The Mammoth Book of the Adventures of Professor Moriarty

The Fulham Strangler Keith Moray

London, 1888

Life had been extinguished in an instant. A single sharp blow with a wooden cube, an executioner’s block, and whatever sentience a spider might have was either obliterated or immediately sent into a higher plane to join the creatures who had lived before it and trapped millions of assorted insects in their webs. It was the penalty it paid for having the temerity to walk over the desk where the experiment was being conducted.

At other times, Professor James Moriarty might have given the creature’s life and that of its ancestry some academic thought. A mathematical genius, whom some said rivalled the great Fibonacci himself, Moriarty had written a treatise on the binomial theorem at the age of twenty-one, a book on The Dynamics of an Asteroid and numerous academic papers on subjects as diverse as the invention of zero and the limits of growth of the human brain. His mind revelled in both pure and applied mathematics and sought distractions in abstruse problems such as the population explosion of spiders. Yet on this bleak, smoggy day in London, when other more mundane problems demanded his attention, he was less inclined towards frivolous pursuits.

He wiped the mangled arachnid body from the bottom of the die, one of the three pairs of dice that he had been experimenting with, and immediately cast the dice on the desk.

‘Two and five and three. Ten again!’

He added the total to the row of figures he had been recording, each entry precisely made in his scholarly hand. Had anyone been looking in on his study, that is precisely what they would have seen. A scholarly gentleman with pince-nez spectacles resting on an aquiline nose. An aesthetic man with a Shakespearean brow, receding black hair swept back and piercing, unemotional eyes. His posture was slightly stooped, presumably from years of bookish study. Indeed, the impression of a man of learning would have been entirely correct, for Professor James Moriarty had previously held the chair of mathematics at Durham University for several years, before his contretemps with the university senate that saw his departure for London, a spell of private tutoring of prospective Army candidates while he established and built his somewhat unique business empire.

There was a tap on the door that evoked a curt call to enter from the professor. The oak door opened and an elderly manservant with neutral, almost transparent hair entered. He was carrying a silver tray upon which were a glass of claret and an envelope.

‘Are your dice calculations going well, Professor?’

Moriarty eyed the servant dispassionately. As he did so his head oscillated slightly from side to side in a manner evocative of a reptile sizing up its prey. It was a look that the man knew well, but which never failed to produce a disagreeable shiver of discomfort at the base of his spine.

‘They are, Joshua. Entirely as Galileo predicted, with three dice the total of ten will show up more often than the total of nine. Totally predictable, of course, since there are two hundred and sixteen possible combinations with three dice. Of these, there are twenty-seven combinations that form a total of ten and twenty-five that form a total of nine.’ He sat back and sneered. ‘Unbelievable that the Duke of Tuscany paid the greatest scientist of his day to solve such a minor problem.’

Joshua, a family servant since the professor’s childhood, who had seen to his master’s personal needs since then, placed the glass of claret on the desk and laid the envelope in front of him. ‘And does this mathematical curio alter the instructions that are given to your gaming house managers, Professor?’

‘Not a whit, Joshua! Not one whit. They will still use the Fulhams and the tappers as usual to give the houses an edge. And they will be backed up by the enforcers if anyone is inadvertently caught in the act. The usual disposal methods are to be used.’

He sat back and sipped his wine, his eye falling momentarily upon the blank area on the wall where, until so recently, his prized painting La Jeune Fille à l’Agneau, by Jean-Baptiste Greuze, had resided. Losing it only a few days before had been partly responsible for his present state of irritability, manifested in the ruthlessness with which he was prepared to dispense death to spider or any creature who dared to cross his path, and the reason why he had sought to distract his mind with dice problems. He found that when he wanted to develop a plan his mind worked best when it had several things to think about.

‘So, tell me, has O’Donohue received the consignment?’

‘He has, Professor. He said that it will be ready for you whenever you are ready.’

Idly, Professor Moriarty reached for the envelope, neatly labelled with his name, but without postage or other markings. ‘How did this message come?’

‘The usual courier.’

The professor opened it and drew out the note from within. It was written in code, which, as the inventor, he could read as if he were merely reading in one of the dozen languages in which he was fluent.

Joshua noticed the pinpoints of colour develop on his cheeks, a sure sign of anger, which could have any of a dozen consequences for someone.

