Professor Moriarty: The Hound Of The D’urbervilles (37 page)

No, Colonel James was in the Xeniades.

At least, we didn’t have our awkward introductions in the Loud Room but rather in a draughty, underused annexe I gathered was called the Cold Room.

The Professor was vague as to which regiment his brother was a colonel in, but had let on that the fellow was still serving. Somehow – and, again, I of all people should have known better – that made me imagine a younger, straighter-spined, suntanned version of the James Moriarty I knew. More hair on his head and a set of fierce whiskers, in full uniform, bristling with martial fervour. I envisioned a cruel, canny Moriarty brain applied to devastating pre-emptive strikes against the foe (always best to get your reprisals in first, I say).

Instead, the Colonel was a sallow, slouching fellow with a sunken chest, the ill-cared-for clothes of a clerk who no longer has hopes of advancement, a perpetual cold which required odd poultices and compresses which afforded no appreciable benefit, and a little square of moustache like a patch he’d missed with his cutthroat three days ago. He was seven years younger than the Professor, but seemed nearer death.

From one whiff of him, I knew he’d never set foot on a battlefield. Asked what army line he was in, he bluntly said ‘supplies’ and left it at that. I assumed he was less a soldier than a wholesale orderer and deliverer of boots, tins of bully and those greased cartridges which make Indians mutinous. Again, I leapfrogged to a conclusion. Throughout this whole affair, I did that. I wish I could say I learned my lesson, but plainly I didn’t.

So, minimal pleasantries aside, to the point: ‘It’s James, James.’

‘My youngest brother is a stationmaster in the west of England, Moran,’ the Professor stated.

‘Fal Vale Junction, in Cornwall,’ said the Colonel.

‘Where he can’t do any harm,’ said the Professor.

‘So you say, James.’

‘I do say, James.’

At that, the Professor’s head began its familiar oscillation. Unnervingly, the Colonel began to sway his head from side to side in mirror of his brother. It was a family habit! The two bobbed heads like Peruvian llamas working up to a spitting contest. My hands convulsed in a kind of terror. Was this a tussle of fraternal wills or some species of communication beyond other mortals? The brothers kept it up for several minutes.

I wondered if it was possible to get a drink in this place.

At length, they quit playing silly beggars.

‘Through my influence,’ the Colonel said, ‘James has secured his present position...’

‘He owes you his
station,
you mean,’ I interjected.

‘As I said... Colonel Moran, was that one of those, what are they called, jokes?... I have gone to no little trouble to put James where he is. I gather he is not satisfied, which will scarcely come as a surprise to you.’

‘James is seldom satisfied,’ the Professor said, addressing me as an aside.

I shrugged, unsure what was required.

‘James will attempt to rope you in, James,’ the Colonel said. ‘He has ever tried to play us off, one against the other. You remember when he was expelled from Greyfriars?’

‘An incident not one of us is liable to forget.’

‘Indeed not. This time, I insist you stay out of it. No good can come of your involvement. James is hysterical and unreliable, again.’

‘In that case, I wonder you troubled to use your influence in your brother’s cause, Colonel,’ I said.

The question of how a supply officer could ‘influence’ a railway company appointment did occur to me.

‘Blood is thicker than vinegar, Colonel,’ the Colonel said.

‘True true,’ I assented, like a pious idiot.

‘James will approach you, James,’ the Colonel continued, fixing eyes on his brother. ‘You will ignore him. All will benefit. Have I made myself clear?’

‘Admirably, James.’

‘Good. Now, James, f--k off back to your blackboard.’

The Colonel turned and walked back into the noisy room. I gathered, with some astonishment, that we were dismissed.

My face burned. Professor Moriarty stood there, expression unchanged.

‘Moriarty, does your brother... your brother, the Colonel... have any idea of your real business?’

The Professor cocked his head to one side, smiling unpleasantly.

‘James is not the most perceptive of us.’

Moriarty was sensitive about defiance and discourtesy. The last man to tell him in so many words to f--k off was a cracksman who came across some jewels in a safe he was rifling for documents we had paid him to obtain, and foolishly decided no tithe was owed on them. After a week in our thick-walled basement, what was left of the poor sod was grateful to be tossed into the Thames.

