The Mammoth Book of the Adventures of Professor Moriarty Page 2

  The next morning was damp and drizzly, and the atmosphere in the college was rather muted too. People whispered in corners. Roland told me that poor Seamus was clearly terrified, even though the strange man seemed to have disappeared. Moriarty too was distracted. I had come to show him my calculations on the isometric simplification of the two-body problem, but his gaze was often drawn to his own papers. ‘Dualism, Mr Gifford,’ he said to me, suddenly. ‘In Manichean terms, there is always the opposite. For every positive, the negative. The force that reaches upwards towards heaven is always balanced out by Lucifer, the fallen angel.’ Then he gave a strange, short laugh, reached for my calculations, scanned them with a glance and said, ‘Ah, but you see, remember your Kepler – given that we know the value of “M”, here, you still need to calculate the eccentric anomaly, here …’

  And we were off again.

  The next odd thing that happened was that later on that morning, while I was still with Professor Moriarty, we were interrupted by a knock on the door and Seamus appeared, carrying a large parcel of papers. ‘These were left at the lodge for you, sir,’ he said.

  ‘Hah!’ Moriarty seized the brown paper bundle. ‘Very good. How are the bruises?’ he asked.

  ‘On the mend, thank you, sir.’

  ‘You knew your attacker?’ Moriarty watched Seamus closely as he replied.

  ‘Oh yes, sir. Never thought I’d see him again though.’

  ‘An old grudge, perhaps?’ Moriarty yawned, and his eyes drifted back towards the newly delivered papers.

  ‘You could say that, sir.’ Seamus, seeing that Moriarty’s interest had waned, gave a brief bow and departed.

  Moriarty placed his hand on the papers. ‘An explanation, Mr Gifford,’ he said. ‘I have a brother. Well, I have two, but this concerns my younger brother. He’s a stationmaster in Dawlish. There’s an old family matter outstanding that he’s trying to clear up. He always was the guardian of these things. A mild-mannered, moral sort of man, never leaves the West Country, but he has deemed this business sufficiently important to visit the capital. Our other brother is a colonel and mostly overseas.’ He flicked briefly through the first of the files then turned back to me. ‘Enough. To work, Mr Gifford. Kepler’s equation awaits us.’

  That afternoon I went to my paid job. Loading boxes was dull work, but freed my mind for my calculations. An hour or so passed pleasantly enough, until I was amazed to see one of the shop-floor lads appearing, breathless, in my packing station. ‘Your college has sent for you, Owen – they say can you come quickly, a terrible thing has happened.’

  I hurried through Bloomsbury, barely aware of the abating drizzle, the thin sunlight breaking through the clouds. At the college lodge, there was a crush of people, and I could see the uniforms of police officers amongst them.

  ‘He’s dead,’ someone said.

  ‘Who—’ I tried to ask.

  ‘Seamus.’ Roland was standing at my side. ‘He’s been killed. Felled by a punch to the throat. They found him in the alley behind the old staircase.’

  After that, we all had to give statements. We were corralled into the porter’s lodge by the sergeant, and one by one dictated what we knew to a young police officer. Indeed, we knew very little, apart from our witnessing the strange fight of the day before. Roland and I looked up as Professor Moriarty emerged. His expression was fixed, his eyes dark pools against the pallor of his face. He gave a brief nod in greeting, then headed back to his study.

  At this point Eveline appeared, ready to give her statement. She seemed hesitant and nervous. I thought of the conversation I’d overheard, and wondered if she would tell the police about it.

  Eventually, I escaped and went to meet Angela, luckily only a few minutes late, and my excuse was so dramatic and interesting that she forgave me instantly. We passed a pleasant evening, with a bowl of soup for supper and a walk in the warm twilight. She told me that she’d met her father for tea that day, as he had business in town. ‘We met someone who knew your professor,’ she said. ‘A friend of my father’s, a retired doctor. They were in the same tennis club once and they’ve kept in touch.’ But I was only half listening, distracted by the charm of the City at dusk, and the disturbing events of the day.

  The next day a strange calm had descended upon the college. The police were a quiet presence in the common room. ‘There was a brawl,’ the young sergeant said, when Roland and I had gathered for a morning cup of tea. ‘It concerns a man named Edmund Sweeney, an Irishman, who was apparently known to the deceased.’

