Moriarty

(three short stories)

by Andy Weir

Copyright

The short stories collected in this ebook are all downloaded from the personal website of the author, Andy Weir at http://www.galactanet.com/writing.html.

All writings in this ebook are copyright© Andy Weir.

About the author

Andy Weir is an American novelist whose debut novel, The Martian, was later adapted into a film of the same name directed by Ridley Scott in 2015. He also worked as a computer programmer for much of his life.

Weir grew up reading classic science fiction such as the works of Arthur C. Clarke and Isaac Asimov. At the age of 15, he began working as a computer programmer for Sandia National Laboratories. He worked as a programmer for several software companies, including AOL, Palm, MobileIron and Blizzard, where he worked on the video game Warcraft II: Tides of Darkness.

Weir began writing science fiction in his 20s and published work on his website for years. His first work to gain significant attention was "The Egg", a short story that has been adapted into a number of YouTube videos and a one-act play.

Weir is best known for his first published novel, The Martian. He wrote the book to be as scientifically accurate as possible, and his writing included extensive research into orbital mechanics, conditions on the planet Mars, the history of manned spaceflight, and botany.

Andy Weir's Personal website: http://www.galactanet.com

The Adventure of the Dishonor Among Thieves

As it seems to be the style of late, I feel compelled to relate the various adventures and misadventures of my confidant and companion. He is a man of singular intelligence, of whom you have likely already heard. Later in life, he took London by storm; his powers of deduction and reason propelling him to great heights and even greater fame within the circles of the law enforcement. But that is all already known by many. I seek instead to relate unto you, dear reader, his humble beginnings and how he became the man you think you know.

I speak of course, of Professor James Moriarty.

On a cold, windy night in the winter of 1871, I went about my many tasks as the head of the Straightrazor Ruffians. Temporary leave from the Army had enabled me to graduate from pilfering military supplies to directly overseeing a small syndicate. I was by no means an influential crime lord in the city, but I was beginning to make a name for myself and earn the respect of my peers. Only recently I had been called upon to personally see to a rival gang’s leader who did not show proper decorum in relation to territorial boundaries. The police did eventually find his body, but made little in the way of inquiries, as his identification was rendered impossible by the lack of a head.

I was faced with a problem of no small significance. Only recently, a small but profitable brothel of mine had been raided by the police. The unfortunate affair ended with all the ladies under arrest, all the cash on the premises subsumed by the Crown, and all the opium seized and destroyed. Not a single one of the many policemen who derive a portion of their income from my organization had reported the raid’s planning to me. As they would have no reason to hide it from me, and as the brothel’s location was changed on a nightly basis, I was forced to face the unfortunate realization that someone in my employ must have tipped off the police; not only to the whereabouts of the brothel, but also as to the list of policemen who could not be trusted with information concerning the raid.

One can not slit throats willy-nilly in a situation such as this. The men in my employ must be made to know that loyalty guarantees safety, whilst disloyalty derives the exact opposite. Through various inquiries and deductions of my own, I was able to eliminate most suspects. As I said, it was a small organization by London’s standards and focused on a specific few neighborhoods. Most of my men had sisters or mothers working at the brothel and were unlikely to take steps leading to their own kin landing in police court. As the location of the brothel on that night had been chosen only the night before, there was but a 24 hour window in which any informant would have been able to do his unpalatable civic duty. Many of my men were on tasks away from the area during that time, while others were directly witnessed at home or with other alibis verified by my core commanders whom I trust implicitly. In the end, I was left with just three suspects to the infraction, but had no way to narrow the list further.

It was then that I decided to engage the services of a Mr. James Moriarty, a professor of mathematics or so I was told. He was known in the underworld as a bit of a problem-solver, willing to put his considerable mental resources to work on any problem with both guile and discretion.

“I am Professor Moriarty,” he announced as he entered my office. His declaration was simple, as one might state a fact of nature, having neither pomp nor humility. “I am told that you wish my services?” He was a younger man that I had expected. I had previously assumed that a man of such academic credentials would be elderly and perhaps squinting through spectacles. But the man before me was no such specimen, instead being in the prime of his physical condition with nothing belying his intelligence save the uncanny feeling I got when he looked at me. As if he was looking through me.

“May I take your coat and hat?” I offered. “Perhaps you would like a cup of tea?”

“That will not be necessary,” Moriarty said. “I’m certain I shall not be long. Your message detailed the basics of the problem. Is there anything additional that you care to add?”

“Only that these are the three suspects,” I said, gesturing to the three bloody and gagged men tied to chairs in the center of the office.

“I had surmised that much,” Moriarty admonished. Steepling his fingers as he walked, he inspected each man in turn.

“Shall I un-gag them, Professor?”

Moriarty did not look away from the men as he replied, “I fail to see how that could possibly help. No doubt all three would plead their innocence. As each is a seasoned criminal it would be impossible to tell who was lying. Furthermore, anyone betraying their master in an organization such as yours will have no doubt taken steps to ensure his story will stand up to scrutiny, likely even arranging planted evidence showing they were unable to have committed the crime.”

“Anyway, it is of no consequence,” Moriarty said, finally turning back to me. “This man here is your traitor.” He pointed to Cheeky Dave. The accused shook his head vigorously and moaned urgently through his gag.

“How could you possibly know, Professor?” I asked.

“It’s really quite simple if you pay attention to the details. You will note that both his wrists show chafing upon them. Further you will see that his posture, even while tied up, is significantly leaning to the left. Also, the quality of his hat is above reproach, and there is a racing form in his pocket.”

Perplexed, I said “I fail to see how any of that is damning evidence, Professor.”

“It tells a story, my good man,” he replied. “Chafing on one wrist might indicate a simple accident or brawl, but identical chafing on both can only mean he was recently in handcuffs. Within the last 24 hours, otherwise it would have healed more. While in lockup, he was set upon by rival gang members who beat him mercilessly. He is in some pain as you can see, leaning to the left due to broken ribs.

“Seeing his life flash before his eyes, he saw a solution to all his problems. He would turn against you. The rival gang members stopped their assault when he offered to sell you out, and the police, happy to have inroads to shutting you down, forgave him whatever crime he had been caught for. How else can you explain him being in handcuffs recently, but not still being locked up?”

“Furthermore, as I mentioned, his hat is impeccable. A man such as this does not have his hat cleaned on any occasion, so it must be a new one. I estimate its worth to be a good 5 pounds considering its quality. No doubt this was purchased with money given to him by the rival gang in payment for selling you out to the police.”

“My word that is amazing!” I admitted. “And the racing form? How does that figure in?”

“The form shows that he was at the track and I’m sure will provide a perfect alibi showing that he is quite innocent. I am also certain that any number of people at the track will vouch that he was there at the time.”

“But Moriarty!” I protested. “This proves the exact opposite of your claim!”

“Do try to keep up. As I already said, the guilty man will have set up an alibi in advance. This is his. But it has one significant flaw. I keep my ear to the ground, as you might say. I know the ins and outs of those who work in the underworld. And I know a little about Cheeky Dave. He can neither read nor write. So what good does a racing form do him? It serves no purpose other than to provide an alibi. Were he actually innocent, he would have no form in his pocket at all.”