‘If you want me to kill him, I’ll do it for nothing. As a favour, Moriarty. To repay your years of, ah, friendship. Bare hands?’

The Professor considered it.

‘No, Moran. It’s not yet time. And this matter is not ended.’

‘Well, any time you want it done, it’s done. You can count on me.’

‘I have often said that, Moran.’

That was news to me. He laid a cold hand on my shoulder. From him, this was almost a singular gesture. Recalling that the last time he unbent so, he palmed the cursed Black Pearl off on me, I instinctively patted my pockets. If the Professor noticed, he was too lost in his own thoughts to pass comment.

I fancied he was in a melancholy humour.

Family reunions will do that to you.

When we returned to Conduit Street, a telegram awaited. From the third James Moriarty. The Professor read the wire, and passed it to me.

JAMES – FAL VALE TERRORISED BY GIANT WORM! – COME AT ONCE – JAMES.

I gave him back the telegram.

‘A giant
worm?’
the Professor said. ‘What, pray, does James expect me to do about it?’

I considered the matter.

‘Tricky proposition, giant worms,’ I said. ‘Hard to know which gun to pack. Or which end to shoot. A good, sharp
kris
is your best tool. You have to chop the devil into slices rather than segments, or they all wriggle off separately and you’ve got a pack of little crawlers to deal with rather than the one outsize specimen.’

I knew what I was talking about. I’ve come across six-foot worms, mouths ringed with shark teeth, in South Africa. They looklike pale, boneless pythons and can eat through solid rock, let alone a man’s chest. You tend to mistake them for a thick rope or a draught-excluder, until you see a swallowing ripple run along their length or discern the disgusting brownish-pink core at the centre of the creamish translucent tube.

‘James doesn’t mean worm in that sense, Moran.’

‘Is there another?’

‘Archaic English, sometimes
ourm.
A synonym for dragon. The notion that such fantastic creatures breathe fire is associated with the English worm dragon rather than the Chinese lizard dragon.’

That was a different challenge.

‘I’ve never stalked dragon, but I fancy an elephant gun would suffice.’

I was not entirely serious. I mean, I’ve heard of the
kuripuri
of the Amazon – degenerate survivors from the prehistoric age of reptiles – and I’ve shot the head off a Komodo dragon, which is merely an overgrown iguana and poor sport. If you’ve paid attention, you’ll know I’ve tangled with several mythical species. Red Shuck and his pack turned out to be just dyed wolves, but the taxonomists were still out on the
mi-go
I’d run across in Nepal and Soho. Still, I wasn’t prepared to swallow a worm unknown to science in Cornwall. Moriarty’s head bobbed, though, so I knew there’d be trouble in it.

After furious oscillation, Moriarty crumpled his brother’s telegram and tossed it into the fire. It went up with a puff, like a stage magician’s flash paper.

‘More urgent matters must be attended to, Moran,’ the Professor declared, turning away from the fire. He touched fingertips to his pinpricked globe and gave it an idle spin. ‘Soon, we must consider seriously the obstacles presented to our continental expansion by the entrenched interests of our
colleagues
in France and Germany.’

I’d known this was coming.

In Paris, a new Grand Vampire held office. He had displaced his predecessor after the Affair of the Six Maledictions – in which
Les Vampires
had been involved, not very happily. Having been forced (by us) into unprofitable battle with the Knights Templar, the Frenchies had cause to feel they’d not been dealt fairly. Reprisals were expected.

In Berlin, an ambitious pup was slavishly imitating the Moriarty Method by assembling his own criminal cartel. More adept at disguising his person than the Professor, this upstart seldom showed his real face. On our books, the kraut-eating swine was marked for an eventual seeing-to because one of his favoured impostures – a shock-haired, stooped alienist with mesmeric eyes – was an impudent caricature of the man whose act he had blatantly stolen. He even guyed Moriarty’s side-to-side head wobble, which ticked off the Prof more than the arrant plagiarism of his Loughborough Diamond Coup in the Dusseldorf Marzipan Stone Substitution.

It wasn’t just restlessness, a jaded need to expand an empire, which compelled Moriarty into border skirmishes with his continental rivals. In his mettle, he needed to be the best – which is to say,
worst –
in his field.

