M and M
At that time, I had put many of his tales to the pen, and spread his fame, in my own humble way, to the four corners of Britain, (and indeed, from the positive reports the editor of the Strand gives me, to some distance beyond). It was my intention at this time, (though later the strain of maintaining my practice and then coping with the death of my beloved Elsie shattered such plans), to collect the remaining tales I had of Holmes and put them into a book. A final and lasting testament to that most remarkable man that I called friend.
And it was at this time, nearly a month to the day after the ‘death’ of Holmes that I was rummaging through the burned remains of our rooms at 221 B Baker Street, salvaging what I could. My grief, which I had managed to control since that dreadful day at the side of the roaring Rechinbach, was strong within me, and I frequently found myself stopping in my idle work to spend a moment mourning for days lost. It was during such a moment, as I stood staring at the blackened wall where Holmes had once inscribed the Union Jack with shot one interminable, foggy Sunday afternoon that I noticed an odd protuberance on the mantle. Moving closer, I found an unsealed and singed envelope with several pages contained within. The envelope was covered with ash and a flap of hanging wallpaper and it had by this combination somehow avoided the eyes of any previous visitors, and by its position on the shelf, had avoided the sprays of water from the fire wagons below that had so decayed the other uncollected notes Holmes had kept during those final hectic days of the Moriarty investigation.
I then noted with surprise that the letter was from no less a personage than Mycroft Holmes himself! A man that Holmes had frequently praised as possessing the reasoning power greater than his own, no mean accomplishment. The letter had startled me because, as far as I knew, little, if any, written correspondence had ever passed between the two brothers. While they were fond of each other, and never, in my experience, anything but pleased to cross each other’s path, I was under the impression that their meetings were occasional things. They were both solitary men by nature, Mycroft Holmes even more so than his brother, and neither were the sort of person for whom strong family ties were a necessity, as they are for so many of the rest of us but mortal men.
Thus you might well imagine my shock and surprise when I began reading the manuscript and found it covered, in exacting detail, a meeting between the ponderous Mycroft Holmes Holmes and the infamous Moriarity himself! For nearly an hour that morning, and for the first time since Holmes’ death, I completely forgot about the loss of my friend in the perusal of that most fascinating document. And when I finished, I was determined to accurately record the incident for prosperity. For not only did the letter give a detailed account of the practices of Moriarity, the most brilliant criminal mind the world has ever seen, but also to give proper credit to Mycroft Holmes, a man who avoided publicity with even greater fervor than his brother. Mycroft Holmes was a man of immense gifts and I find it regretful that in all his years of devoted and excellent service to the Queen and country that there has never been any credit given to him in the public. I wrote the story down that very week, and I am afraid that I am guilty of those same embellishments that Holmes always felt were so deplorable in my recordings of his affairs. The facts as Mycroft Holmes originally recorded them are quite flat, save for the dialogues between Moriarity and himself, which he detailed exactly. I have taken certain liberties with descriptions and tone, and edited certain technical portions of this narrative in order that this account may be made more accessible for public enjoyment. I certainly hope that I do no discredit to Mycroft Holmes by this, and I defend myself from any mistakes I may have made in this accounting by claiming my only goal was to give justifiable credit to this most remarkable man.
The Diogenes club was quiet that Monday morning, even for a club that demanded absolute silence from all its members. There were few of the regular members present at such an hour, for they were at their positions of power and high authority, directing the course of a great nation. Outside, London was wrapped in its stereotypical fog. The streets were damp, and the air thick enough that one had to push his way through it.
Mycroft Holmes enjoyed it thus. And was pleased by the weather as he made his ponderous way to the doors of the Diogenes club. To his great bulk and unshakable nature, the vagaries of the weather were as nothing. Neither rain, nor sleet, nor earthquake, (if there were such things in London), could have deterred him from his self-appointed rounds. The fog swirled around him like the ocean at the water-line of a powerful steamer, and in short order he was at the very doors of the prestigious club he had helped to found: The Diogenes Club. Sliding free of his enormous coat, which he gave into the waiting hands of the valet, he immediately made his way to a quiet study near the rear of the establishment. This was a private room, dedicated to his private use through his connections with the club.
It was spartanly furnished, possessing only a large desk, several chairs, and a reading lamp near the window. But the walls were the true features of the room. For they were covered with books of all shapes and sizes and even the door itself had a bookshelf built upon it. Many of these books were exactly what they appeared to be, histories of Europe, mathematical dissertations on the nature of the fraction, and many works concerning the vagaries of political theory and practice. Though Holmes once confided to me that a number of these books, behind false covers, contained far more information of a practical nature than one would normally expect in a volume of Dickens. It was for this reason that the one window was heavily barred and the door had a core of iron and a lock to match of intricate Swiss manufacture that was supposedly impossible to pick.
