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

“You will appreciate, Professor, that I have not the slightest wish to incur your displeasure. The goodwill that subsists between—”

“Enough!” Moriarty lifted his right hand, and gave a smile cold enough to freeze flesh. “We shall say no more on the subject. I believe that your train departs from Euston in thirty minutes. Let us summon a cab without delay, so that you are sure to arrive at the station in time.”

Before the man could speak, Moran interjected. “After all, you would not wish to be too long absent from the company of that beautiful young belle of yours. Eh?”

The provocation in his jeering tone was unmistakable, and the other man appeared to fight a battle within himself before responding. When at last he spoke, caution prevailed, but evidently it had been a close-run thing.

“Very well, gentlemen. I shall take my leave of you. Professor, I shall reflect on what you have said. I owe you no less.”

With a crisp bow, he took his leave. Once the door had closed behind him, Moran turned to the Professor.

“Dangerous.”

Moriarty inclined his head. “Such is the nature of a loose cannon.”

“Pity. These past two years, he has made himself damned useful.”

The Professor gave a gentle sigh. “You will recall my mentioning after my first conversation with him that his proclivities would render him unstable in due course.”

“Yes, I must admit that you were right. As usual.” The note of admiration struck me as genuine, not grudging. “How fortunate that we have prepared for all eventualities.”

“Good fortune has nothing to do with it, Colonel. Planning and preparation, therein lies the secret of sustained success in any field of human endeavour. The nursemaid is aware of what is required?”

“Our people in the north country assure me of her reliability.”

“Excellent. And the staff at Flatman’s?”

“They are ready to provide evidence of impropriety, should the police display their customary ineptitude in following up clues helpfully laid before them by the nursemaid. I have every confidence that the path we have constructed will lead to the gallows.”

Moriarty permitted himself a thin smile. “Do not be so sure, Colonel. The machine of justice in this country is as susceptible to malfunction as the most antiquated equipment in the humblest factory. Happily, that is of little consequence. What matters is that our activities continue to flourish without risk of compromise.”

The Colonel clicked his heels. “You may be assured of that.”

With this, they departed the Reading Room, leaving me to muse on their cryptic conversation for another half-hour, until a loud and echoing squeal of delight from the aged student of exotica finally drove me to seek refuge in the infinitely more congenial environment of the Diogenes Club.

I took time to reflect on what I had learned at the Tankerville. During the course of my life, I have been accused of a medley of vices, but nobody has yet sought to characterise me as that dullest of oafs, the man of action. Haste on the part of the authorities, a stubborn insistence on being seen to be doing anything rather than nothing explains much that is wrong with our world. Hence my insistence on ensuring that my work is conducted out of sight from the public I serve. I exclude my brother from criticism in this regard; a man in business as a consulting detective cannot afford complete anonymity. Nevertheless, his celebrity gave me cause for concern in relation to Professor Moriarty. It seemed to me that it was merely a question of time before the two men’s paths crossed, with consequences that I found myself reluctant to contemplate. I saw it as my duty to make sure that my brother remained unaware of the full extent of the Professor’s nefarious activities until I was left with no choice but to reveal how much I knew. Even then, I would need to insist that he refrained from divulging matters of detail to his chronicler. One kingdom, two distinguished lives, and at least a dozen pristine reputations depended upon our discretion.

The man from the north country intrigued me. We had for some time been aware that Moriarty’s web stretched across the continents, but we had struggled to identify the individuals who supervised his criminal affairs outside the United Kingdom. In particular, neither the American authorities nor the energetic men of the late Mr Pinkerton’s Agency had been able to identify Moriarty’s representative in the United States. Plainly, a man of business whose legitimate commercial interests stretched across the Atlantic would prove an invaluable asset to the Professor, and I suspected that I had been in the presence of just such an individual. I found, as usual, that an hour or two of gentle slumber followed by a first class Chateaubriand proved unmatched in facilitating the deductive process, and by the time I was joined for a postprandial port by the Home Secretary’s right-hand man, I was ready to disclose my conclusions.

“A riddle and a half!” W exclaimed, once I had recounted verbatim the discussion that I had overheard. “A nurse, a hotel, the gallows … what do you make of such disjointed fragments?”

I savoured my drink. The importance of the day’s events justified a certain indulgence, and I had chosen the vintage of 1834, and that colossus of ports, Kopka’s Quinta de Roriz.

“Let us begin, my dear W, with Moran’s subordinate. What do we know of him?”

“Very little,” my companion responded grimly. “We need to redouble our efforts to trace his identity.”

“The task may be easier than you suppose. The timbre of his voice is unusual and suggestive. A Liverpudlian of the mercantile class, whose domestic or work commitments have led him to spend significant periods of time in London and the east coast of North America in recent years. One infers from the exquisite tailoring of his suit – to say nothing of the satin waistcoat with ivory buttons – that he enjoys considerable wealth. His choleric demeanour, however, is unlikely to be the product of a background of privilege. Those born to wealth are educated from an early age to conceal their tempers behind a cloak of good manners.”

Sir W snorted. A hereditary baronet, he may have detected an ironic thrust, notwithstanding my beatific smile, but I was unrepentant. My endeavours earlier in the day entitled me to mix business with a little personal amusement.

“I surmise that his travels are attributable to business rather than pleasure, and that he has enjoyed success in his chosen line. Given that the Liverpool Cotton Association dominates commerce within his native city, the assumption that he is a merchant or broker in cotton is reasonable if not beyond argument. Consider. If, through Moran, our friend Moriarty secured the loyalty of such a man, his ability to conduct covert operations in the United States would be greatly enhanced. A successful broker with interests in, say, Virginia would have unimpeachable reasons for coming and going across the Atlantic. I suspect that his usefulness would by no means be confined to delivering secret messages to American crooks. He might himself direct operations in accordance with the Professor’s plans for spreading criminality across the civilised world.”

“Damnable!” my companion exclaimed. “But why would such a man – an entrepreneur – put himself at Moriarty’s disposal?”

“I was intrigued by the fact that his complexion is pasty, with hints of grey and yellow. One would expect such a choleric fellow to be red-cheeked. Evidently, he enjoys indifferent health, and I speculate that the faint tinge of yellow may be attributable to a bout of malaria in the past. The disease is not uncommon in the cotton fields of Virginia. His readiness to swallow pills suggests to me that, however genuine the maladies that he has suffered, he is also something of a hypochondriac. The conclusion, as I am sure you will concur, is plain.”