‘They dare send me this!’ he said after a moment, his voice calm, but with a steely edge that was apparent to Joshua.

‘Is it ill tidings, Professor?’

‘For someone, Joshua. For anyone who thinks that I am someone that can be given instructions like a hireling.’

Sherlock Holmes had not bothered to remove his old grey dressing gown all day. Indeed, it had been his companion over most of the preceding three days, ever since he had solved the case of the missing cavalryman, to much acclaim from the journalists of the Telegraph and the Daily Chronicle, to say nothing of the gratitude passed on from Her Majesty, Queen Victoria’s inner circle, via a runner from Downing Street. Yet all this meant little to the great detective, who made no secret of the fact that he selected his cases for the sheer intellectual challenge they presented rather than for any promised honour or fiscal reward.

In the absence of a suitable case or conundrum to occupy his mind, he was wont to lapse into a fit of melancholy, which he assuaged either by playing his Stradivarius, or by using a seven per cent solution of cocaine or by smoking copious quantities of tobacco.

It was the latter that he had opted for on this occasion, thanks mainly to a promise he had made to his friend and chronicler, Dr John Watson, before he had departed to visit his ailing uncle in Norfolk. The violin lay unused in its case.

Food interested him not one whit, despite his housekeeper, Mrs Hudson’s attempts to coax his appetite with all manner of little snacks. Her entreaties to open a window to let in fresh air fell on deaf ears as he studied the spiders that he had allowed free rein to weave their silvery gossamer webs in the darkest corner of his rooms. Their behaviour intrigued him for they were among the most efficient of nature’s killing machines, as he had witnessed at first hand in the case of the Patagonian Ambassador.

His mood had not been helped when he surfaced that afternoon after taking a nap in his bedroom to find that Mrs Hudson had taken the opportunity to air his room and to remove all of the cobwebs and their architects with duster, dustpan and brush.

The arrival of a telegram came at the right moment, when the bookcase with the dummy book in which he kept his syringe and secret supply of cocaine started to tempt him.

He tore it open with his thumb and read:

Mr Holmes. Would value your opinion about Fulham murder.

Strangulation. Will call at 7 p.m.

Inspector Alistair Munro

With an exultant cry, he skewered the telegram to his mantelpiece with a stab of his jackknife, his usual method of filing documents of interest. A thin smile crossed his lips and almost immediately he felt his mood had lightened.

At a couple of minutes before seven o’clock, Holmes heard the sound of a Hansom cab pull up on the wet cobbles outside his 221b Baker Street residence. True to his word, Inspector Alistair Munro rang the bell at exactly seven o’clock and, moments later, upon being admitted by Mrs Hudson, his footsteps could be heard bounding up the stairs. Holmes opened the door to his robust rap.

Alistair Munro was a good-humoured man of the same height as Holmes, albeit of slightly broader build. He had sandycoloured hair and moustache in keeping with his Highland ancestry and an accent to match. He removed his customary bowler and Ulster as he came into the room. He tossed them on to a free chair, while Holmes busied himself with the whisky decanter and the gasogene.

‘Warm yourself by the fire, Munro. You have had a busy evening, I see. You mentioned a murder in Fulham, yet I perceive that in the hours since you sent the telegram you have been across the river in Putney in order to search for clues as to the reason that the pawnbroker was murdered.’

‘How the devil did you know that, Mr Holmes?’ the inspector asked incredulously, sitting forward to gratefully receive his whisky and soda.

‘A simple matter. In the band of your bowler hat you have a seven-penny omnibus ticket, which is the second-class fare from Scotland Yard to the stop on the south side of Putney Bridge. Your telegram talked about the Fulham murder, which you will note already has a whole paragraph in this evening’s edition of the Daily Chronicle. Yet the Chronicle article talks about the murder of a Putney pawnbroker. Ergo, you had already been at the murder scene in Fulham then returned to Scotland Yard to report to your senior before heading across the river by omnibus. I presume that you chose that method of travel rather than using an official vehicle in order to be incognito as you investigated the pawnbroker’s shop and home in Putney. Having done so, you travelled here by Hansom.’

‘Exactly so, Mr Holmes,’ Munro replied, waving his hand in refusal of the cigar box which Holmes held out to him. ‘You forget I don’t smoke,’ he added with a half-grin.

