第 11 页

By the end of the summer his speech had improved greatly but his general ignorance of the world around him remained unchanged. His father decided that this was of no consequence as the boy was clearly a genius and was to be sent to a mathematic institution where his remarkable skills would speak for him.

James panicked when he discovered that he was to be sent away again. He locked himself into his room, resolving never again to share a dormitory, never allow his possessions to be touched, moved and made untidy. He decided that he must protect himself and his closed world at all costs.

One way to do this, he concluded, was for his parents to die. Then, this world of his which they owned would pass to him. His keen, alert mind thought only of logic and numbers, never of emotion and guilt.

He had learnt from his father and guests at the many parties where he had been forced to perform, that in the outside world money was the driving force. Money was just numbers by another name; but unlike the abstract, futile numbers which filled his mind, money actually had real meaning. It gave a person the power to construct their world as they wanted. Wealth simply comprised of numbers which he could manipulate better than the finest accountants in England.

He was physically weak, and had been beaten and taunted at school. He was unable to protect his priceless possessions by force but knew that if he had money, something to trade, even the strongest man in the world could not overcome him.

When the news of their parents’ death was broken to James and Jonathan by their nanny, Johnny wept bitterly. He cared little for his father but would very much miss his mother and felt suddenly so alone in the world that he was simply overwhelmed with grief.

James shrugged and headed off to his father’s study. He had already begun to calculate the exact worth of his parents’ estate. He now knew the value of everything, every painting, every investment, and every item of furniture. Instead of simply counting the things as he once did, he now estimated their value.

Removing his parents from the equation had been simple, though costly, and he vowed that next time he paid someone to carry out such a task he would get a far better price. He actually relished the opportunity to do the same again.

Official reports concluded that his parents died when their carriage horses were mysteriously startled on a narrow bridge over a river. The carriage plunged into the water and both his parents and their driver drowned, bloated bodies eventually being washed up on the riverbank miles downstream.

The family accountants informed the two boys that the estate would be put into trust until James turned twenty one, at which point all would pass to him. Until then, Johnny was to receive a modest allowance and his school fees would be paid. James was to receive a substantial allowance and the lawyers were shocked to discover that he had already calculated the precise figure. His phenomenal understanding of finances shocked and rather frightened them.

The house had changed as well. Visitors found a world of precise order rather than the previous homely chaos of his parents’ country retreat.

James was master now, and though only eleven years old, he had the money and power to get whatever he wanted. If the staff wanted paying they would arrange things exactly as he wished.

Jonathan returned to his school that autumn and James took maths tutoring at home. As time passed, he became bored of the estate.

He longed to see London, having heard so much about the city. Disinclined to ever see the dirty, chaotic East End with its disease and poverty, he had however read many articles about it. He worked out from every available statistic that serious money could be made from such a large number of poor who would be willing to do anything for a payment way below that which his affluent neighbours in the countryside would accept. If he wished to order a murder in London it would cost a fraction of what he was forced to pay to dispose of his parents in the countryside.

He announced to the accountants that he wished to go to London and they found him a suitable educational institution which specialised in mathematics. He knew he would fail an entrance exam because of academic weaknesses in many areas and could not bear to be in a dormitory, so instructed the trustees to get around these problems by paying whatever was necessary. This worked perfectly and made him understand more than ever how important money really was for a person like himself. He was welcomed into the school and given a perfect room laid out exactly as he desired.

He found London a most wonderful, stimulating place and stayed in the city until he turned twenty-one. Once in full possession of his parent’s estate, he sold everything and invested the proceeds, lovingly watching his wealth blossom as a mother would her child.

He wrote a treatise upon the binomial theorem which won him great international acclaim, especially for one so young, and gained the mathematical chair at Bristol University. He agreed to leave London to take up the position but maintained various shady investments in the capital.

His position at the university gave him a veneer of respectability but eventually the difficult and unemotional professor became disliked in the university city and rumours circulated about his seemingly sinister attitudes.

