The Second Life of James Moriarty: A Short Story Read online

  THE SECOND LIFE

  OF

  JAMES MORIARTY

  A SHORT STORY

  (FREE FOR KINDLE UNLIMITED CUSTOMERS)

  John Moralee © 2015

  All rights reserved.

  Cover image © John Moralee 2015

  The moral right of John Moralee to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted in accordance with the Copyright, Design and Patents Act, 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without the permission of the author.

  This book is a work of fiction. All names, characters, businesses, organisations, places and events are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locations is entirely coincidental.

  The character James Moriarty was originally created by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle.

  CONTENTS

  The Second Life of James Moriarty

  The Second Life of James Moriarty

  My name is Moriarty and I am dead. At least that is what the world believes after Reichenbach Falls. I recall very little of what happened that day, though my fight with Sherlock Holmes is something I shall never forget. It ended with us falling over the waterfall to our certain deaths upon the rocks below. Except it did not end that way. A powerful gust of wind altered my fall and I hit the water and survived against the odds with just bruises, a concussion and cracked ribs.

  Good fortune delivered my almost lifeless body to a muddy bank of the Reichenbach stream many miles beyond the waterfall, where a gentleman walking his German Shepherd found me barely conscious. He rescued me and asked what had happened as I gulped sweet air into my aching chest. In my delirium I nearly told the truth, but I had the quick wit to lie. “It was my own fault. I was fishing when my rowing boat hit a rock and capsized. I am very fortunate you saved me, good sir.”

  I told him my name was Thomas Meinhoff. His name was Henri Villeuve. Believing my lie, Henri invited me to come to his home, where I could rest and recover. He offered to contact a doctor if I wanted one – but I did not want that. I persuaded him it was not necessary, even though I was suffering excruciating pain from all parts of my body.

  Henri lived alone in a ramshackle château surrounded by a forest that was part of his estate. In its prime his home would have been an impressive sight – but Henri had fallen on hard times and lost all of his money in bad investments. With no servants to keep the château in good condition, the place had turned into a rats’ nest of dark, mouldy rooms, mostly empty of furniture, which he had been forced to sell. I was feeling weak when we arrived – so I did not complain about the vile smell or the dirtiness of the carpets. I was grateful to be offered a warm bed for the night, where I fell asleep instantly and dreamt of drowning.

  *

  The next morning Henri greeted me for breakfast like an old friend. I learnt then Henri had no other friends after losing his fortune. He was so pathetic and lonely that I became his new best friend just by my proximity. To maintain his friendship, I endured his endless chatter upon the subject of his niece Mary, pretending interest as he told me of her life in England. She was his only living relative because his brother, her father, had died recently of a heart attack just six months after the girl’s mother. “I was estranged from my brother for twenty-two years. He married the woman I loved, you see, Thomas. And I never forgave him. Mary informed me of his death last month. Since then, we have exchanged many letters. The girl is quite a delight ...”

  I faked interest in his words while imagining cutting his throat to silence him. I had no interest in Henri’s family history.

  That morning Henri hunted on his estate and visited the nearest village, returning with a newspaper that possessed the most amusing headline: The World’s Greatest Detective Sherlock Holmes Plunges To Death At Reichenbach Falls!

  “Isn’t that terrible?” Henri said, as I read the article at the kitchen table. “I admired him greatly.”

  “A tragedy,” I answered, looking solemn, while my heart raced and my soul soared. Holmes was dead! I felt like cheering as I read the article. The Swiss police were searching for the bodies of Holmes and my good self. We were both assumed to be dead – but the police were still looking for us since no bodies had been recovered. I was still the most-wanted man in Europe. There was a description and sketch of me in the newspaper, provided by Dr Watson, who had reached the gorge after our epic battle.

  “It is a strange coincidence,” Henri said.

  “What is?”

  “You fell into the same stream on the same day!”

  “I suppose it is,” I said.

  “I can’t imagine that happens every day – two horrible events at Reichenbach. The odds must be astoundingly high.”

  Henri seemed unaware of his own stupidity at saying something like that to me. He added to it with his next words. “Why, Thomas, you even fit the description of Moriarty!”

  “I do?” I said. I smiled like I was amused – but my heart doubled its rhythm. Did the fool suspect me? I slipped my hand over a knife left on the table from breakfast. It disappeared up my sleeve. I continued to eat my breakfast while staring at Henri, calculating a dozen ways to kill him without getting blood on the suit he had let me borrow.

  Henri appeared nervous. “Well … you do look like him a little. But he is obviously not you, Thomas. You’re my friend.”

  “Indeed,” I said. “Joining me for lunch, Henri?”

  Henri nodded eagerly and stepped closer to the table. That was when I struck him. The knife plunged into his left eye and killed him in an instant. It was a mercy. I had liked Henri. I had no desire to make him suffer like my nemesis Sherlock Holmes. Henri was dead before he knew it.

