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

Moriarty leaned over and grabbed the sailor by the ear.

“Given the crimes we are about to commit, I suggest you give up any delusion of having any moral high ground. As I hope we are all aware, such scales are meaningless, they are just a way to keep the rabble powerless.”

He let go of the man’s ear and tapped his long index finger against the hull of the ship, refocusing their attention on the photograph.

“On the ship there will be two passengers of note,” Moriarty continued, passing out two envelopes – one to the streetwalker and the other to Irving. “They are both wealthy individuals re locating to the United States, so they are taking every valuable they own, every pound note of it, with them. The safes in the staterooms will be loaded with riches you cannot imagine.”

“You want us to break into these safes?” enquired the streetwalker.

“No.” Moriarty shook his head. “They have four tumblers, with ten digits apiece, which is over ten thousand combinations. As ever, the numbers win.”

“Or, we could blow a hole in the side,” Irving suggested. He had a little experience with explosives.

“Crude,” Moriarty replied, shaking his head. “The best way of getting away with any crime is to make sure nobody even knows it has been committed.”

Irving frowned. “Then how do we get into the safes?”

“Our victims will open them themselves.” Moriarty smiled. “This vessel is about to have an accident. It will sink shortly after leaving the harbour. Even when the ship is sinking, despite all logic and reason, these two individuals will risk their lives and go back for the contents of their safe. They value wealth above all else. However, once they are on the lifeboats, they will eventually trade those riches for mere handfuls of food and water, which we will be carrying. Having been defrauded of every penny they own, they will still be thanking us for saving their lives.”

The streetwalker laughed, delighted by the Machiavellian beauty of the scheme.

“What about the passengers and crew?” she interjected. “I do not mind risking my life, but I’m hesitant about committing mass murder.”

“There will only be a small number of passengers on-board, so there will be adequate lifeboats on hand for all,” he said, trying to assuage any remaining moral doubts. “The rest of the passengers are not due to board the ship until it reaches Liverpool, for the onward trip to New York, which are two stops that this ship will no longer be making.”

“What about the captain?” Irving asked, curious to see the professor’s response. “It is traditional for a captain to go down with his ship.”

The sailor glared at him.

“Oh, I’ll be fine,” he replied gruffly, tapping the four gold rings around the cuff of his uniform jacket, which denoted his rank as captain.

Irving shrugged.

Moriarty tapped a finger against the two envelopes on the table.

“Inside, you will find a boarding ticket for the RMS Heroic , a plan of the ship, a photograph of your target, plus details about them and of what I expect to be in their safe. Befriend them. Stay close to them. Make sure they end up at the lifeboat indicated on the plan, with the contents of their safe, but do not take anything from them, unless they give it to you of their own free will. Let’s not give anyone a crime to investigate.”

Irving carefully opened the envelope and let the contents fall into his hands.

The photograph showed a tall man, in a military uniform, with noticeably thick upper arms and large fists. Amongst the paperwork was the name “Major-General Fitzwilliam”.

The streetwalker opened her envelope and plucked out what appeared to be a photograph of an elderly woman.

“What if they don’t want to trade away their wealth?” Irving asked.

Moriarty smiled.

“Then they will starve, dehydrate and die, as the victims of an unfortunate shipwreck. And we take their money anyway.”

The RMS Heroic was waiting in the dockyard.

To Irving, she looked invincible. He could easily see how such a giant could conquer the worst storms, but was equally aware that she was no match for Moriarty’s cold intellect. He would be able to sink her with no more than a tiny hole.

Irving made his way up the gangway on to the deck. He was wearing a new suit, provided by Moriarty to help him fit in with upper-class passengers. He felt uncomfortable in its stiffly starched collar. His discomfort was not shared by the captain, who had boarded the ship shortly before him and was already ordering around members of the crew.

The streetwalker was the next one up the gangway. She had somehow transformed her appearance during only a handful of minutes locked in a public lavatory. She had changed her dress, removed and redone her make-up, restyled her hair so that it was now fashionably braided around the crown of her head. The streetwalker was gone, replaced by a lady, who was gliding elegantly along deck with a parasol in her hand.

“Oh, where shall we begin?” She pouted, her alleyway accent replaced by a more sophisticated drawl. “A stroll around the deck perhaps?”

“I would suggest the cargo hold,” advised Moriarty, as he climbed aboard. “They are loading their lives aboard this vessel, but these are people of money, so they will want to supervise proceedings. They would not be capable of entrusting such an important task to people they regard as their inferiors. Become acquainted with them, a meagre measure of familiarity now will make them more inclined to trust you later.”

Having given his instruction, Moriarty moved off towards the rear of the ship.

“A cargo hold is no place for a lady alone.” The dark-haired woman smiled, offering Irving her arm. “Perhaps you would be kind enough to escort me, sir?”

“And what should I call you?”

“I, sir, am Miss Emma Bennett, and you would be?”

“Irving Beck.”

“No, sir. That is not the name written on your ticket.”

Irving glanced at the piece of paper in his hand, which bore a different name entirely.

“Isaac Brewer,” he replied, noting that Moriarty had kept his initials the same, so that the name was easier for Irving to remember. Despite all the flattery, the man clearly did not place much trust in Irving’s intellectual abilities. He was here because of his physical strength, in case things went wrong. It had never been said, but Irving knew it was true. “Tell me your real name.”

“You overstep yourself, sir.”

“Yes, I do.” Irving nodded, opening a door for her. “Frequently.”

“He made my pseudonym from the names of two characters devised by Jane Austen; evidently he thinks I have a romantic nature.” She smiled, as she stepped inside the ship and folded away her parasol. “Or perhaps it is just a cruel joke, because of my former employment, one he thinks I will not get. Either way, he is wrong.”

Much of her statement confused Irving, he had never had much time for books, but his best guess was that she was referring to works of literature of which he was unaware.

“I doubt the professor is ever wrong about anything.” Irving shrugged, covering his ignorance. “Given your knowledge, it is an easy name to remember. I imagine he chose it to make things simpler for you.”

The woman glanced at him, raising a curious eyebrow, surprised by his observation.

“Everything is certainly planned to the smallest detail, but I’m not sure I can trust him and, on a doomed ship I would be a fool not to trust someone, so I will trust you,” she replied, curtseying slightly. “I’m Nora Crogan.”

Irving bowed slightly, feeling uncomfortable faking such social formality, given their previous meeting and criminal intentions.