“Goodness me, Moriarty, that was amazing!” I said while slitting Cheeky Dave’s throat. As I untied the other two, I added. “Honestly, I am agape at your prowess.”

“Think nothing of it, my good man,” Moriarty said dismissively. “You will send someone along to my home with payment for services rendered? The usual fee.”

The two newly freed men scampered out of the room with all due haste. Both of them would have a not inconsiderable amount blood to clean off their shirts and would, I hoped, tell the tale of how Cheeky Dave met his timely end.

“I say, Moriarty. With your wit and brilliance, you could have a syndicate of your own.”

“Hmm,” he pondered. “I don’t know about that. It may be a goal I pursue at some point in the future. But as for now, I shall confine myself to an advisory capacity. Now if you will excuse me, I have much work to do. I am making great inroads in my analysis of the dynamic internal forces involved in asteroids.”

“I shall send a boy with payment along in the morning,” I promised. “Good day to you, Professor Moriarty.”

He bowed politely as he turned to leave. “And a good day to you as well, Captain Moran.”

The Adventure of the Unscrupulous Assassin

During my long association with Professor James Moriarty, I had on many an occasion the privilege to witness not only his amazing powers of deduction, but also his guile and cunning in the resolution of tasks allotted to him.

I had known the good Professor for some time and had come to be known, in my own way, as a conduit to his services. Moriarty was slow to trust, as many in the underworld are, and rarely accepted unsolicited appeals for his aid no matter what the potential client offered in recompense.

Thus it was that I found myself called upon, as I often was, to be his agent de facto in the matter of the protection of Miss Violet Sutcliffe. As I have mentioned in the past, at this point in my career I was a hard working but small and insignificant member of the London criminal underworld. Mr. Charles Sutcliffe was quite the opposite. He was the most feared criminal in London, and his ill ways had earned him a significant fortune. He was one of the few in our world who lived overtly as what he was, and enjoyed the benefits of high society. I myself paid him an annual stipend to be allowed to run my humble section of the city’s crime.

“I do wish you would gather more information in advance, Captain,” Moriarty admonished as we approached Mr. Sutcliffe’s mansion. “I know nothing of this case save that it pertains to the safety of Charles Sutcliffe’s daughter Violet, aged sixteen years.”

“The note offered little in the way of information, Moriarty,” I protested. “I did only as I was told.”

We rang and were shown in to the stately mansion. The footman showed us to the study, where we awaited Sutcliffe for some time before his eventual entry. When he did finally arrive, he did so in grand fashion, flanked by no less than four body guards who took up positions around the room and eyed our every move. For his part, Sutcliffe sat at his desk and poured himself a tall brandy without offering any to Moriarty or myself.

“Thank you both for coming,” Sutcliffe said after a long swig of brandy. “Though I still fail to see why Captain Moran needs to be involved.”

“You have your intractable procedures, Mr. Sutcliffe, and I have mine,” Moriarty said sternly. “Now, what seems to be the trouble?”

Sutcliffe, a man unaccustomed to such undeferential treatment, scowled briefly, but recovered his composure. “It’s my daughter, Violet. I fear she is in grave danger. She is being stalked by an assassin who has shown considerable determination. I want you to find that assassin for me.”

“I see,” Moriarty said. “Please go on.”

“Until recently,” Sutcliffe explained, “I have had Violet enrolled in the respectable Lady Werner’s Boarding School for Girls in Vienna, under an assumed name. I am not a fool, and it occurred to me long ago that my many ruthless enemies might try to use her as leverage. Hence the subterfuge. Only recently, she has completed her studies and it is time for her to begin her training in charm school. The best charm schools being in London, and with me and my family being so high profile, there was no hope of the same anonymity. She had been back in London no more than three weeks when the house caught fire.”

“This very house we are in now?” I asked.

“The same,” Sutcliffe replied. “The fire began in the boiler room. It burned a portion of the basement and did some small damage to the first floor. Fortunately, Violet was up on the third floor in her bedroom and didn’t even know of the fire until after it was out. With the damage so contained and nobody harmed, I thought nothing of it at the time.”

Moriarty leaned forward. “But since then you have had occasion to suspect it was more sinister than a simple spark landing on your coal pile?”

“Indeed I have,” Sutcliffe confirmed. “A week later, I was called upon to travel to the continent for business reasons. As you can see I take a retinue of guards with me wherever I go. I did not want to leave Violet weakly guarded, so I had her transferred to a safe house elsewhere in the city for greater protection. They who do not know her location can not harm her. But on the third night of her stay, the safe house was set ablaze. My men spirited Violet away to safety, but they were forced to bring her outside to a carriage in the process. Nothing untoward happened, but upon hearing the tale I began to suspect there was a plot to kill Violet. Setting a fire guarantees her exit from the structure, where she would be easier to attack.”

“Indeed,” Moriarty agreed. “An ingenious, if heavy handed, method of flushing out the prey.”

“After that, I returned home at once. I had her relocated to another safe house. I own many, as you can imagine. And then that safe house caught fire as well. That was just last night. I fear I am at my wit’s end, Professor. I need your help!”

“It must be one of your men,” I said.

“Hush, Captain,” Moriarty said dismissively. “Being a man of such criminal enterprise, Mr. Sutcliffe will have already considered such a scenario. Had he not disproved it to his satisfaction, you and I surely would not be needed. Isn’t that right, Mr. Sutcliffe?”

“Indeed, Professor Moriarty. My organization is very compartmentalized to prevent one traitorous person running to the police being able to cause much trouble. After the first safe house fire, I had a completely different group of men guard her at the second safe house. There is no connection or correlation between any of the men in the two groups.”

“I see. And where is Miss Violet now? I should like to speak with her.”

“In the sitting room, watched by four men at all times. But there is yet more to the story you have not heard, Professor.”

“Do continue, then, Mr. Sutcliffe.”

“Naturally, I made my own investigations into the situation. Through various channels of information and a great deal of money spread around and bones broken, I discovered that Thomas Rutledge was likely the culprit.”

“Intriguing,” Moriarty said. “Would that be the same Thomas Rutledge that has been these past three years in prison for his various criminal convictions?”

“You are well versed in the underworld, Professor Moriarty. Indeed it is the same man. It so happens that his son, Joeseph, was killed by one of my men during a territorial dispute some years back. Rutledge was heard by many at the time to swear vengeance upon me. And what better way to enact revenge for the death of his son than the murder of my daughter?”

“An excellent lead, Mr. Sutcliffe,” Moriarty conceded. Such a concession of another’s investigative prowess from the Professor was a rare thing indeed and I was almost taken aback. Sadly, the praise from Moriarty was not to last long. “I commend you for you diligence. I shall speak to Mr. Rutledge at once.”

“I’m afraid that won’t be possible,” Sutcliffe said. “I had him killed in his cell and made to look like suicide.”

“Idiot!” Moriarty exclaimed. “Foolish bombastic idiot!”

