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

“However,” Moriarty continued.

He paused long enough to write the word.

“I am comfortable confirming that, in my opinion, this is all original work. The student appears to have worked hard on this paper. His efforts, whilst wholly conventional and lacking in imagination, are all his own endeavours. I trust his labours will be acknowledged appropriately without further recourse to unfounded accusation.”

Moriarty added his signature to the letter. Gordon watched him fold it three times and seal it with wax before sitting back in his chair.

“Why did you do that?”

“You really are very direct,” Moriarty mused. “I do admire that quality. It shows a discipline of thought that so many lack.” He pointed at the open Lancet article on his desk and said, “That’s the same level of disciplined thought as Doctor Lister has shown in using carbolic acid to treat infection during surgical procedures. If only more of us could be like that great man.”

“Why have you just declared me innocent of plagiarism?”

Moriarty closed his journal. His fingers drummed on the gold-lettered words: quid pro quo . Eventually, he picked up the book and the letter and started out of the door. “Follow me, Gordon,” he called over his shoulder. “Let’s see if Professor Bell is in his office.”

He didn’t bother looking back to see if Gordon obeyed the instruction. He turned a sharp right out of his doorway and headed along an ancient Yorkshire stone corridor that led towards the courtyard. Readers and professors alike were dressed in a uniform of cap, gown and hood at all times. Moriarty’s robes flowed behind him like black waves of night. He marched through the halls that led to the courtyard with a brisk pace that made Gordon stumble to keep by his side. His boot heels clipped loudly against the stone floors of the university’s hallowed corridors.

Passing students and lecturers nodded curt greetings to Moriarty.

The occasional student stopped to doff a cap.

Moriarty acknowledged each address with a polite smile and a word of greeting. He had the charming ability of remembering faces and calling people by their names and titles. It was no wonder, Gordon thought, that the man was so popular in the university’s halls.

“You haven’t answered my question,” Gordon reminded him. He kept his voice lowered to a hush. “Why have you told Professor Bell that I’m innocent?”

Moriarty opened his mouth as though he was about to reply.

“Sir?”

Before Moriarty could speak a red-headed youth stepped in front of him, stopping him abruptly. His whey-coloured complexion was lost beneath a murk of rusty freckles. His clothes had the pristine cut and starch of a privileged third year. Over one shoulder he carried a boxy leather bag. Clinking noises came from within the bag. Gordon recognised the sound as the music al tones of full glass bottles kissing together.

For an instant Gordon thought he could see a menacing glower on Moriarty’s features. Unlike the honest smile and full joviality of the man’s usual disposition, this was an expression that seemed appropriate for the narrow face and the iron-grey hair. This expression was a flicker of feral ferocity that could have belonged to a very violent man. If the expression had rested for an instant longer, Gordon would have stepped between the pair to prevent the younger man from suffering injury. Moriarty was raising his arm and looked set to smash the whey-faced youth to the floor.

“Sir,” the redhead youth repeated earnestly. “I was just coming up to find you. Indeed, this is fortuitous.”

“Hunt,” Moriarty beamed. He brought his arm down and clapped Hunt warmly on the shoulder.

Whatever suggestion of menace Gordon had thought was in Moriarty’s expression now seemed to have disappeared. The idea that it might ever have been there struck Gordon as damning evidence for the poor quality of his imagination.

“I thought you’d have left by now,” Moriarty told Hunt. “Don’t tell me you want to do another year’s Latin?”

Hunt laughed with inordinate enthusiasm. He clutched Moriarty’s hand and pumped it enthusiastically up and down. Glancing slyly at Gordon, he said, “Do you know this fine gentleman is the only reason I was able to continue my studies?”

Gordon raised an eyebrow, encouraging him to continue.

“I had the most miserable first year,” Hunt explained. “My interest in economics was failing. I didn’t feel as though I’d made any friends at the university. But Professor Moriarty here—”

“I’m not a professor,” Moriarty cautioned him. “I’m only a humble reader. I haven’t been offered the chair yet.”

The interruption seemed to surprise Hunt. “Haven’t you submitted your treatise on the binomial theory?”

“Yes, but Professor Phillips remains the incumbent in the mathematics chair. And, unless my treatise meets with unprecedented success before the board of governors, I’m likely to remain a humble reader here for a long while.”

Hunt laughed again. This time the mirth sounded like genuine merriment rather than the forced laughter of a sycophant. “I think the board of governors will have to offer you a chair when they see your treatise. It’s the work of a genius.”

Moriarty lowered his gaze and looked abashed. “You’re too kind, Hunt. I’m sure I’d feel a lot more comfortable about such a situation if you were on the board of governors.”

Hunt shook his head apologetically. “The only person I know on the board is Williamson’s father and you know that Williamson and I don’t see eye to eye.” Hunt paused and added, “Of course you know about that. You were the one who intervened when Williamson demanded I face him in a duel.”

As Gordon watched, Moriarty tightened his hold on the leather-bound volume. His thumb ran along the gold-printed lettering on the cover. He seemed to be tracing the shape of each letter in the three Latin words: quid pro quo .

“Headstrong Williamson,” Moriarty remembered. “He really did fancy himself as the romantic hero of some Boys of England narrative, didn’t he?”

Hunt laughed.

“And,” Moriarty went on, “now you mention it, I do believe you’re correct. Williamson’s father is on the board of governors, isn’t he?”

Hunt nodded.

“Williamson’s father did seem relieved that I’d been able to talk his son out of facing you with pistols at dawn,” Moriarty remembered.

Gordon watched the pair. The three of them stood in tableau for a moment before Hunt finally spoke.

“I just wanted to thank you again,” he said. From the bag he was carrying he produced a bottle of whisky. Gordon could see the words Ballantine’s Finest printed on the label as Hunt passed the bottle to Moriarty. “It’s a token of my gratitude, sir.”

“Whisky?” Moriarty seemed curious.

“Just a small token,” Hunt assured him. “And if there’s ever anything else you need from me in the future …”

He left the open promise of eternal obligation unspoken.

It hung between them like a physical presence.

Moriarty smiled and graciously accepted the gift. “Thank you, Hunt,” he said solemnly. “It’s been a pleasure having you in my lectures.” He lifted the whisky and added, “I’ll make sure to toast your name when I open this bottle.”

Hunt grinned. His teeth were crooked but his smile was easy to like.

Moriarty stepped past him and continued on his way to the courtyard. Over his shoulder he called back, “Hunt, please congratulate your father on his promotion to governorship of the Bank of England.” As he said the words, like a curious involuntary action, his hand squeezed on the book. His thumb rubbed across the lettering: quid pro quo .