Moriarity strode with mighty tread upon the boards of the study, constructed so well of such durable materials that they did not groan or even creak beneath his great weight, and seated himself upon a great chair, located near the window, but out of sight of it, for he was a careful man. In a moment a servant had brought him refreshment and a copy of the Times, both of which Mycroft Holmes had thoroughly digested within a space of ten minutes, as was his habit. He then perused a few of his more esoteric messages until ten o’clock, when he received his daily package. The exact contents of this package varied greatly, but were of such a sensitive nature that even today I am prohibited from giving them any great description. Mycroft Holmes was, as I have said elsewhere, a force within himself. His decisions and observations were heard, though few knew the source, at nearly every level of the government. And I have heard it from Holmes own lips that a number of his more effective policies are still in effect, having withstood the effects of time for the last thirty years to a remarkable degree.
Mycroft Holmes took the packet, opened it, and began to shuffle through its contents. And then with a gasp of surprise he clutched at a yellowed piece of paper. His rapid movement caused the packet and the contents to slide to the floor. But Mycroft Holmes took no notice. His face flushed briefly as he read and reread the piece of paper he clutched in his large hand. A moment later, overcoming his shock, he rang for the servant to clean up the mess and as the servant did so, Mycroft Holmes carefully studied the paper. There was nothing very remarkable in the paper, it was an article from a newspaper, from the typeface, quite obviously the London Post, carefully cut and folded, sides slightly yellowed with the passage of time. Along with the article the sheet of paper displayed the picture of a young man, evidently the individual whom the article concerned. Mycroft Holmes perused the article several times, paying particular attention to the faded photograph. As he did so his eyes furrowed and he paled slightly. It should be noted that while Mycroft Holmes was examining the article, the young servant had to clean up the spilled papers, which was a bit difficult given the fact he was trying very hard to do so without looking at them. Such respect for confidences is a rare thing in these modern days, though I suppose Mycroft Holmes made sure of the absolute honesty of all his servants long before he actually allowed them to enter his presence.
The servant, one Mansfield by name, collected the paper with as much delicacy as he could manage under the circumstances and handed them to Mycroft Holmes. As he then turned to leave, Mycroft Holmes called him back.
“Mansfield?”
“Yes Mr. Mycroft Holmes, Sir?”
“I suspect I shall be having a caller some time later this afternoon. Would you please send him in to me?”
“What’s the caller’s name sir?”
“I’m afraid I wouldn’t hazard a guess.”
“I’m sorry sir?” said a startled Mansfield, who had never before encountered ambiguity in the dignified Mycroft Holmes’s instructions.
“I don’t know the gentlemen personally, but I have gotten a notification of his arrival,” And with this Mycroft Holmes indicated the news clipping in his hand,” though he has regrettably forgotten to sign his notification. But I am very eager to meet him. Will you take care of it Mansfield?”
“Very good sir, I shall send through any visitors who might wish to see you.” Mansfield then retreated, and though he was surprised by Mycroft Holmes’s orders, he was a good enough fellow not to let it show.
Ordinarily, of course, there would be nothing so very peculiar in all of this, but Mycroft Holmes’s habits were all but engraved in stone in Mansfield’s mind, and such a peculiar deviation as this caused him some consternation. The way certain tenants of the East Bank might feel if the Thames decided it desired another location to sleep in.
Mycroft Holmes studied the paper for a few more moments, and then ponderously heaved himself up off a chair, which was another operation which would have startled Mansfield, who would have sworn it would take a fire, and a large one at that, to make Mycroft Holmes stir from his char before the lunch hour.
Mycroft Holmes went to the window and looked out of it for a moment being careful as he did so to keep the bulk of his body from easy sight of the street. A moment later he made his way to the other chair, on the far side of the room, and with some little effort, moved it to a place opposite his own massive resting place. Examining his handiwork for a moment, he went to the bookcase behind his own chair and studied the titles. Pulling out a copy of Haversmith’s “A Guide to British Field Artillery”, he opened he book, and briefly scanned a few lines of text. He then replaced the book on the shelf, and made his way back to his own chair. Settling down again, he picked up the papers from the small table to his left, and began to peruse them with as much concentration as normal. And when Mansfield entered the room some two hours later, he noted that Mr. Mycroft Holmes was very much in his ordinary way of things and took some comfort from it.
“Mr. Holmes,” Mansfield said, “There’s a gentleman here to see you sir. A Professor Moriarity, I believe.”
Mycroft Holmes looked up at this, a narrow expression in his eyes, “Professor Moriarity? Did you say? Are you certain?”