I moved my hand slowly toward attaining my revolver from its pocket. A man of Sutcliffe’s disposition would surely not tolerate such a rebuke. It was unlikely I would be able to fell four bodyguards before they got me, but there was always the chance of only being wounded.

However, instead of the terminal end to the conversation I had anticipated, Sutcliffe, after a moment to compose himself, said “Explain.”

“By having him killed you accomplished nothing!” Moriarty fumed. “Surely he is not personally the culprit as he was locked away. He obviously must have hired an assassin for the task. As you well know being a man who has no doubt hired assassins in the past, they will execute their contract regardless of the health of their employer. It’s critical to their reputation. In your fatherly overprotective rage you have guaranteed that we shall never learn the identity of the assassin from Mr. Rutledge!”

Before Sutcliffe could respond, Moriarty was on his feet. “I shall commence a brief examination of the house now, and I shall need access to any and all of your staff I see fit to speak with.”

Sutcliffe nodded, still shaking with anger at Moriarty’s earlier outburst.

Moriarty first wished to see the boiler room; the scene of the initial fire. The damage since repaired, a scorch mark on the cobbled floor still had yet to be completely scrubbed away. The coal boy was most cooperative, but not very helpful. He only shoveled new coal in to the boiler once per hour, and he was, under normal circumstance, the only person to have need of entering the boiler room at all. It was clear that, with the fire having begun at nearly the half hour, the room had been unseen for at least 30 minutes prior to the arson.

Later, as we entered Miss Violet’s bedroom, I was compelled to speak. “I say, Moriarty. This will be a tough nut to crack. Anyone could have accessed the boiler room. How shall we narrow the field?”

“We shan’t,” he replied. “There’s no point in it. I scoured the boiler room and found no evidence. We shall have to deduce information from other available clues. Perhaps the target of the assassination may hold a vital clue that even she herself does not recognize the significance of.”

He examined the room. Having not spent any time in the bedrooms of upper-class ladies, I would not be able to attest to its normalcy. It was certainly well-appointed. Moriarty’s attention was drawn from the bed to the dressing area, then to the vanity station, and finally to the corner of the room. Kneeling down, he peered at a vent on the floor. “What do you make of this, Captain?”

I examined the vent closely. “Everything seems in order, Moriarty. A simple vent, drawing hot air from the boiler room to here.”

“Indeed but smell the faint odor of smoke,” he said, pulling the grate from the floor and peering into the shaft beneath. “Note the soot within the vent. Also, I see light below. If you look closely you can see the boiler room floor. It appears the fire was directly under this vent, from the scorching I can make out down there.”

“Yes, I see it!” I exclaimed. “Intriguing! The assassin set the fire directly under the vent leading to Violet’s room. Perhaps he intended to asphyxiate her with the smoke? Or perhaps to guarantee she was driven out?”

“Perhaps,” Moriarty said, enigmatically.

Just then a servant woman entered the room. “Begging your pardon, sirs. Mr. Sutcliffe directed me to gather up whomever you wanted to talk to.”

“I take it from your uniform and presence here that you are the upstairs maid. It is therefore to you that I wish to speak to first. At the time of the fire, where were you?”

“I was in that very hallway there, sir,” she said, pointing out the door.

“And what time was it?”

“It was half past nine, sir. I know because I was dousing the lamps and candles in the hall, which I do every night at that time.”

“And did you see or hear anything of note around that time?”

The maid looked uncomfortable to the point of flight. “Well sir, there was one thing. I ought not mention it on account of I have great affection for Miss Violet, she’s ever so kind to us servants, you see…”

“Nonsense, woman!” Moriarty scolded. “If you indeed hold such affection for the young Miss Sutcliffe, you should want very much for Captain Moran and myself to find her would-be assassin with all due haste! Now tell us what you know!”

The maid bowed her head in supplication. “Only I heard her talking to someone. There weren’t supposed to be nobody in her room at that hour. But I heard her through the door just the same.”

“Indeed? And what did she say to her mysterious guest?”

“That’s the thing. I don’t want to get Miss Violet in no trouble…”

“I give to you my word that I shall make all effort to keep whatever you say next between the people in this room,” Moriarty said with exasperation.

The maid seemed to accept him at his word. “She said ‘I love you so much. Now go, quickly’. Oh, Mr. Moriarty, you will keep it a secret as you promised? I shouldn’t like to think of what Mr. Sutcliffe would do if he found out she had a paramour.”

“Yes, yes, I am a man of my word, more or less. I have learned all I need to from you. Please send Miss Violet up.”

After the maid curtseyed and left, I asked “A young man in her life? Perhaps using her affections as a method of breaching the house? I find it hard to believe that the presence of a lover and the presence of an assassin are two unrelated events.”

Moriarty seemed unconvinced. “Were that the case, surely the boy could have killed her in her room, rather than sneaking down three stories to the boiler room and starting a fire meant to asphyxiate. I fear the truth will be more complicated than your theory, Captain.”

Shortly, Violet entered the room. She was a young lady of exceptional beauty and her charm school lessons were shining through as her poise and posture were perfect. The only part of her that did not match was her sullen face and deep eyes belying a troubled soul. A girl of so young an age and so tender an upbringing will rarely weather the threat of death well, but Violet was in my judgment doing her best and showing considerable strength by not weeping openly.

“Miss Sutcliffe,” Moriarty said. “Please have a seat.”

Violet nodded her head politely, then seated herself at the vanity station.

“When the first fire happened, the one here in this house, you were in this room, yes?”

“Yes, sir,” she said.

“And were you alone? Was anyone in here with you?”

“No, sir,” she said without hesitation. But her eyes diverted from Moriarty.

“Are you certain of that? I give you my word anything you say here will stay between us.”

“I was alone in this room, sir. I swear it.”

“Mm. I see. And when did you learn of the fire?”

“When father’s men came to check on me.”

“Very good. You may go, Miss Violet.”

Violet left the room with just a small bit more haste than she should have.

“She lied right to your face, Moriarty!” I exclaimed.

“You think so?” Moriarty asked. “Are you certain of that?”

“Of course,” I said, though now not as convinced. Still, I pressed on. “There was definitely someone in the room with Violet the night of the fire. Surely you noticed how she averted her gaze from you when you asked her the question.”

“Indeed I noticed, Captain. But I noticed considerably more than that. Did you? I suspect not.” He stood, suddenly. “Quickly. We must away to the telegraph office, then to my house.”

I often suspected Moriarty utilized me as a companion more for my horse and carriage than for my actual wit or insight. It certainly saved him a sum of money on Handsom cabs. On the trip to the telegraph office, Moriarty said nothing to clue me in as to his plan for resolving the case. Then, after sending whatever missive he’d sent, he came out and was equally laconic on the trip to his home, stopping once along to way to talk to a local ruffian on some matter he did not see fit to share with me.

When he finally did explain what was to happen next, I was a bit surprised, but willing to follow instructions as he had laid them out. We awaited developments in his study. I read the latest copy of The Strand to amuse myself, while Moriarty plotted mathematical calculations most vexing on his many blackboards. He was working on some great treatise that consumed all of his time not spent on cases.

