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

“How did you help him with the bullies?”

Moriarty shook his head. “It was nothing really. Hunt is prone to bullying. I suspect it’s with him being red-headed. Many people assume a red-headed man has Irish blood in his veins and there’s always been a lot of anti-Irish sentiment brewing in this country.” He frowned and said, “I suspect it will get worse after the Clerkenwell outrage last night.”

Gordon nodded agreement. He’d read that morning’s Times before visiting Moriarty. The explosion at the Clerkenwell detention centre appeared to have been an ill-conceived catastrophe. Fenian activists had botched an attempt to help one of their comrades escape incarceration. Twelve innocents were dead. More than a hundred had been injured.

“Is Hunt Irish?”

“No,” Moriarty admitted. “There’s no Gaelic in his lineage. But that didn’t stop a gang of students from making his existence a misery because they thought he looked Irish.”

“How did you intervene?”

Moriarty paused and turned to face Gordon. His thumb stroked the gold letters on the book again. “We came to an amicable agreement about the situation,” he said carefully. “Some of those involved in the bullying come from prominent families. You know Gladstone’s children come here, don’t you?”

Gordon nodded. He was aware that the leader of the opposition’s children patronised the university. Cohorts over the previous years had included European royalty, the sons of celebrated military heroes and the children of industrial tycoons. Gordon considered himself fortunate that his parents had invested so much into his education so he could study alongside the future leaders of the country.

“A lot of prominent families send their children here,” he agreed.

Moriarty nodded.

“Hunt’s family didn’t want to pursue the incidence of bullying. They were aware that things could reflect badly on Hunt if he was perceived weak enough to be a victim of bullying. The fam ilies of the bullies were equally relieved to learn that the matter was being resolved without becoming public knowledge. The whole situation was resolved amicably.”

Gordon digested this quietly for a moment. Hunt and his family were now indebted to Moriarty. The eminent families of a gang of bullies were equally beholden to him. Was there anyone in the university who didn’t owe this kind man some small favour? Was there anyone in the universe who wasn’t in his debt?

“How do they pay you back?”

Moriarty blushed. He turned and started back towards the courtyard. “We all find a way to pay our debts, Gordon.”

Gordon wanted to pursue the matter, but Moriarty had reached the courtyard and was striding purposefully towards Professor Bell’s offices.

The lawns were covered in a thin veil of white. The slates of the building roofs were frosted with snow. The air was cold enough to make each exhalation plume softly. Moriarty seemed embarrassed by the question of repayment and Gordon was trying to think of a way to retract the question. Before Gordon could find the right way to put his thoughts into words they were again interrupted.

A tall, broad man approached. He walked with the gait of a military gentleman. A stick in his right hand clipped softly through the snow as an accompaniment to every other step. Moriarty slowed as the man neared and, when they were close enough, the pair clasped hands with the ferocity of lifelong friends.

“Sebastian Moran,” Moriarty called cheerfully. “It’s so good to see you.”

“Likewise, Professor.”

Moriarty laughed the epithet away. “I’m not a professor yet. I’m only a humble reader. I haven’t been offered the chair yet.”

“Haven’t you submitted your treatise on the binomial theory?”

“It’s been submitted,” Moriarty assured Moran. “I’m waiting for feedback from the board of governors. And even then, there’s the issue of Professor Phillips.”

Moran sighed. “Did you see the Fenians botched their escape plans last night?”

“I read the piece in The Times .” Moriarty shook his head sadly. “Some people say the city is in the grip of an organised criminal mastermind but this seems to have been a very disorganised affair.”

“Informers had notified authorities,” Moran told him. “But the authorities didn’t heed those warnings.”

“It’s almost as though they were given help,” Moriarty mused. He stared wistfully across the courtyard. He seemed unmindful of the light snow falling about him. “It’s almost as if some mastermind, acting in the interests of the Irish Republican Brotherhood, called in favours and asked figures in authority to turn a blind eye to any of the warnings they received.” His thumb rubbed across the gold lettering on his leather-bound volume: quid pro quo . His smile looked to have frozen in the chill morning air. “It’s almost as though someone went to all that trouble. And still the Fenians botched everything.”

Moran cleared his throat.

Moriarty frowned and studied Moran with a peevish glare.

Moran nodded at Gordon. “I’m sure this student doesn’t want to hear about your speculation on last night’s bombing,” Moran said pointedly.

“A good point,” Moriarty agreed. “Perhaps we should meet for lunch this afternoon and share our speculation on the Irish problem then?”

“A splendid idea,” Moran agreed. He hefted up the walking stick he’d been carrying and passed it to Moriarty. “Before we part I must show you this device. A German colleague engineered it for me.”

“A walking stick?” Moriarty smiled. “Do we really need German engineers for such devices?”

Moran took the stick from Moriarty, placed the handle against his shoulder as though he was wielding a rifle, and then aimed into the distance.

A sprinkling of snow continued to fall from the sky.

To Gordon’s mind, unless Moran was the world’s most exceptional marksman, whatever he was pointing the stick at, the target was fully obscured by the weather.

“Moran?” Moriarty asked doubtfully.

There was a hiss of air.

Gordon thought he saw some small missile explode from the pointed end of the walking stick. But it all happened so fast he couldn’t be entirely sure. More interesting than Moran’s hissing walking stick was the distant sound of shattering glass across the courtyard. The noise was followed by a shrill whisper of wind. It made a sound like a heartfelt cry of dismay.

“Fascinating.” Moriarty sounded genuinely impressed. “I can imagine we’ll find plenty of future uses for such an ingenious creation when we’re having lunch.”

Moran agreed. He bade them both a good afternoon and allowed Moriarty and Gordon to continue walking towards Professor Bell’s quarters.

“What was that device?” Gordon asked when Moran was out of earshot.

Moriarty shrugged. “I have no idea,” he admitted. “I suspect Moran will tell me all about it over lunch.”

A light wind blew through the settled snow, dislodging a small flurry of flakes across their route. Moriarty’s black gown and mortar board were both white with icy residue and Gordon thought the man looked like some saintly figure from the days of the Bible. Hurrying behind him, desperate to escape the frosty elements, Gordon bundled himself tight in his woollen jacket and kept his head down until they had entered the building on the opposite side of the courtyard.

Moriarty shrugged the snow from his cape with a roll of his shoulders. Gordon tramped up and down to dislodge snow from his boots and shake it from his head. They hadn’t started on the stairwell up to Bell’s quarters when an elderly man approached them.

“Professor Moriarty,” he began. “May I have a word?”