“Yes sir,” Mansfield almost stammered, unused to such directness form Mr. Holmes, “That was what he said his title was, sir. Did you wish to see him, sir?”
Mycroft Holmes seemed to consider the matter for a moment, and then nodded his head with an abrupt motion. “Yes, send him in right away. And Mansfield,” he added with a sharp word as that worthy servant began to turn away, “Under no circumstances are we to be disturbed until I’ve rung for you.”
“Yes sir, of course sir.” Mansfield replied, worried afresh by this turn of events. Mycroft Holmes nodded once again and settled back in his chair. His eyes were like glass marbles in his face and Mansfield thought that Mr. Holmes was “terribly angry about something, to be sure”, as he reported later to the head butler.
Mansfield than left the room, closing the door after him. And a few moments later it opened again and into the room walked none other than the esteemed Professor Moriarity, eminent physicist and well known author of “The Dynamics of the Asteroid” and possibly the most evil man the Empire has ever produced.
“Greetings, Mr. Holmes,” the Professor said politely.
“Greetings to you, Professor Moriarity,” replied Mycroft Holmes, with apparent good humor, “I am delighted to finally make your acquaintance. I have enjoyed your scholarly works for some time now and have always intended to attend one of your lectures. But I am rather sedentary in nature and not easily moved by even the greatest of temptations.”
“Yes,” said the professor with an oily smile, “I can see were it would be difficult for you. May I sit down?”
“By all means,” said Mycroft Holmes, “Would you like some refreshment? The kitchen here produces a most marvelous strudel that I’m sure you would enjoy. I offer it to all my visitors.”
“Thank you, no. Unlike your other visitors I keep a most ample table at my beck residence and do not feel the need to nip and tuck at every opportunity.” and then without any more preliminaries the Professor continued, “I trust you got my message?”
“Yes. I received it,” Mycroft Holmes replied, and displayed the small piece of newsprint from within the confines of one pudgy fist, “I have perused it most carefully I assure you.”
“I am certain you have.” said Moriarity smoothly, “and I’m sure you understand what it entails.”
“I am not certain,” said Mycroft Holmes, settling back into his chair, letting it creak beneath him, “A tragedy of course, but such things happen every day, and to mourn for them all would make us all emotional beggars, unfit for any other occupation.”
Moriarity smiled thinly, his large head moving slowly from side to side, “Very well sir, would you like me to explain the significance of this most unusual of missives?”
“Please do,” said Mycroft Holmes, a pleasant expression on his face. “I’m sure it would be most enlightening.”
“The article covers, in some exacting detail, a fire in the Bridgewater district, in a hotel of relatively new manufacture, a rarity in those parts as we both know. The fire was apparently started due to some fault in the gas lamp on one particular room, Room 324 I believe?” And with this statement Moriarity grinned his grin at Mycroft Holmes, who showed him no more reaction than a detached disinterest.
After staring at him for a moment, Mycroft Holmes continued, “There was only fatality, luckily for all concerned, and he was the occupant of that room. A Mr. John King. A great tragedy of course, that such a young man, with such a promising career stretching forward in his position within the state department. A worldly man too, frequently sent out on the occasional continental errand. Though, I must say, the description of his occupation in the Times is rather vague, and they so pride themselves in accuracy too. It is most peculiar.”
“Most.”, Mycroft said quietly, his expression of polite interest unchanging.
“But the police didn’t find any sign that the incident was anything but an accident, and they decided that the entire situation was merely an unfortunate turn of events. It is of course a great pity that so little of the young man was left for identification, and that his wardrobe, his personal effects, and more particularly a small briefcase he was always known to carry with him were all destroyed in the fire.”
Mycroft Holmes said nothing to this, but continued to watch the Professor with mild concentration. If his hands clutched ever so much more tightly upon the armrests of his chair, it was barely noticeable, although apparently Moriarity did notice it, his eyebrows rising slightly, and he said, in a sympathetic tone of voice, “I seem to have upset you with this account. I do apologize.”
For a moment the two men looked at each other, and something of the pleasure on Moriarty’s face slipped a trifle, and he stuck his hand with a sudden motion in to his jacket, drawing out a long envelope. It was blank, and it could easily be seen where a plain waxen seal had been parted to allow access to its interior.
“By the way,” Moriarity said, changing the subject in a way that would have appeared very odd to any persons not sitting in the room, “I found this envelope the other day while I was walking to one of my classes. It was unaddressed, so I’m afraid I had to open it to find its proper owner. Upon discovering it was you, I of course hurried here as quickly as I could.”
