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

‘Where has he been?’ I asked. ‘What has he been doing?’

‘The good professor was living out his old age quietly in the Malvern Hills under an assumed name,’ he said. ‘He has provided some consultancy to the next generation of criminals, as I have to the next generation of detectives, but he has devoted most of his remaining time to compiling a vade mecum of crime, a comprehensive guide to the planning, preparation and execution of a variety of carefully thought out, nefarious and illegal activities. Blueprints for the perfect crimes, if you like.’

‘And how did he die?’

‘According to the obituary in the newspaper, he – or, rather, his alter ego – suffered a fall while walking in the hills. He never regained consciousness.’

I had not been an associate of my friend for so many years without picking up a few tricks of my own. ‘And you fear that there will be some fight to obtain this document of his before it is destroyed or lost.’ I paused for a moment, thinking. ‘Ah – more likely, you believe that you will be consulted by the police or the government in the hope that you can find this document before anybody else does.’

‘You have hit the nail solidly upon the head,’ Holmes said. ‘The document itself is likely to be of very little use to anybody – as I indicated earlier, today’s criminals have replaced intelligence and finesse with explosives and guns. However, as an addendum to his magnum opus the late professor has spent his twilight years gathering together material that could be used to blackmail not only the current crop of politicians, diplomats and industrialists, but also men who are still at Oxford or Cambridge and who have been marked for great things in the future.’ He snorted. ‘It is typ ical, sadly, of our society that mistakes made in youth can come back to haunt us in adulthood. It is typical of Professor Moriarty that he can store up this compromising material for many years on the assumption that it will eventually prove useful.’

‘And this is the object you think will be attractive to other criminals?’ I asked.

‘Indeed.’ He paused momentarily. ‘I have had an agent in Greater Malvern for some years now, keeping an eye on the professor. He has instructions in the eventuality of the professor’s death to gain access to the cottage quickly and search for both documents: the vade mecum and the repository of blackmail material.’

‘Then the problem is solved, surely!’ I exclaimed. ‘You have the professor’s material, and so all that remains is for us to have a decent lunch with whoever the police or the government send to ask for your assistance.’ A thought struck me. ‘I shall retrieve a bottle of Beaune from the cellar, I think.’

‘Not so fast, old friend,’ Holmes said. ‘The Professor had lost none of his cunning over the years. I anticipate that he will have secured the material somewhere else – possibly even abroad. My agent will not find it, although one should never fail to conduct the obvious activities for fear of missing something.’

I opened my mouth to make a further observation, but Holmes held up his hand to stop me.

‘I know exactly what you are going to say. You are about to tell me that if the professor’s material is hidden somewhere then it is beyond the reach of other criminals anyway, and so our job is done for us. I wish that were true. No, I suspect that Moriarty has left clues that would enable a worthy successor to find what he has left as his legacy. The clues will be hard enough that no common criminal can follow them, but not too hard to deter everyone who might try. A fine line to walk, in fact. Now – no more! I have work to do before our visitor arrives!’

Holmes was, as always, correct. At midday precisely there was a knock on the door. Moments later, Mrs Turner showed a young man in a suit in to see us.

‘Arthur Chidlow, from the Home Office,’ he said, looking from Holmes to me and back. ‘Gentlemen, I am frankly honoured and awed to meet you.’

‘Please, let us set aside the needless compliments,’ Holmes said, although I knew that he was pleased at the fact that his reputation was still as strong as it ever was. ‘You are here to ask for my assistance in securing the effects of the late and unlamented Professor James Moriarty.’

Chidlow smiled, and shook his head admiringly. ‘News travels fast,’ he said. ‘As we should, given the circumstances. Do you have any thoughts as to how we should proceed?’

Holmes indicated the newspaper, where it lay on the table beside him. ‘The answer is in there,’ he said.

Chidlow frowned. ‘I read the newspaper on the train,’ he said. ‘Apart from the bare notification of the death of the professor’s other identity, I saw nothing.’

‘You saw,’ Holmes chided, ‘but you did not notice . Permit me to draw your attention to the announcements of “Births, Deaths and Marriages”.’ He glanced at me. ‘Watson, perhaps you could do the honours. What do you see there, apart from the particular item that I have circled – the one that announces the death of the professor under his assumed name?’

I picked up the paper and glanced at the page in question while Mrs Turner poured tea for Arthur Chidlow. Something did strike me, as I perused the announcements, and I went back to check to make sure.

‘Two items in particular catch my eye,’ I said. ‘They do not appear to be connected, but they are both in bold, and in the same font – a font that is not used anywhere else on the page.’

‘Indeed,’ Holmes said. ‘Be so kind as to read the first item out.’

‘“In memoriam: Maria Jostmery,” I read. ‘“Of Dutch parentage on both sides”.’ I hesitated. ‘Odd phraseology, I grant you, but I do not discern any hidden message.’

‘Neither do I,’ Chidlow said. ‘It seems innocuous enough.’

‘I would draw your attention,’ Holmes said, ‘to the fact that “Dutch parentage on both sides” could indicate that the unfortunate Maria Jostmery is double Dutch. “Double dutch” also means “nonsense”, of course, and if we rearrange the letters of her name to make more sense then we get “James Moriarty”.’

Arthur Chidlow hit his forehead with the heel of his hand. ‘How stupid of me!’ he cried.

I felt much the same way, but I hid it better. ‘All that we have there is the professor’s name,’ I pointed out. ‘That tells us nothing.’

‘Look at the second entry in the same emboldened font. Read it out, please.’

I did so: ‘“Re: Tim and Sam Mirnlic. Rearranged funeral service at St Alkmund’s Chapel, Wimbledon: Tues, nine o’clock prompt.”’ I glanced at Holmes. ‘The name is unusual, probably Eastern European, and the use of abbreviated Christian names is regrettably casual, but that is a sign of the times, I fear. I presume, however, that we are not dealing with the deaths of two brothers of foreign extraction here?’

Chidlow had been scribbling notes on the back of his hand. ‘It’s another anagram,’ he said. ‘ “Re: Tim and Sam Mirnilc” can be rearranged , as the announcement suggests, into the words “criminal mastermind”.’

Holmes laughed. ‘A jibe directed at me, I suggest,’ he said. ‘The late professor knew that I would be keeping an eye out, and I have certainly described him in those terms often enough. Interesting that he had taken it so much to heart. He must have had his own agents ready and waiting to submit these items upon his death.’ He glanced at Chidlow, and then at me. ‘If we want to know more then I suggest we attend St Alkmund’s Chapel in Wimbledon tomorrow morning for the funeral service of Timothy and Samuel Mirnilc.’

After lunch, and a closer examination of the newspaper to little effect, Arthur Chidlow left for London, with an agreement that we would meet outside the indicated chapel at a quarter to nine the next day. Later that afternoon, a telegram arrived for Holmes from his agent in Greater Malvern, confirming that there had been nothing of interest in the professor’s cottage. Holmes spent the rest of the day tending to his bees, while I read and reread the newspaper, looking in vain for more hidden messages.