He was forced to leave before his increasingly-illegal activities were uncovered and he resigned his chair to return to London. He made the vast metropolis his permanent base where he could be as anonymous and ruthless as he wished. Over the years, his brilliant skills and substantial wealth hid his eccentricities well and gave him immense power.

He turned to the criminal world to advance his wealth even more and slowly an empire began to develop. Ultimately it consumed him, and he withdrew into its sinister heart, as black and terrible as his own.

This is, of course, a very brief and simplistic description of events leading up to the professor’s iron grip over criminal London and beyond. He spoke very rarely to me about his early life during our marriage. I gained what I could from the few occasions when we were alone together studying accounts late into the night. He would occasionally become uncharacteristically candid and talk openly about his past when relaxed in this way.

James Moriarty was a very difficult man to like, with a ruthlessness driven by the obsession for money. He was generally devoid of sentiment. But I was strangely drawn to him and fascinated by the complex workings of his unusual mind. I felt a degree of respect for him too and a strong sense of loyalty because he trusted me. He never belittled me because of my gender or workhouse beginnings and always had complete faith in my abilities. This meant so much to me after a harsh childhood desperately trying to prove my worth.

He did exactly as he told me he would on the day we met; trainers and tutors were employed and I spent most of my time in physical or mental exercise, relishing the opportunity to expand my mind. I simply loved learning mathematics, though I did not possess my husband’s phenomenal powers. I had a healthy natural aptitude and enjoyment of figures. I was trained in accountancy and allowed access to very secret company books. These detailed everything from how much the serving staffs were paid, to what it cost to order a murder, as well as the best prices for guns and ammunition.

I learnt how to read and write properly, attempted to stop smoking and reduced my alcohol intake so that nothing could interfere with my development.

My physical training was intense and often difficult to endure. I was beaten, bruised and suffered several broken bones. Muscles were regularly pulled and joints dislocated but each time I would be fixed up like a broken doll and taken back down to the cellars to continue where I had left off. I found martial arts particularly fascinating both physically and mentally.

I discovered the importance of control, balance, and speed. My tutors were often sceptical of my capabilities which simply served to make me work even harder but no-one was ever disrespectful to me now that I was Red Moriarty, the wife of their employer. Everyone lived in fear of my husband, who would casually order their maiming or murder if he so wished. I became powerful by proxy.

I emerged from a year’s training and education a completely different person. Strong, powerful rippling muscles covered my body and my face was that of an adult, with sharp harsh edges, high check bones and the most piercing blue eyes imaginable.

When Jude and I returned to the East End on our first assignment, we would have been almost unrecognisable to the people we used to know. Jude had grown into a tall muscular man, strong and brave. I was fully armed and flanked by the professor’s men, my new team who followed my every command. This time, people parted before us like water as we walked through the streets looking for our victim, doors were opened if we knocked and people ran away in fear. Never again would I be laughed at, cornered, arrested or poor. I was no longer simply a woman, I was the professor’s right-hand man and everyone knew it.

I served my husband well, risking my life and soul time and time again. I slipped into apathy, just as I had done in the workhouse all those years ago, where I became immune to conscience and desensitised to the violence and evil around and within me. I was simply drunk with arrogance and power. But, when my husband murdered my child, I began to wake and see my world though very different eyes.

I had fallen unconscious beside the professor’s bed after holding a gun to him; furious at the discovery that he had destroyed my unborn child. He sent for his physician who carried me back to my room and returned me to my own bed heavily sedated.

When I woke, rage possessed me once more. The frustration of knowing that there was nothing I could do was overwhelming. I snatched my revolver from beside the bed and for a few manic seconds considered turning it on myself, surrendering to death as living seemed so hopeless.

Instead, I threw the gun at the wall, so hard that it dislodged a chunk of plaster upon impact and clattered down the back of my dressing table. Then I simply burst into tears and cried myself to sleep.

The following morning when I woke, still in considerable pain, Jude was sitting on the bed looking down at me. He was obviously unaware of the events of the past twenty-four hours. I did not wish to reveal what had befallen me as his loyalty could put him in danger. He did not know of all the times my husband had instructed my painful punishment for disobeying him, though I know he suspected such things occurred.