  We agreed we had seen the fight, but we knew nothing of this Mr Sweeney. I assumed that Eveline must have told them.

  ‘Fenians.’ Dr McCrae spoke up. ‘London is awash with them.’

  ‘The Rebellion,’ someone said. ‘Thank God for our Army.’

  ‘And it’s not over,’ Dr McCrae said. ‘I reckon there’ll be war in Ireland by the end of the year.’

  ‘Fellow feeling, perhaps, Dr McCrae?’ It was Moriarty who spoke. He had appeared in the doorway, and now helped himself to a cup of tea from the urn.

  ‘Not at all, Professor. Not at all. No love lost between the Scots and the Irish.’

  ‘At least these Fenians have had the good sense to have a mathematician at their helm.’ Moriarty stirred sugar into his tea.

  ‘You mean Eamon de Valera.’ Dr McCrae raised a bushy eyebrow.

  ‘Indeed. Rockwell College Tipperary. Isn’t that so, Dr Brennan?’ Moriarty turned to Eveline.

  She flashed him a look. Then she shrugged. ‘I’m afraid I wouldn’t know, Professor.’

  ‘The fallen angel,’ Moriarty said, amused. ‘One always needs one’s Lucifer.’ He turned on his heel and left, his cup and saucer balanced on one hand.

  I spent an hour or two in my room, working on Cartesian coordinate systems for describing three-dimensional space. ‘Show your workings,’ Moriarty would always say, and I was trying to make sure that I’d written everything down, that it all made sense. But the figures swam before my eyes, distracted as I was by these terrible events in the college, and in the end I gave up and went for a walk.

  I passed the porter’s lodge, now occupied by a new chap, a war veteran with blinking blue eyes and a shock of white hair. He sat uneasily in Seamus’s place, nodding silent greetings to those who came and went. As I started down the lane that led out to the back of the college, I heard raised voices.

  ‘You must get away.’ It was a woman’s tone.

  ‘I came here for you. I won’t leave without you,’ a rough, male voice replied and, as I rounded the corner, I could glimpse Dr Brennan and the man from the brawl, half hidden by the kitchen dustbins.

  ‘You’re risking your life,’ she said.

  ‘I’d risk anything for you, Bren. You know that.’

  ‘I thought you were dead. That night by the barricades, when they dragged you away … and now all this time later you appear in my life …’ She took a step towards him, and he enclosed her in his arms.

  After a moment, she said, ‘But, our porter—’

  ‘Seamus O’Connor.’

  ‘I’d heard of him,’ she said. ‘He went over to the others—’

  ‘So he did. And, when he was interned, he held me responsible. Swore vengeance ever since.’

  ‘So, when you came in here—’

  ‘He set about me. Took me by surprise. Luckily I know how to defend myself.’

  ‘Oh, Edmund.’ She put her arms around him. ‘But, you’re not safe.’ Her eyes searched his face. ‘They’ll arrest you for his murder. You must go.’

  ‘But I didn’t do it, Bren. I swear to you. You know, on Monday, after picking that fight, he came to find me. Invited me for a drink. Took me down to the river for a pint of cockles and a glass of stout. The Old Red Lion, where your Starry Plough boys always used to drink. I thought it odd, but I didn’t want trouble.’

  They stood a while, her head on his shoulder. After a moment, he smiled at her. ‘So, is this your life, then? Sitt
ing up there doing your sums?’

  ‘It’s what I’ve always wanted,’ she said.

  ‘You were always one to get what you wanted,’ he said. ‘Tougher in battle than any man.’

  ‘Don’t be hard on me, Edmund,’ she said. ‘We’ve all suffered. We’ve all seen comrades shot dead before our eyes. You can’t blame me for wanting peace.’

  ‘Then come with me, Bren,’ he said. ‘Come back to the farm. I’ve been running too long.’

  She shook her head, staring at the ground.

  ‘You should have been a wife, a mother—’

  ‘Not now.’ She faced him, her fingers soft against his collar. ‘If not with you, then with no one.’

  He took a step back from her, stumbled a little. His hand went to his eyes.

  ‘Edmund? Are you all right?’

  ‘I’ll be fine.’

  ‘You’re ailing – you look dreadful.’