‘On the contrary, Munro, I keep hoping that you will one day turn to tobacco. It is a great aid to the detective mind.’ He shut the box and tossed it on the floor by the fire. ‘Now, pray tell, why exactly should the murder of a pawnbroker in Putney be of interest to me.’

‘Because, Mr Holmes, the pawnbroker is none other than Liam O’Donohue, Professor Moriarty’s quartermaster.’

Holmes had picked up his cherry-wood pipe, but at mention of Moriarty’s name his jaw muscles tightened. ‘Then give me the facts, Munro.’

Munro took a sip of his whisky then laid the glass on the side table. ‘Very well, Mr Holmes. This morning one of the local constables was on his beat on Dawes Road in Fulham when a woman rushed into the street screaming murder. He recognised her as one of the cleaners at the Fusilier’s Club, a so-called gentlemen’s club. I say ‘so-called’, because it is nothing more than a gaming house and bordello. Men go there to gamble with cards, dice, playing all manner of games with rules of their own devising. That is, it is a place full of professional cheats and rogues. There is a bar where they can drink or they can enjoy the company of ladies of the night in an upstairs lounge, or, after negotiation, in one of the many boudoirs.’

‘Is the Fusilier’s Club one of Professor Moriarty’s establishments?’

‘No sir, it is independent. It belongs to an American consortium as far as I have been able to ascertain. It is run by Jack Lonsdale, a manager who oversees the gaming and by Mrs Dixie Heaton, the madame.’

‘And O’Donohue, was he a member?’

‘He was. That was why it was such a shock to the cleaning woman. She knew him. She opened one of the downstairs rooms and found him lying splayed out on the floor, dead as a doornail. He’d been strangled.’

‘What with? A garrotte of some kind?’

Munro shook his head and took another sip of whisky. ‘Bare hands, Mr Holmes. Or rather, it looks like one hand. There were bruises on his throat, you see. The constable was a competent fellow, he didn’t disturb the scene of the crime, but locked the door and reported to the Fulham Road station. The inspector there knew of O’Donohue’s connection with Professor Moriarty, so he sent word for me at Scotland Yard, knowing that I deal with anything to do with him. I went straight there and examined the scene and questioned everyone in the club before going back to the Yard to report to my superintendent.’

‘You are presumably confident that the murderer was no longer there, but I perceive that you have no real clue as to who the murderer is.’

‘Exactly, Mr Holmes. My worry, and the superintendent’s worry too, is that this could spark off a gang war. Apart from Moriarty’s criminal empire, there are lots of other gangs that would love to take over some of his activities. There are Chinese tongs in Limehouse, Italians in Clerkenwell and …’

‘I am possibly even more aware of many of the lesser gangs of London than you, Munro,’ Holmes said with a dismissive wave of his hand. ‘Yet I must agree, if someone has been foolish enough to execute one of Moriarty’s gang, especially a high-up member such as O’Donohue seems to have been, then they can surely expect repercussions.’

He picked up coal tongs and lifted a glowing cinder from the fire to light his cherry-wood pipe. ‘And then you went to Putney to check his shop and his living quarters.’

‘I did, but I found nothing that could help me. Yet although I know he is Moriarty’s quartermaster, I don’t know exactly where he keeps his warehouses. I have men scouring the wharfs in both directions from Putney Bridge.’

Holmes smoked in silence for a few moments then abruptly stood up. ‘Then let us go. It is time to view the body.’

Munro drained his glass and stood with alacrity. ‘That is just what I was hoping you’d say, sir. I instructed the Hansom driver to wait. We will go straight to the mortuary at Fulham, where I had the body taken.’

The body of Liam O’Donohue lay covered by a blanket atop a slab in the green-tiled mortuary.

‘I delayed the post-mortem examination until you had inspected the body,’ Munro explained, as the mortuary attendant, a bucolic-looking constable by the name of Grimes, removed the blanket.

Holmes immediately began his examination by scrutinising the man’s head and neck. He was a short, stocky man of about five and a half feet in height, with a spade beard and a bald head. His eyes had been closed, but his mouth was slightly open, the jaw muscles fixed in rigor mortis. About the eyes were telltale petechial haemorrhages, so often found in cases of strangulation and asphyxiation.