After an hour, a boy showed up with a telegraph reply for Mr. Moriarty. He tipped the boy and read the reply without comment other than to say “Mm-hmm! As I suspected.” He did not share further with me the developments that led him to that moment of satisfaction. I fear the Professor needed more than just deductive challenges in his life, but also an audience to which he may reveal his brilliance at a pace of his own choosing, and I was apparently his victim in such regards. I did not mind the distinction, as it allowed me to see a truly brilliant mind at work, and also enabled me to occasionally make use of his services for a greatly reduced rate.

Shortly after the receipt of the telegram, a knock came at the door, exactly as Moriarty instructed me there would be. I greeted our guest and led him to the Professor’s study. A rough and ugly man, our caller was obviously no gentleman and an individual of the foulest sort.

“You are Slade the Blade, are you not?” Moriarty said without preamble.

“That’s my name, yeah. I heard you bin lookin fer me. What ya want?” This to my mind explained the brief conversation which Moriarty had instigated with the street ruffian on our way to his home.

“You may perhaps know who I am?” Moriarty said without hint of pomposity. “I am a man of some small distinction in the circles to which your kind may run.”

“Sure. I knows ya. Yer the Professor.”

“Indeed. As I understand it, you are an assassin who can get the job done. And, unlike other assassins who have certain rules against targets who are children or clergy, you do not have such limitations?”

“A taget’s a target, Professor. I just kills ‘em. I don’t make no judgements on why they gotta’ die.”

“In fact,” Moriarty continued, “from reading in the Times the police reports of the Nielson boy’s murder, I quickly concluded you were the artist responsible. Few men would be willing to take on a target who is an eight year old boy, yet you did.”

“What of it?” Slade said, mildly annoyed. “I makes an honest wage. That boy’s murderer was the man what hired me to kill him to get him out of the way of an inheritance or somefing or other. Not my concern. I’m not responsible.”

“Excellent. I think that you shall do nicely. Captain Moran, if you would be so kind.”

On his order, as he had instructed earlier, I quickly grabbed Slade’s wrists and bound them behind the chair. Then I set about beating him upon the face and gut as ruthlessly as I could. I broke what ribs I could and made sure to fracture his jaw and snap several teeth free.

“What you want from me…” Slade mumbled through his bleeding mouth.

“Nothing,” Moriarty said. “Captain, I believe you can finish now.”

On the command, I pulled out my trusty straight razor and slit Slade’s throat. He died within seconds.

“A question, Professor,” I asked. “If we were simply planning to kill him outright, why beat him first?”

“We need the marks and damage upon his body to be frankly evident. Applying the thrashing postmortem would not make them look quite right as swelling and bruising works quite differently when lacking a heart to circulate the fluids.”

He grabbed his coat and hat. “Bring the body to your carriage, Captain. Our work is almost complete!”

We rode with all haste to Sutcliffe’s house. We were a most unusual pair of visitors, what with me holding the corpse of Mr. Slade. Yet, being a man who has dealt with death and indeed arranged it on many an occasion, Mr. Sutcliffe was less shocked and more annoyed. Violet, in the next room, looked in at the scene with interest.

“What is the meaning of this dead man in my foyer?” Sutcliffe demanded.

“Mr. Sutcliffe,” Moriarty began. “Allow me to introduce to you Mr. William Slade, known in some circles as ‘Slade the Blade’. Or, more accurately, allow me to introduce to you to the vessel that once contained Mr. Slade’s soul before it relocated to its new home in Hell.”

“I’ve heard that name…” Sutcliffe said, pondering.

“I will spare you the search of your memories, Mr. Sutcliffe. Mr. Slade was an assassin, known for getting the job done and also known for a particular lack of ethics in regards to targets. More specifically, he was known for killing children. This was the man hired to kill your daughter. He admitted as much after some interrogation by my compatriot, Captain Moran. As you can see, the threat is now neutralized.”

Sutcliffe’s expression became immediately the face of a happy man. “This is wonderful news, Professor! Are you quite certain?”

“Quite certain, Mr. Sutcliffe. Your daughter’s life is not in any danger now.”

“Marvelous!” Sutcliffe said. “Let me just fetch your payment!”

“Captain, please see to the receipt of payment whilst I explain the good news to Miss Violet.”

After collecting a not inconsiderable sum of coin from Mr. Sutcliffe while Moriarty spoke with Violet, we rode toward his home where I would deposit him before returning to my own humble dwelling.

“I say, Moriarty, there’s a few things I don’t understand. How did you know Slade was the assassin?”

“It’s quite simple, Captain. I didn’t. In fact, I know for certain that he had nothing to do with this affair. But we needed a dead assassin to give to Mr. Sutcliffe, so I arranged one who fit the bill.”

“What!?” I said, incredulous. “Do you mean to say the assassin is still out there?”

“Not at all, Captain. There is not now nor has there ever been an assassin. Mr. Sutcliffe, understandably concerned for his daughter’s safety, presumed the worst. But the answer was much more internal.

“It was clear to me upon investigating Miss Violet’s room that she was lying from the start. You see, she told both her father, then later us, that she didn’t know of the fire until informed of it after the fact. But that would be impossible considering the amount of soot in the boiler vent leading to her room and the still present smell of smoke. She surely would have noticed the fire when it was in progress.

“Further, it should be noted that there was only one person who was present at all three fires. And that was Violet herself. She was the arsonist, Captain Moran, not some mysterious would-be assassin.”

“My dear Professor, that makes no sense!” I protested. “I fail to see what possible reason Miss Violet would have for endangering her own life in such a fashion, and I further fail to see how should could have started a fire in the boiler room of her house when she was in her bedroom some three stories above!”

Moriarty tisked in the way a nanny might at a child who simply can’t read a difficult word. “Her motivation is not normal or rational, Captain. She suffers from a mental ailment known as pyromania. She has an unquenchable urge to start and watch fires. I confronted her with this while you were collecting payment from Mr. Sutcliffe and she confirmed it.

“She told me she considered fire to be the most beautiful thing in creation, and that she could not help but set it free. She explained that her urges build up stronger and stronger until she can no longer contain herself and must set something, anything, alight.”

“What of her paramour,” I demanded. I was certain I had him this time.

“There was no paramour, Captain,” he sighed. “She told the truth on that point.”

“But she averted her eyes when you asked her about him! A sure sign of duplicity!”

“Ordinarily, yes. But in this case she didn’t avert her eyes so much as direct them. Following her gaze after asking the question I was able to see she was not avoiding my glare, but in fact directing her attention to the fireplace. The crackling fire was too much for a girl of her mental make-up to ignore. She stared at it with the obsession of a starving man staring at a shank of lamb.

“Suspecting she had an ailment of this nature, I sent a telegram to her boarding school on the continent, asking if there had been any fires in the last few years. Their reply confirmed that there were no fewer than six such fires in the last two years alone, but that each had a reasonable cause and no foul play was suspected. I’m certain it was Violet who set them, and wisely masked their origin.”

“But then who was she talking to in her room?” I asked. “To whom did she profess her love, then direct to leave quickly?”

