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

‘Jim has affirmed that he supports our claim to the legacy.’

‘Good. Good.’ Moriarty nodded. He had taken a pen and now signed his name with a flourish. ‘And now, if you don’t mind, I must get on.’

Jack and I found ourselves outside his rooms once more, the door firmly shut.

‘A man of few words,’ Jack said. ‘He’s always preferred numbers.’

‘He seemed grateful to you. In his way.’ We began to walk together along the corridor.

Jack gave a nod. ‘What it is, see, is that our mother’s family owned some land, in Galway. Her brother allowed it to slip from his grasp, and now we’ve got the chance to get it back. It’s not for me, but I have a daughter, a sweet girl, newly married. I’d like her to have the proceeds. And James there, he’s always been keen to see justice done. In his own way. Mind you,’ he added, as we reached the main entrance, ‘it’s not solved yet. We’re in dispute with the son of the former owners, who’s determined to keep it at all costs. And now he’s disappeared. Only the odd threatening letter to show us he’s still in the fight. Well …’ He turned to me. ‘It was nice to meet you. I’m glad there’s someone in James’s life who can make him feel …’ Again, his gaze went to his feet, to the golden stone of the old steps. ‘He’s not an easy man, as I’m sure you know. He don’t need the money neither. No …’ He offered me his hand. ‘It’s about righting a wrong, all this. That’s the only thing that matters to him.’ We shook hands, and then he turned and walked out into the quad towards the porter’s lodge. I watched him go, thinking that whether he knew it or not, my professor was lucky to have such a brother.

That afternoon I went to find Roland in the common room for our customary cup of tea. The quad was peaceful, and I wondered about this trio that had somehow come to be here, this angry murderous man who had come here to find Eveline, only to risk his life with our quiet porter who seemed to want revenge. We were just pouring our tea when—

‘What the hell’s that?’ Dr McCrae ran to the window, as a terrible wail came from below.

In the middle of the quad stood the figure of Dr Brennan, motionless in her long skirt, her blouse pure white against the clipped green grass, her brown hair pinned up on top of her head.

Her hand was across her mouth, and she was making an extraordinary noise of pure distress.

‘He’s dead,’ she began to wail. ‘Poisoned.’

Again we raced downstairs. She was standing, stock still, repeating the cry, the word, ‘Poisoned.’

It was then that we saw him, Edmund Sweeney, lying on the steps by the porter’s lodge. He lay in an unnatural pose, his body twisted, his eyes wide open, his mouth a grimace of horror.

‘So trusting,’ she was saying. ‘A pint of stout down by the river. That’s all it took.’ She was shaking, crying, and Roland went to her and led her to a seat next to the lodge.

‘I was too late,’ she was murmuring. ‘I was too late.’

Someone had called the police, and now they arrived too, and a doctor, all of them examining the body of Edmund Sweeney.

‘I was too late,’ Eveline said again, louder now. ‘The betrayal of Seamus O’Connor,’ she went on, ‘to pretend to make up with him, while slipping something into his drink … And after all I’d done to make sure that the man I loved was safe. I caught Seamus alone, off his guard, just behind the lodge here. One move, and he was down. And I thought, the man I love will live.’

Her words hung in the air. The gathered crowd quietened, all eyes upon her.

She was calm now, and looked up at us all with a strange, empty smile. ‘Oh, I have nothing to lose. A punch to the throat,’ she said. ‘A ju-jitsu move, it’s lethal if done well.’

The crowd appeared to slow, to freeze. We stared at Dr Brennan, and she gazed back. ‘I killed Seamus to protect Edmund. But I was too late.’ Her words rang out in the silence.

The police officer took a step towards her. ‘Madam … am I right in understanding what you say? That … you … that the porter here … ?’

Again, the thin smile. ‘I had it all worked out. His enemy would be dead, he would be safe in Ireland, and I would take refuge in my calculations.’

She raised her hands to the policeman, who, red-faced and clumsy, locked his handcuffs around her wrists and led her awkwardly away.

We drifted back to the department in ones and twos, fragments of conversation along the corridor. ‘Always the worry with these Irish …’ ‘Never should have hired a woman …’

That night I slept fitfully. I arrived in college next morning hoping to find some solace in parabolic differentials. Moriarty’s door was locked. As the morning went on, there was still no sign of him. The department was abuzz with gossip and police. The body had shown signs of arsenic poisoning, someone said. ‘A slow death,’ someone else replied. ‘Two days. Most unpleasant.’

Later that day, Roland and I were together in my room when Jack Moriarty appeared at the door. He was out of breath and seemed upset. ‘No sign of him,’ he was saying. ‘I’ve got a spare key from the lodge.’

Roland and I hurried with him to Professor Moriarty’s room.

The room was bare. All books gone. Just the desk, two chairs, the empty shelves.

On the desk lay the Greuze painting, and next to it the Göttingen papers. They were labelled: ‘For Mr Gifford’.

We gazed around the empty space.

‘Gone,’ Jack said, at last.

‘How strange.’ It was Roland who spoke. ‘How odd to bail out like that. I know some of the chaps were a bit harsh on him. But I always liked him. You know, the other day, the day after poor Seamus was killed by our unreliable Dr Brennan, that other man was looking for her, skulking about downstairs, the police after him. And Professor Moriarty brought him in here, calmed him down, gave him a drink, sent him on his way. Didn’t give him away to the police at all.’ He pulled out his watch. ‘Well, students await. Toodle-pip.’ The door closed behind him.

Jack was staring at the painting. ‘You know,’ he said, his eyes fixed on the image of the boy, ‘I heard this morning, our claim to the farm has been settled. The one descendant left who was opposing our claim was found dead, yesterday. In this college.’

I touched the Göttingen papers, tracing my finger along the pages. ‘Kepler’s equation,’ I said. ‘Relating to the Two-Body problem.’

Our thoughts seemed to whisper in the silence. ‘Mathematics,’ Jack said, after a moment. ‘It asks for nothing back.’ He surveyed the empty room. ‘It’s always like this. He comes, he goes. Sometimes here, sometimes there. I’ll tie up this Galway land now that poor Mr Sweeney is out of the way. My brother’s share will be paid into his bank account.’ He turned towards the door. ‘I’m sure I’ll see him again when he deems it necessary.’

I picked up the painting under one arm, the papers under the other.

In the corridor, we shook hands. ‘Well,’ Jack said, ‘I don’t suppose I’ll see you again.’ He sighed. ‘Back home, see. A place of safety. A warm fire. My wife at my side.’ He shook my hand again, and we parted.

I walked out into the London afternoon. I thought about the two killings. Edmund Sweeney was the one man standing in the way of Moriarty’s inheritance. Seamus the porter had sworn to kill Edmund. And Moriarty, having made sure Seamus was installed in his porter’s lodge, then championed Eveline’s appointment. Knowing, all the while, that Edmund would find her, would follow her to the ends of the earth, thereby placing himself in the vicinity of Seamus – who wanted him dead.

A simple calculation.