‘As you say, the bruising is consistent with strangulation with a single hand. The left hand, in fact.’

He whipped out a magnifying glass from a pocket of his coat and inspected the bruising, before turning his attention firstly to the torso, then to the hands.

‘The hands are soft, but they have seen physical work in the past. They are now kept clean and the nails are well groomed. Note also the curious signet ring with the symbol of what seems to be a pentagram.’

‘I had noticed that, Mr Holmes. Do you think it is significant?’

‘Possibly,’ the detective replied, non-committally. He bent over the open mouth and sniffed. ‘Curious and curiouser.’

From another pocket, he drew out a pair of fine forceps. Then over his shoulder: ‘Bring the lamp closer, please, Constable Grimes.’

Inspector Munro and PC Grimes looked over his shoulder as, by the lamplight, Holmes prised open the lower jaw and inserted the forceps into the mouth and deep into the throat. Then slowly he started tugging something.

Gradually, he pulled out a bundle of jute.

‘Good grief!’ exclaimed Munro. ‘The swine killed him with that. I can see it now. He had him by the throat and shoved that piece of sacking to block his windpipe.’

‘What sort of devil would do that?’ asked the constable in disgust.

‘It is not just sacking, Munro,’ Holmes said, laying the jute bundle on the slab. ‘There is something inside.’

He unwound it to reveal three pairs of wooden dice.

‘The plot thickens, Munro,’ he said, as he swept up the dice and the jute bundle. ‘I think we have seen enough for now. With your permission we shall take this to Baker Street for further examination and some experimentation.’

Upon arriving back at his Baker Street rooms, Sherlock Holmes had Mrs Hudson rouse Billy the pageboy and sent him off on an errand.

Then, with his cherry-wood pipe lit to his satisfaction, he lay the jute bundle on the table between himself and Munro. ‘Now, for a bit of experimentation. What do you make of these, Munro?’

Munro prodded them. ‘Well, I never!’ he exclaimed. ‘Just looking at them they seem perfectly normal, but this pair have four, five and six on three faces, and the same repeated on the other sides. And this pair have only the numbers one, two and three.’

‘Quite correct,’ said Holmes, with a wry smile. ‘The higher ones are called “high despatchers” and the lower ones are “low despatchers”.’

He picked up the remaining pair and tossed them. They came up one and six. Instantly, he scooped them up and tossed them again with the same result.

‘And these are Fulhams, meaning they are loaded. They will always come up as a total of seven. Fulham was renowned as the part of London where dice-sharpers lived and plied their trade in Elizabethan times. But it seems that the trade has now moved south of the river to Putney.’

‘So it begins to look as though whoever killed him was making a point. He had been caught cheating at dice,’ Munro conjectured.

‘Now for some chemistry,’ Holmes said, rising with the piece of jute and crossing to the table in the corner of the room, which was littered with retorts, test tubes and assorted chemistry paraphernalia. He lay his pipe down in an ashtray and pointed at the window. ‘Chemical analysis is incompatible with smoking,’ he said, with a humourless laugh. ‘It would be as well to have fresh air, if you wouldn’t mind opening the window, Munro.’

He sat at his chemical table and arranged several bottles of solutions and reagents in readiness.

‘First, we need to snip a piece of the jute off and soak it in a test tube with ether for a short while. Then we shall apply the Greiss test.’

Munro watched with interest as he shook the test tube for several minutes.

‘Observe as I then decant this liquid into these two conical flasks. Into the first I am going to pour a test tube of sodium hydroxide. You see that it remains clear. Now, as I add this Greiss reagent, if the liquid turns pink it will tell us that there are nitrites present in the liquid.’

He poured several drops into the flask and grunted in satisfaction as the liquid immediately turned pink.

‘And now, if I simply pour the reagent into the second flask without the alkali – nothing happens. That makes it absolutely clear, don’t you agree, Munro?’

The inspector shook his head. ‘I have absolutely no idea what you are talking about, Mr Holmes.’

‘No? Then I would recommend that you devote some time to the study of chemistry, you will find it invaluable in the pursuit of criminals. I have just shown that the jute cloth was used recently as a wrapping for nitroglycerine. In other words it had at some stage a stick of dynamite in it.’