“Why, to the fire itself, Captain,” Moriarty explained. “In her mind, she has anthropomorphized it into and entity that not only exists, but that she loves. She is a somewhat deranged girl.

“You may recall the maid explaining that she was snuffing candles at the time. The presence of candles makes it clear there is no gas laid in at the house. So Miss Violet would have had ready access to kerosene. She poured the kerosene such that it dribbled down the vent shaft all the way to the boiler room, then set it alight. The still-dripping kerosene conveyed the flames to the floor, where the puddle there caught and the conflagration was in full swing. Once it reached the coal pile, there was no way to tell the original source of the fire.

“What the maid heard was Violet instructing her lovely fire to direct itself to the boiler room. Which it obediently did.”

“Incredible,” I sighed after giving a low whistle. “But why not tell Mr. Sutcliffe the truth of the matter? He could perhaps get help for the girl. Why put the blame on Mr. Slade’s dead shoulders?”

“Help? Help!?” Moriarty fumed. “Would you ‘help’ Michelangelo out of his love of art? Would you ‘help’ Pythagoras to recover from an interest in mathematics? Would you ‘help’ Wellington by keeping him from joining the Army? Surely not!

“Violet Sutcliffe is the most skilled arsonist in all of London, and at only sixteen years! Just imagine what her natural gift for conflagration will blossom in to over time. She has the inherent ability to know not just how to burn a structure down, but the exact nature in which fire will react in any given situation. And she can do so in such a way as to suggest beyond all doubt that the fire was of natural cause!

“While speaking to her, I guaranteed that I shall meet her clandestinely once per month and take her to a building of my choosing that she may enflame completely in any way she sees fit. This will see to her needs, as she will have a regular date upon which to look forward to a release of her desires. I made it clear in no uncertain terms that she is not to burn anything without my consent. She agreed.”

“But how does this benefit you, Professor,” I asked, puzzled as I often was at the gears turning within his head.

“I have many ventures, Captain, considerably more than simply solving underworld problems for hire. In many of my pursuits it would be convenient in the extreme for a building to be removed from play. It may contain an enemy, or a business I need eliminated, or evidence I need destroyed. I will now have an avenue for such destruction, perpetrated by a master of the field.

“I see,” I said. “And you will need such services on a monthly basis?”

“Unlikely,” Moriarty said. “I chose that time frame because I believe it to be frequent enough to sate Violet’s needs. On months where I have no specific use for her services, I shall merely pick a building at random, or let her choose. London is a large city, Captain, with many buildings to spare.”

“I say, Moriarty, you have gathered yourself a powerful ally and employee, and all while being paid to do so.”

“Indeed,” he said with such casualness as to imply it was an ordinary thing, worthy of no note. Still, I suspected he was preening a bit behind his enigmatic half-smile at his accomplishment.

The Adventure of the Sealed Room

The irony is palpable when an evil man is arrested on suspicion of a crime he did not, in fact, commit. It is a frustrating thing. Deep down there is a strong sense if justice in all of us, even those who have a predilection toward a perverse disassociation with the law. I am want to believe that if the law is going to catch me, it will be for something of which I am actually guilty.

You can imagine my surprise when I received a missive sent by Moriarty from the police lockup! After counting out some bail money, I quickly spirited myself downtown to where he was being held. To my shock, I found he was being held on suspicion of murder! Naturally, no amount of bail would be sufficient to free him.

Making my way to the cells, under the watchful eyes of the police who were wary that I might slip him a weapon or some other contraband, I spoke to him across prison bars in a direction I always imagined would be reversed.

“Moriarty!” I exclaimed. “What’s happened?”

He looked rather unconcerned. “Simply put, Captain, I am charged with the murder of Morton Fairchild.”

I had never heard the name before and was forced to ask “Who on earth is Morton Fairchild? And what could your association with him possibly be?”

“He is a civil employee who works in the department of permits,” Moriarty explained. “As you know, I dabble in real estate and have need on many occasions to restore or even rebuild structures in my possession. This amplifies their revenues from rent. In order to get the needed construction permits, I would usually apply directly to Mr. Fairchild, as he is a high-ranking individual within the department and could get the permits rendered considerably faster than through normal channels.”

“Why would the police think you killed a man who was of such continued handiness to your real estate ventures?”

“It seems that the victim himself identified me for his murder.”

I was about to question how such a thing could be, but was interrupted by the approach of an inspector and two uniformed constables. The inspector wore a dour and somewhat angry expression, as one does when executing what one considers a particularly odious task.

“Professor Moriarty,” he said. “I am instructed to release you into supervised liberty. You shall be in the care of these two constables. You are to have free roam of the city, but you may not leave it nor board any train. These men will be with you at all times, watching your every move. Any attempt at flight will land you back here for the duration.”

“I understand, Inspector Forsythe,” Moriarty acknowledged. The Inspector released Moriarty, and the two constables took up positions beside him.

“Constables Lestrade and Samuels, you know the orders. If he gets away from you, it is to be your jobs on the line,” Forsythe cautioned. Then, to Moriarty “This entire situation is quite out of the ordinary, Professor. The police are not normally in the business of setting accused murderers free. I’m not sure what strings you pulled with the various missives you sent earlier today, but I’m watching you.”

“I merely contacted some high-born friends of mine,” Moriarty said, recovering his hat and cane from the desk sergeant. “Men who owe me favors. They came through. I assure you, Inspector, this works to your benefit as well as mine. I shall not sit idly by awaiting trial. It is my firm intention to find out who committed this murder and exculpate myself from suspicion by solving the case for you.”

And so it was that the criminal mastermind Professor James Moriarty set about solving a murder for the police.

Upon exiting the precinct house, Moriarty announced to his retinue of myself and the two constables “Our first stop shall be the scene of the murder. Captain, I trust you brought your carriage?”

I had indeed, and shortly the four of us were on our way to the boarding house of Miss Agatha Evans, the residence where the unfortunate Fairchild rented a room. Along the way, Moriarty explained his predicament.

“It seems, my good Captain, that Mr. Fairchild was murdered in his room at Miss Evans’s boarding house some two days ago. Shot in the heart by a small caliber weapon. Investigations proceeded as normal with no suspects immediately forthcoming. Today, Mr. Fairchild’s sister received a letter from him sent shortly before his death. It stated, without explanation, that in the event of his death, the likely culprit was me, whom he accused by name. Naturally, the police considered this to be tremendously incriminating and came to arrest me on the spot.”

“But fear not, Captain. I am in no danger of the noose. At the time of the murder, I was dining at Rothman’s, a most prestigious and expensive restaurant which is situated distantly on the other side of the city from Fairchild’s lodgings. A large number of wealthy ladies and gentlemen of impeccable reputation can verify my story, not to mention the restaurant staff.”

“Then why have they arrested you at all?” I asked.

“They have to be thorough, Captain. They must check with each of the patrons of Rothman’s individually and verify my story. Even then, they would likely continue to press the issue. A letter from the deceased naming his murderer is impossible to ignore, even if it is inaccurate.

