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

The frank answer took Irving by surprise, so much so that his own answer had turned sour in his mouth.

“No,” he muttered. “There is nothing I would go back for.”

He had never understood before quite how little he had. He did not even own the clothes he was wearing. He had nothing.

Irving leaned into Major-General Fitzwilliam’s cabin, to check on the man’s progress. The major-general had quickly pulled on his uniform’s scarlet jacket, and was now down on his hands and knees, dialling numbers into the lock of his safe. He slammed his fist against the metal door in frustration, evidently having made an error in his haste. Irving had no idea how long it would take for the ship to sink, but he knew this was no time for delays. The hallway was rapidly filling with smoke.

“Help me, man!” the major-general cried frantically, not questioning why Irving was lingering in his doorway. “Get me that bag!”

He pointed to a leather satchel that had been discarded by his berth, which Irving dutifully fetched, as the soldier finally managed to get the safe open. Inside were stacks of white paper notes. It was more money than Irving had ever seen in his life. The major-general quickly rammed the money into the bag, along with various other deeds and bonds, most of which were beyond Irving’s understanding.

He also saw a military revolver go into the bag.

He would have to make sure that the weapon somehow parted company from the man, as otherwise events could quickly spiral beyond even Moriarty’s control.

“You must tell nobody how much I am carrying! Understand me?” the major-general barked at him as he made his way out into the smoke-filled hallway, momentarily moving in the wrong direction. “The world is full of thieves and villains these days.”

“This way!” Irving grabbed him by the elbow, guiding him back towards the lifeboat. The man almost certainly now owed Irving his life, but he did not stop to express any gratitude. He barrelled down the hallway, running for the door to the deck.

Glancing back down the hallway, Irving could see the heiress, still stuffing a handbag with necklaces and other pieces of jewellery. Nora fought to shepherd the distraught woman out on to the deck, but she eventually had to abandon all manners and brutally shove the woman outside. Irving followed them out, pulling the door shut on the smoke-filled hallway.

The nearest lifeboat was crammed full of frightened people.

Smoke was blossoming out of almost every vent in the rear of ship.

Irving leaned against the railing, trying to find a way to board the already packed boat.

Moriarty was crouched at the end of the vessel, helping the heiress aboard, taking a moment to reassure the frightened woman and guide her to a seat. He produced a cork lifejacket, which he helped her into, then fastened around her. She was so taken in by his duplicitous charm that she hugged him for a moment and kissed him on the cheek, complete unaware that she was pouring her gratitude on to the man whose ruthlessness was responsible for her plight.

Nora was already on-board, seated beside the heiress, pulling on her own cork lifejacket.

“This is all the passengers from the first class,” Moriarty shouted above the noise of panicking passengers and alarm bell. “How much longer should we wait?”

He threw the question at the major-general as if it were a dagger. He was an adept manipulator; he knew there was only one answer a frightened, selfish man would give.

“Let’s go now! Many more and we will overload the boat.”

Moriarty spun to face the deck, his finger pointing directly at Irving. “You there! Operate that winch! “ Moriarty ordered. “Lower us into the sea!”

Irving glanced at the winch, which controlled the ropes at the prow and stern of the little craft. Was he to be left behind on the sinking ship? He did not put it beyond Moriarty. It would save paying him later. Nonetheless, he found himself obeying the order, turning to the winch and spooling out the rope. He had been complicit in these events, so the least he could do was make sure these people survived. The little boat hit the dark ocean, with a splash that sent a small wave crashing over its own side, eliciting surprised screams from all on-board, except Moriarty.

“Come on, man!” Moriarty shouted. “Get aboard.”

Irving did not hesitate. There was so much smoke billowing out of the ship that he had nowhere else to go. He clambered over the railing, hanging on to the rope, and attempted to climb downwards. He lost his grip and fell.

The cold water consumed him, closing over his head, sucking him down.

He flailed blindly in the dark for a moment, unable to breathe, unsure which way was up and which was down. Was this how he was going to die?

It turned out he did still own something that he did not want to lose: his life.

He broke through the surface of the water. He heard Nora yelling at him. He saw Moriarty’s hands reaching out towards him. Before he could draw a breath, a wave closed over him, pushing him down. He had never felt so cold in his entire life.

He gave one last kick, but was not strong enough to reach the surface again.

Moriarty’s fingers wrapped around his wrist.

Irving gasped for air.

The star-scattered night was gone, replaced by the pure blue of a daytime sky. The world spun around him, tilted over and then spun back around the other way. His stomach heaved, so he scrambled up on to his knees and vomited over the side of the boat.

His wet clothes had been removed, replaced by the warm blankets, an action that would almost certainly have stopped him dying of hypothermia. He briefly wondered to whom he owed thanks, until he realised that Nora was sat beside him.

“It’s nothin’ I ain’t seen before,” she whispered, winking at him, pushing his clothes back into his hands.

Irving took hold of the ruined shirt and suit, which had been dried in the sun, and put them back on. Somehow, now they were crumpled and damaged, he felt more at home in them.

“Perhaps now he is awake again, you would like to ask his opinion too!” Major-General Fitzwilliam’s angry shout smashed against Irving’s already throbbing head.

“Oh, I shall,” Moriarty replied from his seat at the back of the boat. “What is your name, my good man?”

Irving blinked. “Isaac Brewer,” he replied.

It was a simple question, but not asked for simple reasons. With one enquiry, Moriarty had been able to determine secretly whether Irving was in control of his wits. By answering with his correct pseudonym, he would have proven to Moriarty that he was sufficiently recovered to participate in whatever game he intended to play.

“This young lady is hoarding fresh water and food.” The major-general scowled at Nora. “And despite being trapped together for the best part of a day, she refuses to share.”

“I expect him to pay its worth,” Nora corrected. “Not a difficult concept for an honourable soldier, is it?”

“That’s extortion!”

“You’ve got money, a bag full.” Irving laughed, deliberately belittling the man.

Major-General Fitzwilliam’s face reddened, his fist balled, his anger and fury rising to the surface. It was at that moment that Irving remembered he also had a revolver in the bag.

“This is a perfect example of Alfred Marshall’s theory of supply and demand, sir,” Moriarty explained slowly, patronising the angry man, trying to break his resolve. “She has the only supply, we need the water, so the price is high. It’s simple mathematics. You cannot argue with whatever price she names.”

“I should just take it from her.”

“I would stop you,” Irving replied. It was a dangerous response. A few punches he could handle, but a bullet was quite another matter.