Inspector Munro’s mouth opened and closed as he struggled to find words for the thoughts that tumbled through his mind. Just as he was about to speak the bell rang downstairs and moments later they heard a rush of many feet upon the stairs.

‘Ah, Billy has returned with the help we need.’

‘What help, Mr Holmes?’ Munro asked in some confusion.

‘Enter!’ Holmes boomed out as the footsteps reached the landing atop the stairs.

The door opened and a group of a dozen dirty and ragged urchins were led in by Billy the page. With a wink to the urchins and a bow to Holmes he left.

To Munro’s surprise some of the street urchins were barefooted and all of them looked in need of a square meal.

‘Inspector Munro, you see before you the unofficial force – my Baker Street irregulars.’

One of the boys was taller and older than the rest and was clearly the leader.

‘Wiggins, have no fear of the Inspector here. He is one of Scotland Yard’s best. I have an errand for you all. I need you to find me a man. You are to locate him only, not attempt any communication, for he is dangerous. As soon as you find him, and I have no doubt that you will find him somewhere in the gaming houses of Fulham, although I doubt if that is where he lives, you are to report to me. There is the usual scale of pay and a guinea to the one who finds him.’

‘But Mr Holmes, we have no idea what he looks like,’ Munro protested.

‘Oh we know something that distinguishes him, Munro,’ Holmes returned.

Then to the urchins:

‘You are looking for a tall, powerful man, of six foot two in height. He is American and a fervent gambler with a quick temper, ready to use his fists. He wears a signet ring on the fifth finger of his left hand and he smokes large Cuban cigars, which he habitually holds between the fourth and fifth fingers of that hand. Now off you go. Report to me any time of the day or night.’

Once they had gone Munro was quick to ask for an explanation.

‘It is simple, Munro. He is a tall man who could easily hold O’Donohue down with one hand, keeping out of reach of the Irishman’s flailing hands. That and the size of the hand give us his height. He stuffed the bundle with the crooked dice and the sacking into his throat. I trust that you noticed the bruises on the throat of the dead man?’

‘Of course, it was a left hand.’

‘But did you miss the imprint of a ring on the bruise made by the fifth finger? Not only that, but smelling the throat the overpowering smell of Cuban cigars was evident between those fingers. This man is a continuous cigar smoker.’

‘But why an American?’

‘The Fulham dice, Munro. They are loaded to always show up a seven. If you were familiar with the game of craps, which is highly popular in America, not only in their saloons, but in the alleys and back streets of towns and cities from coast to coast, then you would know that a seven can both win a game and at other times lose it. A dexterous dice-sharper can substitute a pair of dice at an instant. This man was playing with O’Donohue and that means that O’Donohue was used to playing craps with him. He probably regularly cheated him.’

‘So, this American discovered that he had been duped, probably over many games and literally stuffed the dice down his throat. I see.’

‘But do you see, Munro? I bring your attention back to the ring. To the rings they were both wearing on the fifth fingers of their left hands. I would be very surprised if our American does not have exactly the same design on his ring.’

‘A pentagram? You mean there could be something to do with the satanic arts?’

‘Perhaps, but I think not. However, I do think that they were both members of a secret organisation.’

‘You mean Moriarty’s gang?’

‘No, to my knowledge, Moriarty is neither particularly religious nor superstitious. I think that they are both members of an anarchist group, entirely independent of Professor Moriarty.’

‘Anarchists? With what aim?’

‘Total disruption of society. One thing I think is likely, the dynamite was part of a consignment, which suggests that they planned to steal from Moriarty. Or rather, O’Donohue was planning to help the American steal the consignment, but the American decided to silence O’Donohue. They may have been gambling companions, but silencing the professor’s quartermaster could be a way of completely covering his tracks. This all implies that this man has a hot temper and he is totally ruthless.’

Munro stroked his moustache pensively. ‘So what now, Mr Holmes?’

‘I think it is time for you to retire to your home. It is late, but, for me, I have thinking to do. It is quite a three-pipe problem and I would like now to be on my own. There is no more to be done this evening.’

Professor Moriarty was wakened at five o’clock in the morning by Joshua.

‘My apologies, Professor. I thought it best to tell you straight away that young Decker, our urchin who runs with Sherlock Holmes’s irregulars is here. He and his fellows have been given a task by that meddlesome Holmes. It concerns the O’Donohue murder.’