“Making things worse, I had been to visit him very day of his death on a matter of a permit. He would often conduct such meetings in his room, after hours, as he had no private office at the city planning bureau. I do not deny that I was there, and repeatedly pointed out the police that I was seen by many of the other boarders leaving some two full hours before his death.” With the last statement, he gave a stern look at the constables.

Upon reaching the home, the four of us made our way inside. It having been two days since the murder, things had calmed somewhat, but the other boarders were still shaken from the events.

Mr. Fairchild’s door faced directly in to the dining area. The door itself was closed, but a large hole in the wall next to it provided access to the room. A workman was at the hole, measuring it in preparation for its repair.

Miss Evans sat at the dining table, morose and red-eyed from crying.

“Miss Evans,” the Professor said. “You may recall me from the other day and from visits I have made in the past?”

Miss Evans stood. “Of course, Professor.,” she said timidly. “I heard you were arrested for the murder? Only I saw you leave well before his death, and said as much to the police!”

“Yes, we’re working on straightening all that out,” Moriarty consoled. “Please tell me in your own words the events of the night of his murder.”

“I suppose you know the state of things in the house as of the time of your departure, Professor. So I will simply tell you of the intervening two hours between your exit and his death. There isn’t much to tell, honestly.

“He remained in his room, as he usually did, being a private sort. I serve dinner at six o’clock sharp every evening. Anyone who does not attend does not get fed. On that particular evening he did not come out for dinner. At quarter past, as we were all dining, we heard the shot clearly from his room.

“Naturally, we pounded on his door and called out to him. There was no answer. The door was locked. Some of the men who board here tried to force the door but it would not budge. We called a locksmith, but it was to no avail. The lock on the door was of singular quality and could not be picked or forced. We called the fire brigade, and they axed a hole in the wall to enable entry. We found poor Mr. Fairchild dead on his floor.

“How is it you were unable to get through the door for so long?” Moriarty asked.

“The locksmith informed us that it was a door made of steel, with wood paneling on the outside to hide its true nature. Also, the door-jam itself is made of steel, rooted to the frame of the house. Mr. Fairchild did replace the door some years back, but said it was his own clumsiness that broke it in the first place, and insisted on covering the cost himself. I had no idea he had taken such measures until the locksmith informed me.”

“Was the door watched at all times between the shot being fired and the fire brigade gaining entry? Can you guarantee no person left after the shot?”

“Indeed, Professor. We were all so very concerned. We congregated in the dining room until we knew what had happened. The door was our singular obsession. Nobody left through it.”

Moriarty entered the room through the hole (the door remained intractably shut). The constables followed. He paced to and fro, examining every aspect of the room. He spent a considerable time at the one window the room had to offer. “Captain, do you think a man could get through this window?”

It seemed to be a trick question. It was high on the wall, and small. Not too small for a man to get through but it was also heavily barred against intrusion. “Not with those bars across it, Professor.”

“Indeed not. But if they weren’t there?”

“I suppose a man could get through, were he slight of build and athletic in nature.”

Striding quickly to the workman at the hole, Moriarty asked “May I borrow a screwdriver, sir?”

The workman obliged and Moriarty made his way to the window. Using a chair to stand upon, he examined the bars. They were welded to an outer rectangular frame which ringed the window, and the frame was in turn bolted to the wall. With the screwdriver, he gave each of the many screws securing the frame a turn or two, then re-tightened them. “Interesting,” he said. “Miss Evans!” He called out, “Was Mr. Fairchild in normal daytime attire when found?”

“Yes, Sir. In the very suit he’d been wearing all day,” came the answer from the dining room.

He began searching the desk and closets. “Captain, constables, you may aid me immensely in searching this room for a key. I must know if the key to that door is inside this room or out. I know it was not on the body, for the police surely would have searched that quite well. They would have returned the key to Miss Evans had they found it, and that door would now be open instead of us all traipsing in and out through the hole in the wall.”

After a few minutes of searching, it was constable Samuels who found the key on the floor under the desk. He confirmed the key was to the door by unlocking and opening it. Miss Evans was visibly relieved that the problem of the locked door was solved and repairs could properly commence on the unseemly hole in the wall.

“Mr. Fairchild had fallen asleep at his desk,” Moriarty explained. “The murderer, poised outside, unscrewed all the screws fastening the grate to the window frame, then quietly entered. Probably planning to kill Mr. Fairchild in his sleep, something went amiss, as Fairchild awoke. He stood and approached his assailant and was shot. As he fell to the floor, his room key slipped out of his pocket and slid under the desk. Miss Evans and the boarders heard the shot and immediately began attempting entry to the room. But it took hours as they tried to force the door, then called a locksmith, then ultimately the fire brigade. During this time, the murderer exited the room by the window and re-fastened the screws.”

I ran through the scenario in my mind, looking for faults. “It makes sense on the surface, Moriarty, but how can you be sure on all the details?”

“A screw that has been left alone for a long time will set in, and be difficult to initially turn. One that has been recently loosened and retightened, however, will not have that friction. The screws on the grating were clearly recently affected. From that it is obvious to deduce that the murderer entered through the window.

“Mr. Fairchild must have been in the room at the time the murderer went about removing the grate, and would hardly have failed to notice the activity nor taken action to stop it. The only possible explanation is that he was asleep. This also explains why he missed dinner. He was found with his normal clothing on, thus I conclude he fell asleep unexpectedly, rather than taking a deliberate nap.

“The key to his room being on the inside, we must also conclude that the murderer also left through the window, replacing the bars after his exit. Incidentally, I know why Fairchild had the barred window and steel door in the first place.”

He went to the closet and opened a panel that, to my eyes, looked exactly like the rest of the wall. From the hidden compartment he pulled a large and heavy cashbox. “I noticed this compartment while searching for the key. This is what he was guarding,” Moriarty grunted. The constables came forth and aided him in carrying it to the desk. “Judging from the weight and presuming reasonable denominations, there must be several hundred pounds sterling in there. Not to mention any paper bills that may also be inside.

“A man who’s job amounts to a high level office clerk has no business having that quantity of money. The only possible explanation is that he is taking bribes in return for permits. This explains also why he tends to have meetings at his home instead of the office.”

“Wait,” I said, examining the window. “There’s a flaw in your analysis, Moriarty. These window grates are designed specifically so as to prevent a would-be intruder from unscrewing them from the outside. If you look at the orientation of the screws and the narrowness of the bars, it would be impossible for a man outside the window to position his hand in such a way as to address the screws with a screwdriver.”

“Well spotted, Captain. These grates are made as you say, but this particular one is of low quality and has security flaws. If you imagine a screwdriver with a bend in the middle, operated as one might operate a spanner, you may see how the murderer gained entry.”

“Ah yes, indeed, Professor. I see how that would work.”

“So,” Moriarty said, clapping his hands together. “We now know how the murder was committed, but still do not know who did it. However, we have an excellent place to start.”

“How is that?” I said. I saw nowhere to begin to look for the murderer. It could be almost anyone in London.

“Why, the note to Fairchild’s sister of course. The one naming me as his murderer. It is a clue of the most vital significance.”

“All that does is imply you are the murderer, Professor!” I said.