  Calmly, I finished my meal in silence while Henri’s body cooled, then I explored the château, my new home. While perusing through Henri’s belongings, I learnt more about the dead man when I discovered a green shoe box containing several rose-scented letters. I sniffed them and opened the envelopes. They were from Henri’s young niece, Mary. Her correspondence was written in beautiful cursive, on fine English paper, indicating she was an intelligent young lady with fine taste and breeding. More importantly, her letters revealed three interesting facts.

  The first fact was that she had recently inherited her father’s ironworks, making her a lady of considerable wealth.

  The second fact was that she had never met her uncle.

  The third fact was that she was on a tour of Europe and intended to visit her uncle that week. She expected to arrive before her twenty-first birthday on Friday.

  What a serendipitous delight!

  It seemed as if the Fates themselves had brought Henri and Mary into my life exactly when I needed them. To start my life again, I needed money. Mary’s money was mine for the taking. All I had to do was pretend to be her uncle and steal it from her. Such a simple thing was not a serious challenge for my superior intellect and criminal expertise, but I would still have to make careful preparations. It was possible she had seen a picture of her uncle – so I would have to make myself look like him. I had always possessed superb skills of mimicry and disguise just like my nemesis Holmes – so I had no doubt I could trick a mere girl into believing I, Professor James Moriarty, was her dear beloved Uncle Henri.

  I grinned at the prospect of using my talents again for criminality. This time Sherlock Holmes would not interfere. The world was mine now. I could do what I liked and never fear being caught again. Poor
Mary. She did not know what I would do to her upon her arrival.

  Would I kill her once I had taken her money?

  That decision would have to wait until I met her. For now, I was content to ponder over what I might do, while transforming myself into her Uncle Henri. I sat Henri’s stiffened corpse in a chair in front of a mirror and cut my hair to match his style. Henri wore thick round spectacles – so I took them off his corpse. His hair was grey – so I bleached mine with chemicals. After that process was completed, Henri’s twin stared back at me through a mirror. I practised speaking in Henri’s voice, copying his tones and intonation precisely. Satisfied that I would fool anyone except a close acquaintance, of which Henri had none, I awaited Mary’s arrival at my château.

  I spent the time waiting for her recuperating my strength and turning the filthy rooms into clean ones. Common housework was something I normally left to my lackeys – but in the circumstances I felt it necessary to lower myself to the task. I could not abide Mary finding my home dirty. I swept dust and cobwebs away and washed every surface. I opened every window and door to let fresh air remove the lingering odour of Henri’s miserable bachelorhood. I finished the work just in time – for she arrived a day early.

  A black carriage stopped in front of the main entrance. The coachman settled the horses and hurried around to open the side door for a beautiful young woman wearing a royal blue hat and dark blue dress. Ringlets of blonde hair escaped from her hat as she hopped down onto the ground.

  “Uncle Henri!” Her English accent was so sweet to my ears I felt a longing for cream teas and cucumber sandwiches. “It is so good to finally meet you!”

  “And it is good to meet you, Mary.”

  Dressed in Henri’s best suit and polished shoes, I stepped forward to greet her quite formally – but Mary rushed towards me like a child, hugging me warmly. She smelled like a rose garden in full bloom.

  Behind her, another young woman in a dowdier grey hat and dress stepped down from the carriage. She walked towards us accompanied by a gentleman aged about thirty-five. He was tall and dark-haired. He possessed the handsomeness of a fairy tale prince and a devilish smile.

  “You have company,” I said, hiding my irritation. Their presence was a complication. Nevertheless, it did not ruffle me. “I hope you will introduce me.”

  “Of course!” Mary said. “This is Miss Claire Merson, my companion. She has been delightful company on my travels. And that gentleman is Count Kugarov. I met him in the most unfortunate of circumstances, Uncle. The Count had his money and other possessions stolen by a thief on the train from Paris. It was lucky I had the money to pay for his ticket.”

  “All my money and my ticket were stolen as I dozed,” the man said. “I was so lucky to meet your niece, Mr Villeuve. She has been wonderfully generous.”

  It sounded like she had been more than generous. Free train tickets from Paris to Switzerland. What next? Would Count Kugarov ask to borrow some money from Mary, which he would promise to pay back later? I suspected Count Kugarov was a conman, for the man had wily eyes and an arrogant bearing as though he owned the world. I instinctively distrusted him. A master criminal recognises another criminal in an instant. I doubted Count Kugarov had ever been robbed on the train. More likely, he had seen Henri’s wealthy niece and concocted a story to prey on her kindness. A weakness I did not have. I wanted to turn him away – but I could not do that with Mary present. I smiled at him. “My niece has a good heart, sir. You are from Russia?”

  “Distantly related to the Romanoffs,” he said off-handedly, like it held no consequence, though being distantly related to royalty did always matter. “I was travelling to Moscow when my possessions were stolen. I am currently a pauper, with only the clothes upon my back.”

  “Uncle, I thought the Count could stay with us, since he is in dire need of accommodation. I do hope you do not mind?”

  “Not at all,” I lied. “There are more than enough rooms for guests.”