The Firm would go to war!

Not soon enough, said I. For I wasn’t content to be content, to grow plump and pampered in a London rut – no matter how many blushing twins were thrown into the pot – when there were savage lands to be conquered, and desperate campaigns to be waged. The hunter’s blood stirred and would not be quieted. View halloo, and into the fray...

Then, a railway messenger arrived. The lad was startled to be greeted on our doorstep by Tessie the Two-Ton Taff, in peignoir and straining stays. Mrs Halifax was off with one
of her filles de joie,
selling a healthy ‘inconvenience’ to thin-blooded, childless Americans, so the Great Lay of Llandudno was serving in Mrs H.’s stead for the day. The Welsh girl took the messenger by his ear and hauled him up to our reception room, where he presented a sealed envelope to the Professor. Having taken a shine to the railway lad, Tess then dragged him into the kitchens for what she referred to as ‘a nice dollop of dripping’. I doubt the boy ever reported back to his office, though I don’t credit the rumour spread by envious, bonier girls that Tess ate him.

This time, Stationmaster Moriarty enclosed a signed letter on the headed paper of the GS&W Railway Company. If presented to the conductor of the Fal Vale Special, which was to leave Paddington at two o’clock that afternoon, the document would entitle the bearer to accommodation gratis for himself and his party.

A wilful contrarian, Professor Moriarty was in a quandary. One brother had ordered him
not
to go to Cornwall. The other had summoned him
to
Cornwall. He could not disobey both equally. To defy one, he must satisfy the other. Besides weaving his head from side to side, he was grinding his teeth – a new habit, so far as I knew.

I tried to get him back to continental matters, asking his estimate of the Great Vampire’s intriguing new protégée – a female who styled herself ‘Irma Vep’ and was reputedly the greatest man manipulator in the business since
that bitch
herself.

But he would not be distracted from family business.

‘There’s nothing else for it, Moran. We shall have to seek out this worm. Pack guns.’

‘Your brother doesn’t mention a fee.’

‘He would not.’

‘Family discount, eh?’

Moriarty’s shoulders were rounder than usual. I saw my needling was getting through. Family can worry under the skin like a tick. The Professor was, in his way, a great man. Yet, despite what many who encountered him said, he was still a human man.

I’ll warrant Gladstone, Palliser and Attila were the same – in command of their destinies and fixed on their great goals, but red-faced and sputtering when joshed by some sibling who remembered when nursie smacked their bottoms for making sicky-sicky on their bibs. Attila, of course, could have irritating relations thrown into a wolf pit. However, in the so-called enlightened modern age, such methods of easing domestic stress were frowned upon.

So, we were hunting dragons. With no payday in sight.

I consoled myself with the thought that this expedition was but an appetiser: a quick kill to warm up for the long, delicious hunt to come.

We were at Paddington Station in good time for the Special, which was ready to board at its platform. We passed through scalding steam to reach the steps to the single carriage. Other passengers were already in their seats, which made me wonder who else was invited on the Fal Vale Worm Express. A conductor stood by the steps, with a whistle and a clipboard. Folds of skin hung loose under his eyes and chin.

Moriarty presented his brother’s letter to the official, who stated – in a tedious West Country drone – that no one had told him of extra passengers, opined that anyone could obtain a sample of the company’s stationery and declared he had never heard of the supposed signatory.

‘This b’ain’t no good
yurr,’
he said. ‘Only money or murder’ll get yer ’board this train, or my name b’aint ’Ubert Berkins.’

Foolishly, we opted for money.

As the Fal Vale Special steamed out of London, the Professor sank into a deep quiet. He was thinking.

I’d known him not speak for a week, then arrange the removal of a human obstacle to one of his designs and become almost morbidly cheerful. I’d seen his crazes start up like a sudden summer storm, ending in ruination of one stripe or another for someone who had crossed him.

I need not mention again Nevil Airey Stent, the former Astronomer Royal. Even the Red Planet League business pales beside the fate of Fred Porlock, convicted in a court convened in our basement of a capital crime for selling information about the Firm’s dealings to outside interests. What was done to the traitor made the Lord of Strange Deaths seem lenient, and stood as a serious disincentive to anyone else who might consider following his unhappy path of collaboration with the law.