“Indeed. We know, and the police will also know when they finish their verifications of my alibi, that I am not the murderer. But someone surely wanted him dead. As Fairchild himself would have no reason to fear me, he would surely have no reason to send a note accusing me of murder to his sister. So the note must have been sent by the murderer to frame me.

“My visiting Fairchild the day of his murder can hardly be a coincidence. The murderer must have plotted the attack to coincide closely with my visit. So we are looking for not only an enemy of Mr. Fairchild’s, but also an enemy of mine. There can not be too many people on a list that exclusive.”

“Begging your pardon, Professor,” constable Lestrade interjected. “I have myself seen the note of which you speak, and was present when the Inspector spoke to Mr. Fairchild’s sister. The note was written on Mr. Fairchild’s letterhead paper, and his sister identified the writing as his.”

“Mm,” Moriarty said. “The note was delivered today. In as much as it was posted from within the city to another location therein, the traditional transit time is two days. This means the note was most likely posted the day of the murder. I posit that it was posted shortly after the crime. The murderer would have had ample time before his escape to gather up blank letterhead from the desk, as well as any number of documents written in Mr. Fairchild’s own hand so as to provide samples for future forgery.

He seated himself at Fairchild's desk. Taking care to issue his actions with thoroughness, he searched the drawers in sequence until attaining a black, leather-bound appointment book. Opening it in front of him, he took notice of each page in turn as he examined it closely.

“Professor,” said I, “what is the purpose of this search?”

Moriarty continued his deep examinations of the book as he explained. “As Mr. Fairchild and I move in very different social circles, it is reasonable to assume the link is one related to real estate, rather than some personal connection. I am hopeful that a studious examination of Mr. Fairchild's appointment book will reveal a name that I recognize.”

After further examination in silence for some several minutes, the Professor said “Ah. Yes. Here, I think, is a suspect.” He pointed to an entry in the appointment book. “Mr. Fairchild has had several meetings with Wesley Sunderland. I believe we shall discover that Mr. Sunderland is the murderer.”

“Oh, Professor? How can you be so certain?”

“I can not, until we find more evidence. But of all the names in this ledger, Mr. Sunderland is the only person who would benefit from my demise. Sunderland is a disreputable character of highly questionable integrity. He is in the business of buying tenements then driving the renters out by intimidation and threats in order to convert the building to some more profitable configuration. He and those who work for him have been linked to several suspicious deaths of hold-out renters.

“At present we two are engaged in a bidding war for an East End tenement building of no small import. Whichever of us wins the bid shall undoubtedly turn a significant profit on the undervalued property.

“Regardless of who wins it, the property will need considerable work, as it is in a deplorably dilapidated state. I suspect Sunderland requested the work permits in advance, in presumption of winning the bid. Fairchild likely demanded a significant bribe, and the two could not come to terms. This led to Sunderland killing Fairchild, then framing me. It served the triple purpose of ensuring some other individual determine his permit status, removing me from the bidding process on the property, and allowing him to get away with the crime.”

Standing, he said “I believe we are done here. Constables, I shall require the assistance of the police and magistrates. I should like very much for you to obtain an appropriate warrant and then search the residence of Wesley Sunderland. It is my sincere belief that you will find evidence there that implicates him in the murder.”

Constable Lestrade stepped forward “What evidence do you expect we’d find, Professor?”

“Pay attention, man!” Moriarty admonished. “He must have taken papers from Fairchild’s desk as well as letterhead in order to write the note. He likely still has them.”

Constable Lestrade checked his pocketwatch. “It’s gone six, Professor. We won’t be able to get a magistrate’s signature until tomorrow morning.”

“Pah!” Moriarty said, visibly frustrated. “Very well. I’m done here, constables. I’ve nothing to do until you serve that warrant. Captain, take us all to my home.”

I conveyed the trio to the Professor’s home, afterward proceeding to my own. I spent an uneasy evening wondering what the next day might bring. Was it possible the great Professor Moriarty would be ended by, of all things, a crime he did not commit? Or would his deductions prove accurate and Sunderland be exposed as the murderer? I did not sleep well. For you see, Moriarty was more than an occasional consultant. I viewed him as an important ally in the underworld and even, dare I say, a friend. As much as one can have a friend in our way of life.

The next morning, bright and early, I made all due haste to the Professor’s house. There, I found the constables in his sitting room, enjoying a morning cup of tea, and Moriarty in his sleeping gown doing the same. The constables had slept in shifts to keep constant vigil on Moriarty’s bedroom door and see to it he did not escape. It was clear Constable Samuels believed his deductions. Constable Lestrade was less supportive and kept a wary eye on the Professor at all times.

“Ah, Captain Moran,” Moriarty said. “Do come in. Tea?”

“Yes, please,” I said, seating myself at the table.

As Moriarty poured me a cuppa, he said “The constables here were kind enough last night to send a message to the precinct house requesting the search I suggested. Inspector Forsythe has recently received the warrant from the magistrate and should be searching Sunderland’s premises as we speak. We should have news very shortly.”

After what seemed like an interminable wait, Inspector Forsythe finally arrived. The constables stood in the presence of their superior while Moriarty and I remained seated. Pulling his gloves off as he spoke, Forsythe said “It appears we have done you an injustice, Professor. While searching Wesley Sunderland’s home, we found in his desk several blank sheets of letterhead from Mr. Fairchild’s office. Also, as you suspected, we found some assorted papers of Fairchild’s, presumably used to forge the note. As a final piece of damning evidence we also found a screwdriver in his workshop that had been bent at a right angle in the middle. Exactly the tool you surmised would be necessary to unscrew the grate.

“Furthermore, yesterday evening we were able to finish the verification of your alibi. We have testimonials from no fewer than twenty individuals of high society and perfect reputation that you were at Rothman’s restaurant at the critical time. We have taken Mr. Sunderland into custody for the murder of Morton Fairchild.

“I do beg your forgiveness, Professor-” the Inspector sheepishly continued.

“Now let’s have none of that, Inspector,” Moriarty said, standing to shake Forsythe’s hand. “With the evidence and information you had at the time of my arrest you did your duty just as any policeman would do. While on rare occasion evidence that profound will turn out to be false or planted, the vast majority of the time it will be exactly as it seems, and you must act on the simpler assumption until proven otherwise. I bear you no ill will and in fact consider you an exemplary example of your profession.”

“That’s very kind of you, Professor,” Forsythe said. “If ever you have need of a favor at the precinct house, or wish us to look in to something, just let me know. I feel I owe you greatly, not only to make up for accusing you of murder, but also because you were able to expose the true killer.”

“I may take you up on that some day, Inspector,” Moriarty said knowledgably. “Now, if you officers will excuse me, I have a long day of mathematical computation ahead.”

Forsythe and the constables said their goodbyes and left, but not before Constable Lestrade took a good long look at Moriarty. Though the Professor was clearly innocent of this crime, Lestrade sensed a great evil in him. Well spotted, Constable, I thought to myself.

After they left, I heaved a great sigh of relief. “I’m not sad to see the back of them, Professor, I can tell you that.”