  ‘I’m fine.’

  Another embrace, then she said, ‘I had no idea. I had no idea that our college porter was the self-same O’Connor who swore vengeance on you.’

  A brief laugh. ‘We Irish. We get everywhere.’

  ‘Edmund – you must go. They’ll arrest you.’

  He shook his head. ‘Whoever killed Seamus O’Connor, it was sure enough not me. Even though the world is a safer place without him.’

  ‘No one will believe you, Edmund.’

  ‘People saw us drinking together—’

  ‘From what I’ve heard of that man, he’d pour you a drink with one hand and poison it with the other.’

  He gave a weary smile, took her in his arms.

  ‘It can’t be, Edmund.’ She broke away from him. ‘We both know that.’

  He took her hand. ‘One more day. One more day together. And then I’ll leave you to your numbers.’

  He put his arm around her, and they walked away, out of the college towards the square, where the white blossom of the trees dazzled in the sunlight.

  I stood, wondering about what I’d seen, what I’d heard. I walked back slowly, into the college, hearing the bell strike the hour, aware that I was due at Moriarty’s rooms.

  I found him standing, gazing at the wall, at his own portrait. He turned to me as I came into the room.

  ‘Mr Gifford – what is the matter?’

  I explained that I’d just seen our main suspect in conversation with Dr Brennan, and that they’d left together. ‘Should we tell the police, Professor?’ I asked him.

  He smiled. ‘I think we should get on with our work, Mr Gifford. The police have their methods, after all.’

  That afternoon Angela finished her work early, so she came to find me at Moriarty’s rooms. I introduced them, and she greeted him with her shy charm. He shook her hand with formal politeness.

  ‘My friend here knows someone you know,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, hardly,’ she said. ‘My father knows him. We went to Baker Street, called at his rooms.’

  The words had a peculiar effect. ‘Baker Street?’ Moriarty was staring at her intently. ‘Who? Who was it?’

  ‘My father’s friend was a doctor—’

  ‘But Holmes? Did you see Holmes?’

  ‘I think that was the man, yes.’

  ‘You met him? You met Sherlock Holmes? And what did he say?’

  ‘We hardly spoke, sir. It was only because my father was talking to Dr Watson, at the doorway there—’

  ‘But Holmes? Did he mention me? Moriarty?’ He waited breathlessly for her reply.

  Angela answered timidly. ‘I had in passing told my father that Mr Gifford here was a member of this college. Dr Watson turned to his friend, and said, “Did you hear that, Holmes?” I think that’s what he said. Really, I wasn’t paying much attention, my father and Dr Watson were comparing notes on the Maida Vale Tennis club …’

  ‘Still there.’ Moriarty shook his head. ‘Still there. After all these years.’ He looked up again. ‘Reptilian, that’s how he describes me.’ His voice was harsh. ‘Did he say that? Mr Holmes?’

  Angela appeared flustered. ‘Really, Professor, I had no reason to—’

  ‘Peering and blinking … Weaving my head from side to side, did he say that? Oh, and the rounded shoulders.’ He straightened himself. ‘What do you think?’

  He was addressing me directly, standing stiff-necked and upright.

  I didn’t know what to say. ‘Really, Professor, Miss Blunt hardly saw this man—’

  ‘I hold Dr Watson partly responsible. His account of things, he over-eggs it all in my view. A drama of equals, both of us brilliant, one good, one evil. Of course, real life is never like that. And, as for this tussle on the edge of the cliff that was supposed to carry me off … Watson should have known that I would never have engaged in hand-to-hand combat in that way. The truth is, we were just men. Flawed, as men are.’ The rage seemed to have left him, and he sank wearily into his chair. ‘Mr Holmes was very clever, of course, and captured something of the imagination of his time. But we’ve had a war since then. We’re tired. The jubilant escapades of Empire, it all seemed a game. But not now. We’ve seen a generation lost in pointless battle, the boundaries of Europe redrawn.’ He looked grey, and somehow flattened. His gaze went to Angela. ‘How is he, Mr Holmes? Does he seem tired too?’

  ‘I don’t really know.’ Angela glanced at me. ‘I hardly saw him. He was standing in the shadows, trying to light a pipe.’ She tugged at my sleeve.

