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

Holmes examined it. ‘Not new, by any means. Cut straight across at one end, and diagonally at the other end, with a notch or zigzag in it. What do you make of it, Lestrade?’

‘Oh, some lover’s token, I expect. I can’t see much significance in that, Mr Holmes.’

‘Well, well, you may be right. You won’t mind if I take possession of it?’

Lestrade waved his consent. ‘The way I see it, is this: the gang snatched the child and the nurse tried to prevent it. They killed her – probably didn’t mean to – and dumped her body in the canal. So now it’s a hanging offence. Question is, do they still mean to demand a ransom, or have they panicked and got rid of the child?’

Holmes nodded his agreement. ‘You’ll have the canal dragged?’

‘As soon as it gets light. In the meantime, I’ll return to the hotel in case a ransom note is received.’

‘I can be better employed in Baker Street,’ Holmes said, ‘but, Watson – it may be as well for the lady to have a doctor on hand. Perhaps you’d consent to spend the night at the hotel.’

‘By all means, Holmes.’

I advised Lestrade to say nothing to Mrs Armstrong about dragging the canal, I gave her a mild sedative to help her sleep, then I myself retired to the sofa in the drawing room of the suite. For an old campaigner like myself, this was no hardship. I soon was fast asleep, and no doubt snoring into the bargain.

I was awoken by someone shaking my shoulder and opened my eyes to see Mrs Armstrong gazing down at me.

‘Dr. Watson! It’s Rufus! He’s gone.’

I struggled up on to an elbow. ‘Gone? Gone where?’

Lestrade was behind her. He cleared his throat. ‘The facts appear to be these, Dr Watson. The constable, who escorted Mr Armstrong to the hotel, says that a message was waiting for him at the desk. Mr Armstrong broke the news of Mrs Shaughnessy’s death to Mrs Armstrong, and then when Dr Watson arrived, he retired to his own quarters. But his valet found this morning that his bed has not been slept in and he is nowhere to be found.’

Mrs Armstrong wrung her hands. ‘Oh, Dr Watson, I am so afraid that he has gone out to look for Arthur and has met with some harm.’

Even in my sleep-befuddled state, one thing was clear. ‘We had better send for Holmes,’ I said.

‘No need,’ said a familiar voice from the door.

It was extraordinary, the way that the atmosphere of that room changed on an instant. Mrs Armstrong became calmer. An expression of relief, quickly masked, flitted across Lestrade’s face.

Mrs Armstrong went to Holmes. He took her hand between both of his and led her to a chair.

He turned to Lestrade. ‘I’m assuming that you have not found the note that was left at the desk.’

‘We have not,’ Lestrade said. ‘Either he burned it, or more likely took it with him when he went out.’

‘You have no idea where he may have gone, Mrs Armstrong?’ Holmes asked.

Tears were welling up in her eyes. ‘I cannot understand it, Mr Holmes. Rufus scarcely knows the city. Do you think he heard from the kidnappers and went to confront them? Oh, surely he would never be so foolish as to go without saying a word!’

‘You are quite certain he knows no one in London?’ Holmes persisted.

‘No one! Though, but no, surely …’

‘You’ve thought of someone?’

‘Harry was keen that Rufus should go into the firm, but Rufus has struggled a little with his schooling. So we engaged a mathematics tutor for him, a man eminent in his field, who lived with us for a while. Rufus liked him – and I think he lives in London.’

‘His name?’

‘Moriarty. Professor James Moriarty.’

Moriarty! The man Holmes had described to me as the Napoleon of crime, the spider at the centre of a Europe-wide web of crime and corruption. His was the last name I – or Holmes, I warrant – had expected to hear. If Holmes was as taken aback as I was, he didn’t let it show.

‘When was this, Mrs Armstrong?’

‘It must have been around four years ago. He stayed with us for six months. But I think he and Rufus have kept in touch. He lives in Kew, I believe.’

Holmes was silent for some moments and, when he spoke, it appeared to be at a tangent.

‘What were the terms of your husband’s will as regards his children, Mrs Armstrong?’

She stared at him. ‘Rufus and Arthur will inherit the company when they come of age. For Rufus that will be next year. Arthur’s share is kept in trust until he reaches his majority. I and my daughter are provided for separately.’

‘And should one son predecease the other before reaching their majority?’

‘The survivor will inherit everything. But, Mr Holmes, you can’t think … why, Rufus is devoted to little Arthur. He thinks the world of him.’

Holmes was saved from replying to this by the appearance of a nanny who told Mrs Armstrong that her daughter was upset and asking for her. Mrs Armstrong left the room and Holmes turned a grave face to Lestrade and myself.

‘This puts a very different complexion on matters.’

‘You think Mr Armstrong is implicated in the kidnapping, Mr Holmes?’ Lestrade asked.

‘I am certain of it. As it happens, I know the address of Moriarty’s house in Kew, though I doubt that we will find the beast in its lair.’

So it proved. Moriarty’s housekeeper could tell us only that her master had left the previous evening and had told her he would be away for some undefined period. No, he hadn’t told her where he was going, but it was her belief that he’d gone abroad. He could be gone days, he could be gone weeks. There was no knowing. Holmes had expected no less, yet it was still a disappointment,

We returned to Baker Street to find a message from Lestrade. The canal had been dragged but nothing had been found. Mr Armstrong had not returned to the hotel. In short, there was no news.

Holmes flung himself into a chair by the fire. ‘So we are no further forward.’

‘While there is life, there is hope,’ I remarked, pouring out the tea that Mrs Hudson had brought up.

‘But is there life, Watson, that is the question? It is true that Moriarty would not lightly dispose of so valuable a commodity as this child. But in that case why has no ransom note been received – and what has happened to Rufus Armstrong?’

Holmes reached for his pipe and stuffed it with shag. He sighed and stared gloomily into the fire, frustrated by our lack of progress. I handed him his tea and a copy of The Times . It was his habit to peruse the personal columns every day and I hoped it might prove a temporary distraction. Though he took it up with a show of reluctance, he was soon engrossed.

I leaned back in my chair and closed my eyes. For a while there was no sound but the crackling of the fire and the rustling of the pages of the newspaper, and I had almost dozed off, when an exclamation from Holmes jerked my eyes open.

‘Good God, Holmes, what is it?’

‘There is to be a sale tomorrow in Paris of eighteenth-century French paintings and drawings, containing a number of works by Jean-Baptiste Greuze, Moriarty’s favourite painter. Strange that a man as cold-hearted as Moriarty should be drawn to paintings that some – myself included – regard as sentimental, even mawkish, but so it is. It is an obsession with him, his one weak spot. He will be there tomorrow, not a doubt about it. Make a long arm for the Bradshaw, Watson, and look up the times of the boat train, there’s a good fellow.’

A Channel crossing at night in November is not something I recommend and I was heartily relieved to reach Calais. As we came ashore, a change seemed to come over Holmes. I myself am unmistakably an Englishman abroad, but it was not so with Holmes. I had not realized that his French was so fluent. ‘Why, Holmes,’ I declared, ‘you could almost pass as a Frenchman.’