The professor slid out of bed and donned the dressing gown that his elderly manservant held in readiness for him. ‘So it looks as if the great detective is somehow on the case. Have our people discovered anything yet?’

‘They are checking out Rossetti’s gang. It all points to them, according to Jack Lonsdale at the Fusilier’s Club.’ He sighed, then: ‘But I am afraid that the dynamite consignment has gone. Does that mean you will be moving against Rossetti?’

‘Not until I am ready. In the meanwhile I will listen to what young Decker has to say and I will give him instructions. Bring him to my study.’

Inspector Munro received the telegram from Sherlock Holmes in the early afternoon.

Munro, bring six men in plain clothes all wearing black to St Barnabus Church, Bethnal Green. Meet me on Roman Road at 3 p.m.

S.H.

A thick fog had fallen when Munro and his men met Sherlock Holmes in the cemetery of St Barnabus Church.

‘You see, Munro,’ said Holmes. ‘The window in the shape of a pentagram! Why the architect chose it has always been a mystery, but this is the reason for the pentagram on the rings of O’Donohue and the American. I am sure that you will find that this church was built with foreign money.’

‘We will find out in due course, Mr Holmes. But did your irregulars track your American here?’

‘They did, as I had every confidence that they would. He is Irish-American and he happens to be the vicar, the Reverend Elliot Sanderson, from Chicago. He is taking a service this afternoon at three thirty, which is going to be attended by the Prime Minister Lord Salisbury and almost all of his cabinet. You remember that Collingwood, the MP for Stepney, died suddenly last week.’

‘Shall we go in now?’

‘No, I am going inside alone. Give me five minutes then come in, prepared to make your arrest.’

Sherlock Holmes entered the church alone and Munro and his men waited anxiously, alert to move quickly.

After almost exactly four minutes, there came the sound of two shots from inside the church. Munro and his men rushed in to find Sherlock Holmes half collapsed on the front pew clutching his left arm, a heavy revolver still clenched in his right hand.

On the floor, sprawled out, was the body of a clergyman. He too had a smoking gun in his right hand, but whereas Holmes was merely wounded, the vicar was dead with a bullet hole between his eyes and a rapidly enlarging pool of blood about his head. His vestments were already soaked crimson.

Upon his outstretched left hand a signet ring with a pentagram symbol was plainly visible.

‘You will find dynamite with concealed wires leading to one of H. Julius Smith’s diabolically clever dynamo blasting machines behind the pulpit. I disabled the plunger and disconnected the wires, much to the Reverend Elliot Sanderson’s displeasure.’

‘You shouldn’t have tackled him alone, Mr Holmes,’ Munro remonstrated.

‘One man could slip in and have a chance of upsetting his scheme. Had a flock of police officers, albeit disguised as mourners, then I fear the outcome could have been worse. I think the Reverend of the Pentagram Society intended to martyr himself when he murdered the prime minister and the cabinet and everyone else who attended the funeral. As it was, he chose to play dice one last time when he accosted me.’

He smiled as he raised his revolver. ‘As you can see, I play with loaded dice, too.’

Then the great detective fainted.

Two days later, Sherlock Holmes was the talk of London and beyond. The conspiracy to murder the prime minister and his government by the anarchist group known as the Pentagram Society, a title given them by the sleuth himself, had fired the public imagination.

After hospital treatment of the flesh wound to his left arm, Holmes had returned to Baker Street where he had been inundated with telegrams and letters from well-wishers, a visit from Lord Salisbury himself and talk of a knighthood.

All of this Holmes greeted with his usual private disdain and with his public display of modesty. Yet he was pleased to see Inspector Munro when he dropped in.

‘Ah, Alistair – I trust that on this occasion you will not object to my use of your Christian name; it seems apt after our handling of this unholy affair by the anarchist Pentagram Society.’

‘Of course, Mr Holmes, that is perfectly in order. But, if you don’t mind, I will still use your title. That too seems only right, although I heard that it may soon be Sir Sherlock Holmes.’

Holmes adjusted the sling that he was wearing over his old grey dressing gown and laughed. ‘As you wish, Alistair. Yet I am sure that after this coup you yourself will soon be advancing in rank at Scotland Yard. Will you take a brandy?’