  Mary grinned. “I am so pleased you said that! I told you he would not mind, Nicholas.”

  Nicholas? Her informality told me how far their relationship had progressed.

  “Thank you, sir,” Count Kugarov said. “I am most grateful.”

  “You are welcome to stay the night, Count Kugarov.”

  Count Kugarov thanked me while the coachman carried Mary’s luggage into the château, where we followed. I was pleased I had cleaned the house before the coachman carried the bags into the hall, though I did wonder what my guests would think when they saw the absence of good furniture in the other rooms. Henri had not told his niece of his financial problems in his correspondence. The current situation seemed the perfect opportunity to reveal that information to my niece. (I was already thinking of Mary as my niece. A good actor believes his role.) “I am sympathetic to their plight. I have fallen upon hard times, too. My home is my only possession, for all my wealth has dwindled away due to bad investments.”

  “Oh – Uncle – you did not tell me that!”

  “I was too proud, my dear. I did not wish to burden you with my problems – not when you are grieving.”

  She grabbed my hand in hers. “Uncle, you do not have to be ashamed. I have enough money for us all.”

  That was something I did want to hear – but not with Count Kugarov present and clearly listening. “You must have all had a long and tiring journey. I’ll show you to your rooms on the first floor. Then I will prepare dinner.”

  “That sounds excellent – but first I must pay the coachman,” Mary said, opening her reticule and removing several shiny Swiss coins.

  I observed Count Kugarov’s eyes upon her reticule’s contents as Mary generously tipped the coachman and thanked him for his services. I could see the Count counting her money until Mary had closed the drawstring. He brightened his smile and walked with her as I showed my guests to their rooms. I gave Mary and Miss Merson adjacent rooms in the west wing, and one in the east wing, as far away as possible, to Count Kugarov.

  Later Mary, Miss Merson and Count Kugarov joined me in the sparse dining room for a simple meal of soup with thick, crusty bread and creamy butter. It was a pitiful meal for my guests, but I had a limited supply of food in Henri’s pantry. Nobody complained, fortunately. I had dusted off a bottle of wine from the cellar that helped create a convivial atmosphere. Whenever Mary’s glass neared empty, I refilled it so she was soon talkative. My subtle questioning over the evening elucidated the information I needed for my plan to restore my fortunes.

  Mary banked with Hemel and Newman of London, which had branches in most European capitals. There was over five hundred English pounds in her account. To access it, she would have to visit one of the three branches in Switzerland and have the money transferred from London. The bank would merely require her signature and her secret codeword as proof of her identity. That meant I could not do it myself even in a disguise – unless I possessed her codeword. I could not ask her that over dinner, however, and I did not think it important to know it, for if I persuaded Mary to make a hefty withdrawal no complications would be necessary.

  As the evening proceeded, I became aware of Count Kugarov flirting with my niece quite openly, while her paid companion Miss Merson knitted a gaudy scarf while engaging me in vacuous conversation. I played the genial host – but I grew increasingly annoyed by the Count’s behaviour. The man was trying to seduce Mary.

  I could not allow him to continue – so I invited him to join my outside for an after-dinner cigar, which the Count could not refuse without appearing rude. We smoked in the garden in the cooling evening air, acting like two gentlemen enjoying each other’s company, until we had finished our cigars, by which time Mary and Miss Merson were ready to retire for the night. Count Kugarov fixed a smile upon his face as Mary said goodnight. I was secretly pleased when I observed his shoulders sag after Mary had gone up the stairs.

  Since I had defeated his seduction of Mary, I felt like celebrating my victory. “Another dri
nk, sir?”

  “I do not see why not,” he said. “Please call me Nicholas. We are friends now.”

  I disagreed with that – but I smiled and nodded. “You can call me Henri then … Nicholas.”

  We drank more wine in Henri’s study, which was one of the few rooms with some decent furniture. Each time Kugarov’s glass emptied, I filled it again, determined to make his tongue loosen. I wanted to know how much of what he had told Mary was true. Unfortunately, the wine had little effect on him. He must have been used to drinking, for he did not reveal anything of note. He finished the wine and looked at the clock.

  “I must bid you goodnight, Henri.”

  “Goodnight,” I said. I stayed in the study after he had gone, wondering what I could do about my troublesome guest. It would be best if he left on his own accord tomorrow.

  I drank some of Henri’s schnapps before also retiring to bed, thinking of a scheme for removing my opponent.

  *

  Much later, I woke in the dark, alerted by something I had heard outside my chamber door - a creaking of the floorboards. My hand slipped under my pillow for the knife I kept there. Thus armed, I was prepared to defend myself against an intruder – but my door did not open. I crept from my warm bed across the cold room to the door, where I stopped and listened. I heard footsteps receding down the passage in the direction of the west wing. I peeked out and observed Kugarov dressed in borrowed night attire sneaking towards Mary’s bedchamber. He was raising his hand to knock on her door when I stepped out holding a candle. The light surprised him. “Henri … I’m … looking for … the bathroom.”

  “That’s my niece’s room,” I said. “You will not find it there.”