Moriarty pulled a slice of toast from a tray and began buttering it. “It was nothing to be concerned about, Captain. I was in no danger of conviction.”

I helped myself to a slice of toast as well. “Now that the coppers are gone, you can level with me, Professor. Be honest now: you knew Fairchild was taking bribes because you, yourself, were one of the people bribing him. Am I correct?”

“Excellent, Captain. You are of course correct. How did you know?”

“We all searched Fairchild’s room. But only you knew to search for a secret compartment. Why search for such a thing unless you knew there was something significant to hide?”

“Well done,” he praised. “Is that all? Have you deduced nothing further?” He challenged.

I ran through the events in my head as best I could, but found no further duplicity on his part that I could surmise. “I can think of nothing further, Professor. What subtle detail did I miss out on?”

“I am the one who murdered Fairchild. That’s what you missed out on.” He took a bite of his toast. “Mmm. Excellent marmalade. I shall have to buy this brand more in future.”

I fell limp into the back of my chair. “What!?”

“I said I murdered Fairchild,” he repeated. “Did I not speak clearly?”

“But… that can not be! I have seen your innocence proved before my very eyes!”

“Let me begin at the beginning,” he said, dabbing his mouth with a napkin. “I may as well tell you now it is my intention to build the greatest criminal organization the world has ever known. As with any empire, its successful construction relies not on the strength of its soldiers, but in the quality of its infrastructure. Do you think the Romans conquered the ancient world purely with their legions? Look closer at the history and you shall see it was their aqueducts, their system of roads, their postal system, and a thousand other details that enabled them to rise to such great heights.

“I am laying out the groundwork for my organization. One part of that is a series of buildings I will own throughout London. I will rent out most of each building, keeping the ground floor in my own possession. Each of them will have a tunnel dug from there to the sewer system. This will enable my organization to have unfettered travel throughout the city, unseen by anyone, and bypassing any police. This is a crucial piece of my long term plans.

“Unfortunately, I erred. Fairchild, whom I had bribed for the work permits on every building, eventually saw through my plans. He tried to blackmail me. He called me over to his room and showed me a map he had drawn, showing my purchased buildings and the London sewer system together. Looking at these things in tandem it was clear I was deliberately buying the buildings above areas where the sewer system came closest to the surface, and the excavation work permits made it clear I was having tunnels dug to the sewers.

“I noticed the ink on the map was still moist in parts, so I felt certain there were no copies. We were in his room, with the door closed, and I sized upon the opportunity to end the problem. I shot him in the chest.”

“But how did you do that from across town?” I demanded. “You were at Rothman’s when he was shot!”

“No, I was at Rothman’s when the boarders heard a shot. I shot him some two hours earlier. I have, built in to my cane, a compressed air gun capable of propelling a small caliber shell to lethal velocity without making a significant sound. This is what I murdered Fairchild with.

“I gathered the map for later burning, then set up a simple system to ensure my alibi. I took a three-hour candle from his supply and cut a notch to the wick about two thirds down. While the cane is a good weapon in some circumstances, I also carry a revolver for more traditional threats. I took a bullet from the revolver then placed it with the firing cap end touching the wick. I secured it in place with some hot wax, then placed the entire assembly in Fairchild’s fireplace. I set the candle alight then made my departure, locking the door behind me.

“Two hours later, when the candle burned down the bullet’s location, it fired and the boarders all heard it. I knew from previous visits that the door was steel re-enforced, so I knew it would be some time before anyone was able to get in to the room. This eliminated the problem of the body already being cold when they found it. A medical examination of the state of rigor mortis would likely have discovered the true time of death, but the police did not call for it, as it was obvious from the boarders that he died at six fifteen.”

“But the candle and bullet would have been in the fireplace when the police got there!” I said. “How did they not notice?”

“The bullet is a small thing,” Moriarty explained, “which would have bounced around within the fireplace before coming to rest in the deep ash, which the police did not sift through. The remnants of the candle were likely visible, but it is quite common for people to throw candle remnants in the fireplace so it would have drawn no notice.”

“Why not have me do the deed, Professor?” I asked, feeling a bit put out.

“Do not be offended, Captain. It is no slight upon you. Certainly I would normally call upon your services when I need a life ended. But I did not expect to murder him at all. I knew I had to end things before he had a chance to make copies of the map. This was all a plan I devised while at his room after he demanded blackmail money.

“The candle and bullet in place, I dined at Rothman’s to ensure my alibi and considered the matter settled. Unfortunately, Mr. Fairchild was wiser than I gave him credit for and accounted for the possibility of his own demise. The note he sent to his sister caught me completely off-guard. I had to scramble to frame Sunderland for the crime.”

“Yes, how did you do that?” I asked. “You were watched at all times by the constables! So much so you couldn’t even enlist my aid!”

“Watched, yes. But not watched well. As I examined the scene of the crime and created the fictional version of how the crime had taken place, I encouraged the constables to help me search the room for the key. The key presented me with a unique problem, as I still had it in my possession at the time of my arrest. I hid it in my hat at the time and now at the scene of the crime had been able to slip it under the desk when I appeared to be inspecting the room.

“Later, while I searched the desk for the ledger, I was seated in a position that did not allow the constables to see my lower body. I took advantage of this to steal some letterhead and a few assorted papers of Fairchild’s. Really, it was most inappropriate for the police to allow the suspect free roam of the murder room.”

“But how the devil did you manage to get the papers into Sunderland’s study?” I demanded. “The constables were at your door all night!”

“A simple matter,” Moriarty explained. “In my line of work, it pays to have secret methods in and out of the various rooms in my home. My bedroom has such a passage. I was able to quite easily escape the house last night. I then simply broke in to Sunderland’s home and planted the evidence. I also invaded his workshop and bent one of his screwdrivers to strengthen the frame-up.”

“And you managed all that with nothing more than quick wits” I said, impressed. “The police even feel they owe you a favor!”

“Indeed,” Moriarty said. “It worked out rather well. And with Sunderland in the hatch, I shall be able to get that tenement building at a much lower cost without his competing bids. This made him the ideal candidate for framing.”

I stared at Moriarty in stunned admiration for a while. Then, I said “Could I get an air gun like yours?”

Moriarty thought for a moment, then nodded. “Why not? I shall have one made for you shortly.”

I wish that I could offer this as the happy ending to the tale, but unfortunately, the British justice system was more thorough and responsible than we had hoped. Though the evidence against Sunderland was significant, the defense engaged a university student specializing in the field of chemistry who had a particular interest in criminology. The student was able to show, through chemical processes, that the ink on the note sent to Mr. Fairchild’s sister was significantly different, molecularly, than the ink Sunderland had at his desk. On the strength of this evidence, the court acquitted him of the crime.

So the professor’s clever well-plotted frame was spoiled by some insignificant chemistry student. Still, Sunderland being on trial gave Moriarty ample opportunity to buy the tenement building.

I wish I could say it was the last time we encountered that chemistry student.

Table of Contents

Moriarty

Copyright

About the author

The Adventure of the Dishonor Among Thieves

The Adventure of the Unscrupulous Assassin

The Adventure of the Sealed Room