‘I’d prefer a whisky and soda if you don’t mind, Mr Holmes.’

‘Of course. And I shall join you. Make yourself comfortable by the fire while I pour them. It may take me a moment longer to operate the gasogene with one hand.’

‘Will you be getting Dr Watson to chronicle this case, sir?’

‘In due course, after a period of time to let it slip somewhat from the public mind.’

‘What will you call it, Mr Holmes?’

‘I thought “The Case of the Crooked Dice” or perhaps “The Case of the Fulham Strangler”.’

He turned and handed Munro a glass then picked up his own. ‘Shall we drink to our success, Munro?’

‘Oh, I think so. It has been a glittering success, a lesson in detection.’

‘Kind of you to say so, my good fellow. It will, I think, display the art of deduction to perfection.’

Munro gave a short laugh and then the smile faded from his face. ‘Or rather it could show the art of deception.’

His eyes suddenly seemed sharper, unblinking and his head oscillated right and left in a manner reminiscent of a reptile.

‘My God, can it be you?’ Holmes gasped, dropping his whisky and soda and darting his right hand inside his sling to come out again with his revolver. ‘But, as you can see, Moriarty – I never take chances.’

In answer, Professor Moriarty merely smiled and took a sip of his drink. ‘Put it down, Holmes. It is full of blanks. I exchanged the bullets after you fainted and we packed you off to hospital. That’s better, now let us talk frankly.’

‘What have you done with Munro?’

Moriarty smiled. ‘There is no other person by that name that you need concern yourself about. Effectively, I am Alistair Munro, as I have been for two years. You pride yourself on your ability to disguise yourself, as the world knows from your egotistical tales, which Dr Watson publishes on your behalf. I too have several personae that I use, which require certain disguises. They are of various people in authority whose position is such that they can come and go as they please, so I can show up as them when it is convenient for me to do so. Munro has been my particular hobby, fostering a disciple-like relationship with you as I built his career. And, as this case demonstrates, he has been very useful.’

‘In what way useful, Professor?’ Holmes asked, regaining his composure. ‘Why would following me aid you?’

‘Because I didn’t follow you, Holmes, I guided you at every step. From the elimination of O’Donohue, one of my men whose incompetence necessitated his removal from my service.’

‘You killed him?’

‘I eliminated him. Then I used his death as a means to eliminate Sanderson.’

‘Why would you want to eliminate an anarchist and his group?’

Moriarty laughed. ‘Actually, a bit of anarchy is very good for business. You can see that, can’t you? A headless state means total confusion. When the authorities are preoccupied it is perfect for my organisation and others like mine. You have seen how anarchy has worked for my colleagues in the Balkans and across Europe.’

He sipped his drink again. ‘But this had nothing to do with anarchists. And there is no such organisation as the Pentagram Society. Elliot Sanderson, on the other hand, was perfectly real. He was a fanatic, but he was not an anarchist. He was an Irish nationalist, an American Irish nationalist, of course. His organisation and I do substantial business from time to time and they requested that I aid him in blowing up Salisbury and his government. They supplied the money to obtain explosives and together we removed Collingwood the MP for Stepney so that his funeral could be performed at St Barnabus Church.’

Holmes stared at him in disgust. ‘What about the rings, the dice, the jute with the dynamite?’

‘Oh, those were all real. I planted each and every one of them and you made the deductions that I knew you would. I anticipated the Griess test that you would do to conclude that dynamite was involved. As for the dice, well, I have been making a study of them, you see. All manner of crooked dice are used in my establishments, but I have been considering dice probabilities and looking at the American games of chance. I hoped that you would make the link with the game of craps. It was a test for you.

‘And the rings, well, that was a simple matter of obtaining a duplicate of Sanderson’s ring. It was given to him by the Church actually, not by a secret society. O’Donohue never wore one. I simply put it on his finger after he was eliminated and his body prepared with the little bundle down his throat. I congratulate you, since you followed that all up rather well. Of course, you didn’t realise that you were on a false trail being manipulated by me.

‘Which brings me to our irregulars. Would you be surprised if I told you that the urchin you rewarded with a guinea is called Alfie Decker. He has been very useful to me these last two years.’

Holmes picked up the whisky glass he had dropped and placed it beside the revolver. ‘But what was the purpose of this incredibly elaborate ruse?’

