead of her had the advantage of huge breasts, though Rosie has heard her trying to conceal a cough as they stand waiting to be assessed.

But the queue moves quickly and a curvaceous blonde two ahead is refused and Rosie’s buxom neighbour mounts the podium in a rustle of petticoats and unfastens her blouse, her famous bosoms like ripe tropical melons in the window of Fortnum & Mason’s, blue-white in the moonlight with nipples like blobs of black cherry conserve on perfectly turned-out milk puddings. They have to take her , Rosie thinks, but the woman in black whispers something to the doctor and shakes her head, and the voluptuary stalks angrily off, back to the streets, fastening her clothing as she goes.

And then Rosie hears her name called. Feels her feet taking her up the two steps and depositing her in front of the selection panel, her own breathing loud in her ears. Then there is the doctor, fat and moustachioed, his ample belly protruding from his open white coat, careless stethoscope around his fat neck and a bulge in his pants. Obviously a man who enjoys his work , Rosie thinks wryly to calm herself, meeting the cold blue eyes of the woman in the black rocketeer’s uniform with an unblinking stare. She is German , Rosie thinks, taking in the flaxen Aryanblonde hair, as her cold fingers fumble with buttons and she bares her small breasts for them, distracting herself by imagining the woman as Brünnhilde, complete with horned helmet and triumphant Wagnerian score.

The rocketeer nods approvingly as her eyes rake Rosie’s little nubs, the pale nipples perky with the cold. “How old are you, child?”

“Fifteen,” Rosie lies, subtracting four years.

“And you are pure? Do not lie, child, we will check!”

But Rosie nods and swallows uncomfortably. Telling the truth this time, and hoping that she possesses a commodity that they can trade in.

The woman looks quizzically at the doctor and Rosie sees him nod. “Is good,” she says crisply, meeting Rosie’s gaze with her ice-blue eyes, storybook Snow Queen and Wicked Witch all rolled into one. “Go, take your seat …”

The big sky-barnacled airship sits like a mist-enshrouded grey whale in the dock, bobbing agitatedly against its moorings as Rosie gingerly mounts the gangplank, the creaking of the ropes like the cry of a great behemoth. She has heard many tales of these mighty Prussian Zeppelins, how they sweep unseen across the night skies like silent raptors, their immense engines muted as they swoop along the Thames, skiffing the towers and turrets of bridges, until the propellers engage and they head out across the sea for France, their luxurious cabins filled with rich men in search of debauchery in the lanes of Paris.

Tonight, though, long shadows dance in the chiaroscuro tones of this great liner of the sky, and the echoing staterooms are empty save for the chatter of girls who sit in regimented rows before the low-slung onyx tables with their gold filigree fittings, the chandeliers muted and the walls with their great panels of black marble giving the whole place a charnel-house look when bereft of their customary orchestra and glittering crystal illuminations.

“Here, sit with me,” a freckled little redhead with rosy cheeks and multitudes of ringlets chirps, making room on the plush upholstered banquette for Rosie to join her. “They say we’re to be taken to Paris and will dine in a café at the very top of the Eiffel Tower, is that not thrilling!”

“Yes indeed.” Rosie nods, seating herself and giving the other’s hand a squeeze. “But I do not think that there are cafés at the top of the tower. Though I’m sure that we can climb it and see all the lights of Paris spread out at our feet,” she adds hastily, seeing the disappointment in her companion’s eyes.

“I’m Mora,” the redhead says agreeably in her soft Irish lilt, recovering swiftly. “But now that I’m here I think I’m going to be Antoinette. It’s more French, don’t you think?”

“Absolutely,” Rosie agrees, settling down on the soft black velvet, as the big engines start to thrum and the huge ship casts its moorings and begins to rise majestically into the air.

“Oh for God’s sake, Jacques,” Herriman laments, slapping a beefy hand to his wet, florid face, his rage making his big toad’s eyes bulge even more than usual. “The first decent case we’ve had in months and you spend the whole retainer on … on … THIS !”

Jacques looks back at him irritatedly but tries to remain placid. He has worked for Herriman for two years now and is used to his histrionic tirades and, frankly, outdated methods of detection, which he now mentally lists to distract himself as his employer rants and raves. Fallacy One. The non-recognition of fingerprints as valuable evidence. Fallacy Two. The refusal to ever pay for forensic analysis at crime scenes. Fallacy Three. The fat man’s insistence that all a good detective ever needs is a magnifying glass—

“Jacques! Are you listening to me, Jacques?” Herriman demands loudly, poking him in the chest and breaking his young assistant’s train of thought. “Because, really, this time you’ve really gone too far. Five hundred credits of my money for this … THING !”

Jacques shakes his head in exasperation. “I’m telling you, Boss, this is no bag of magic beans,” he explains. “This is an investment that is going to pay dividends. We know that they’re using Zeppelins to transport the girls out of the country. And the only way we’re going to find out where they’re taking them is to follow one, way up into the sky.”

“And you’re going to go ‘way up into the sky’ on that !” Herriman snorts, almost hopping with rage as he indicates the small second-hand telecopter that Jacques has just purchased at the monthly robotics market, its two dented brass ulithium cylinders patched with scrap steel panels and missing rivets along its seams, the front propeller chipped and cracked. “In which case I hope you’ve left me a few coppers to advertise for a new bloody assistant, laddie, because I’m damned well going to need one when you nosedive straight into the Thames on that piece of scrap iron. And you can pay for your funeral out of your own damn pocket!”

He pauses momentarily for breath as behind them the chipped sign advertising “Discreet Investigations” creaks softly in a sudden breeze, and Jacques quickly shields his eyes and looks up into the night sky, trying to detect the grey hulk of a titanic sky whale against the pitch-blackness of the curfew dark. “There!” he whispers, pointing at what looks like a bank of fog creeping furtively across the starless sky above them. “There, there they go, another shipment heading for Paris or worse!”

Herriman starts to say something, but Jacques silences him by yanking on the cord of the oil-stained copper engine and the propeller coughs and then stirs sluggishly into life.