  ‘We really must be going,’ I interjected. ‘Thank you for your help today. I’m returning you those Göttingen papers on the Kepler equation.’

  ‘Ah. Yes. Thank you.’ He didn’t look up, but gazed towards the window, a faraway look in his eyes.

  ‘Baker Street,’ he murmured to himself, as we left the room. ‘Baker Street,’ we heard him say.

  The next morning was a Thursday, and I had hurried into the college in the hope of catching a few words with Professor Moriarty before I embarked on my teaching for the day. But there was no sign of him. I was standing outside his locked door, when a man approached along the corridor. ‘Ah,’ he said. ‘Not in yet?’

  He was short and stocky, with a lined face, blue eyes and stilldark hair. ‘Come all this way to see him and he’s not even there.’ He flashed me a warm smile. ‘I’m Jack. I’m his brother.’

  I took the proffered hand. ‘Pleased to meet you, sir,’ I said.

  ‘Well, when I say Jack – we have a joke we’re all called James. All three of us. So I had to choose another name.’

  We stood in comfortable silence. The sunlight flickered along the wood panels of the corridor.

  ‘Not the sort to be late,’ Jack Moriarty said.

  ‘No,’ I agreed.

  ‘Can’t be late in my job.’ He smiled. ‘Them trains don’t wait for no one.’ He tapped his foot against the floor. ‘I’ll be back home tomorrow. Thank goodness.’

  There was another silence.

  ‘I think these events have disturbed him rather,’ I said.

  ‘Oh, ah.’ He nodded. ‘I’d heard. He always spoke well of that porter. I think he got him that job in the first place. He has his networks. Anything you need, he’ll find it for you. A hunting rifle. A particularly fine tea. A rare medicinal remedy …’

  Again, he retreated into silence. Around us, the sounds of the college – footsteps along corridors, a snatch of conversation, the wheeling of the kitchen trolleys from the refectory below.

  Jack Moriarty spoke again. ‘Takes a lot to disturb my brother, mind you. The things that man has seen, and all you get is that blank smile.’ He was still tapping his foot, gazing down at the polished parquet. ‘I suppose I was the lucky one,’ he went on. ‘Being the youngest. After our mother died …’

  This time the silence was awkward. ‘I’m sorry to hear that,’ I said.

  He spoke slowly. ‘Jim joined the Army as soon as he could. Oldest brother, see, I always thought it was like family for a boy who’d never had a family. But James here …’
He looked up at me, his blue eyes clouded. ‘How can a man love, who’s never known love? That’s what I wonder.’

  He said nothing more. After a moment I spoke again. ‘You had no parents?’

  He sighed. ‘I was only a baby when she died. I was given away. Kindly couple, childless, showered me with affection. But James here was left with our father. And, let’s just say, he didn’t manage things very well. One day, he upped and left. Never saw him again. James came home from school as usual, he must have been about six or seven, a shy, quiet boy … and the house was locked up. Empty. His home, taken from under him. I heard later he was found, hours later, just standing there in the street, freezing cold, staring at the darkened windows.’

  We were silent, thinking our own thoughts. Then, the sound of steps striding along the corridor.

  ‘Heavens, is that the time?’ Moriarty’s voice rang out. ‘I became entangled in a Manichean puzzle,’ he said. ‘I had no idea how late it had got.’ He greeted us with his characteristic smile. ‘You heard about our troubles here?’ he asked his brother, as we followed him into his rooms.

  ‘I had heard, yes. That poor porter of yours …’

  Moriarty gestured for us both to sit down. ‘They’re hunting for his killer, I gather. An Irishman. Always the Irish, eh, Jack?’ He threw his brother a cheery smile.

  ‘Don’t we count as Irish, then?’ Jack sat down stiffly next to Moriarty’s desk.

  ‘A long time ago, perhaps. A long time ago. Now, where do you need me to sign?’

  Jack opened one of the files and pulled out a document, cream foolscap tied with tape. ‘I hope this settles it once and for all,’ he said to his brother.

  ‘Oh, I’m sure it will,’ Moriarty said. ‘I know you have our best interests at heart.’

  ‘Jim has written to me. He’s in Afghanistan, apparently.’

  ‘Good luck to him. Those Pathans are nearly as bad as the Fenians.’ Moriarty laughed, and I wondered at his restored good humour.