‘Partly to get rid of Sanderson without showing his organisation that I had anything to do with it. Sherlock Holmes would be the person responsible. Which may mean that they will have plans to seek revenge later, but that is an occupational hazard you are already well aware of, of course.’

Holmes stiffened in his chair. ‘You will hang for this, Moriarty. You are putting your neck in the noose with every little piece of information you give me.’

‘I think not, Holmes. You see, it is almost certainly you that will hang. After all of the information that Inspector Munro has been accumulating on you these past two years. So often you have gone beyond your remit as a detective, and you have taken it upon yourself to be judge and executioner as well. He has details of these cases. He has proof, eyewitnesses, physical evidence of all the crimes you have aided and abetted and committed yourself.’

The professor’s head oscillated again and his unblinking eyes seemed to enlarge, reptilian fashion, as if he was going in for the kill.

‘He has bank details of all of the stolen money, lost money and money defrauded from clients. And he has bank clerks who will swear that you had made those deposits in person. You see, you are quite a distinctive fellow. It was a challenge to emulate you, I admit, but as you yourself have seen these two years, I am fairly proficient at disguise and in sustaining a role.’

Holmes sneered. ‘All done with mathematical precision, I see. What is to stop me from tackling you here and now, eliminating you, as you would say?’

‘Firstly, with that arm you would be no match, I assure you. Secondly, if anything happens to me, the dossier falls into the hands of several journalists, who are in my employ already, as well as copies going straight to Scotland Yard. More than that, though,’ he said, draining his whisky, ‘at any time, Inspector Munro could be found dead, murdered, by Sherlock Holmes. Oh, I can arrange that quite easily. A body of the right height and weight can easily be found. How he was murdered would not matter much: a knife in the back, a slit throat or a bullet to the brain. His face would be eaten away by concentrated sulphuric acid, just like the supplies that you have on your chemistry table, which are supplied to you by Benson & Son of Tottenham Court Road. Together with the evidence that Munro had against you, it would be a certainty that you would be convicted and ignominiously executed for his murder. You have undoubted motive, as anyone can see.’

Holmes picked up his pipe and thumbed the bowl. ‘So when do you propose that this is going to happen?’

‘Oh, it will only happen if you choose it,’ Moriarty said, with an innocent smile. ‘If you decide to be sensible and back off, you are free to enjoy your consulting detective practice, accumulate more adulation and feed that enormous ego of yours. One step in my direction, however, or any interference with my organisation and you will be headed for prison and assuredly to the gallows. London is a large city, Holmes. You can ply your trade, just don’t come near my fishing pool.’

He stood and pointed to the violin case propped up against the wall below the bullet-pocked holes that spelled out V.R. for Victoria Regina.

‘By the way, you will not of course be able to play your prized Stradivarius for some time because of that wound. I do hope that you will be happy with the fiddle that I swapped for it. I purchased it at a market on the Old Kent Road for 1/6d. Consider it a reply to your removal of my painting La Jeune Fille à l’Agneau, by Jean-Baptiste Greuze. I had meant to tell you that there is one thing you need to be aware of. No matter how good your disguise, a man who continuously smokes the strongest, most foul-smelling of tobaccos as you do will always leave an odoriferous trail that is quite offensive and distinctive to those of us who do not partake of the habit.’

The bell rang downstairs.

‘Ah, I imagine that is Dr Watson, returning from looking after his uncle, to come and congratulate you on your latest success and get the background for his next tale to peddle to The Strand. I will take my leave.’

Moments later, Dr Watson opened the door and came in, travelling bag in hand.

‘Holmes! I’ve been reading the …’

He stopped, dropped his bag and held out his hand. ‘Munro! Congratulations to you, too, old man. Your country owes you both a great debt.’

‘Thank you, Doctor,’ replied Inspector Munro. ‘I’m afraid that I can’t stop, though. I have to get back to Scotland Yard.’

‘No, we mustn’t keep him,’ added Sherlock Holmes. ‘Watson, I know that you will be eager to know all about this trivial business that Munro and I have had the pleasure to work on together. We were just debating what title you would give it.’

‘I think we have come to an understanding, though, haven’t we, Mr Holmes?’

‘Indeed, Munro. Indeed. We’ll leave it up to the good doctor here.’