“He needs to see you, says it’s urgent. He’s in the study, I’ll walk with you,” said Jude as I tried to get up without wincing.

“Can’t it wait?”

“Apparently not, he’s furious about something, ranting away like a madman.”

I asked Jude to return in five minutes, by which time I was dressed and had taken a little brandy for the pain. We started to walk towards the professor’s quarters but I could not conceal my discomfort.

“What has he done to you now?” Jude asked, taking my hand.

“It’s nothing, please, just leave it be.”

Jude stopped and gripped my shoulders, turning me to face him.

“Tell me, please, I can see that you’re in pain, he’s hurt you - I know it. This can’t carry on.”

“Get off me, leave me alone! Just go Jude, wait for me in my study.”

He sighed and reluctantly walked away knowing that he could not argue with the force of my will.

I walked to my husband’s study alone and was determined not to give him the satisfaction of seeing me in pain. I entered the room and found him in a most agitated state.

“The papers!” he cried, shaking his head from side to side, “something is missing, it is incomplete! Whittaker must have stolen it! You didn’t search him properly.”

“Slow down James please, I can’t follow you. What papers?”

“From behind the painting! Not everything was there; the most vital part of all is missing! Everything is useless without it.”

I understood that he was referring to the painting Whittaker stole for us with the secret papers concealed behind it.

“We searched him fully; Jude stripped him and disposed of the body. There was nothing else on him I swear.”

“Well, you must find it! It must still be hidden somewhere in the house where the painting was. How could I be so stupid?”

I agreed to do as he asked but insisted that he tell me why this was so important to him. Frustratingly, he refused to give all the details but promised he would once the paper was found.

“In all seriousness Red, once I have possession of those papers, I will become the most powerful man who has ever lived and the very future of civilisation will be at my feet. Be warned, I will not be afraid to use that power. You must find the missing papers!”

With that, he dispatched me to plan a second burglary of the house, even though I wasn’t really sure what I was looking for. I felt too weak and uncomfortable to argue.

I joined Jude in my study and summoned a maid to stoke the fire while we shared half a bottle of Scotch. I told him about the missing papers and their supposed importance.

“What, you mean these?” he asked, opening my desk draw and taking out a handful of old papers with scribbles just like the ones concealed behind the painting.

“I found them in Whittaker’s pockets, didn’t think they were worth anything but put them in your desk just in case. Well, that’s easily solved. I’ll pour you another glass while you take them to the professor, saves us doing another burglary,” Jude exclaimed.

I looked down at the papers which looked so meaningless to me but I knew were of vital importance to my husband. I had never seen the professor so agitated before, and wondered what these papers could possibly be that he needed them so badly. Did he want them as badly as I had wanted our child? Did he want them as badly as I now longed for revenge?

“I don’t intend to ever give these to my husband,” I whispered to Jude.

Chapter Six

It was to Sherlock Holmes’ great surprise that Mrs St Clare tottered nervously into his rooms at 221B Baker Street. It was very unusual for him to see a client again once a case had been resolved. It had been in the year of 1889 that he had last seen her and upon resolution of her interesting problem he never suspected that she would require his services again. But, here she was in 1890, a small blonde woman of a nervous disposition clearly in need of his help once more.

Doctor Watson had joined Holmes that morning in the ever-familiar surroundings of his old rooms for breakfast before setting off on various calls as befitting a medical man.

Prior to marrying his first wife Mary, Watson had shared these very rooms with Holmes after arriving in London many years previously. He had been an assistant surgeon attached to the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers during the second Afghan war, but was badly injured at the battle of Maiwand. An orderly loaded him onto a pack-horse and took him back to British lines, from where he was sent to a base hospital at Peshawar. He improved greatly, only to be struck down by a serious bout of enteric fever and was sent back to England. He landed in London without a friend or relative in the country and an income of eleven shillings and sixpence. He took a room at a hotel on the Strand but this was too expensive to be anything other than a short-term solution.