He handed the envelope to Mycroft Holmes, who took it, glanced through a few of the pages visible within its open flap, and then with a motion of his hand, sent it flying into the fireplace, where it was quickly consumed.
“Ah, said Moriarity, who had been startled by the action, but quickly composed himself, “I suppose that’s just as well. The information in that envelope was, after all nearly five years out of date. Though I imagine it was highly profitable at the time. Very profitable indeed,” he said, folding his fingers in front of him and looking on Mycroft Holmes with an expression of amused indifference, ‘To the man who knew the proper markets for such information.”
“Professor Moriarity, said Mycroft in a low, friendly voice, but with enough repressed thunder in it to make the Professor twitch slightly as he heard it, “I am most delighted at your company, and at your fine grasp of trivia. I even appreciate the return of my property, even after all that was of any value to me, or my country, has been wrung from it. But my time for visitors grows short, and I must insist you get about whatever point you have to make, for I am a very busy man.”
“Of course”, said Moriarty with a light wave of his hand, “It was always my intention to do so. I merely wished to show you my credentials, as it were, before we began our most earnest conversation.” And now the professor leaned forward and his head abruptly stopped its odd side to side motion.
“I have, in short, my dear Mr. Holmes long been living under the impression that a certain elements of our estimable country’s domestic and foreign policy was the work of one mind. There was an elegance, a certain genius if you will, in such moments of law and international negotiation that I was sure could only be the product of one individual, or perhaps a small cadre of such, who, from behind closed doors, directed the true courses of our country while the politicians and the royalty argued about trifles in the official halls of power.”
“For years, this silent conviction of mine was but a hobby, a mental game to pass the time. I had other intellectual pursuits to occupy me, as well as the formation of an association that would allow me to use my gifts in a direction heretofore denied me. But it is not of my own accomplishments I have come here to speak of. No, you see, five years ago, almost by accident you might say, I came across certain evidence of my old theory. I had been trying to procure certain information that would do my association good in its business dealings, and quite by accident, I came across a letter that, though unsigned, gave silent testimony to my idea.”
“In that letter was contained certain observations and ideas that, if I may so as a professional scholar, were quite brilliant as they applied to the world of international politics. The letter was in the form of advice to a young man, who shall remain nameless, of this genius of policy. A letter from a scholar to a pupil, a master to his servant. In short, it gave me every evidence of my theory of some force behind the common face of politics, a spider if you will, at the center of an intricate web of power stretching from every level of government, from the lowest clerk to the prime minster himself.”
“And when I realized that,” Moriarty said with another smile,” I knew I had to meet that man. To find out who that person was, for an encounter with such an intellect would be worth any price to arrange.”
“And for five long years I have tracked that intellect,” Moriarity said in grand style, with a dramatic wave of his hand, “I have talked to more public officials than I thought it would be possible for any government to withstand the weight of. I have endured the most banal of conversations in endless number, in an effort to locate that central hub about which the whole of the government turned. I have, in short, stretched the resources of my association to their very limit to answer this one question of mine, and caused no little amount of acrimony among my associates as a result.”
“The problem was, of course, than none but those in the highest positions of power and honor were in charge of that secret, and they were beyond my power to cajole, well, for a time at least.”
“Over the years, my own resources grew and grew, until recently, they became so numerous that doors that had been closed, I was finally able to open. Certain clues, certain effects came to my eyes for the first time. And at last, after much toil and effort, I have found the voice behind the echo, which I have followed through such large and empty places. “
When he finished his narrative, Moriarity sat back in his chair, the smile on his face unlike any expression it had yet shown. It was a smile of proud satisfaction. it was the smile of a cat who, after a long chase, has finally cornered its rat.
Mycroft Holmes looked at him steadily for several moments, and finally said, “A most fascinating story…”
“But what does it have to do with you?” Moriarty interrupted, still smiling at him.
“Hmm. It is perhaps a question I could ask, but I sense it would have no effect upon you, for you are obviously convinced that I am this ‘force’ for which you have been searching for so long.”
“Oh yes,” said Moriarity, “I am quite certain of my facts.”
“Then it would be pointless to argue with you. But as an intellectual exercise only, might I ask what it is exactly you wish of this Delphic Oracle, as you describe it? After such a long and arduous search as you describe, one would wonder if a mere encounter with the object of your long quest would satisfy you.”
“Oh no indeed,” said Moriarity, “While I admit that the chance to encounter such a being would, in itself, be enough reason for any man to act as I have, I’m afraid that in the end I am a man of business, and that to that end I am forced to turn all my labors. Even those of such a high and noble aspect.”`
“And as a man of good business,” Mycroft Holmes asked, “to what end would you put your new knowledge?”
“I am a man of ambition, Mr. Holmes,” Moriarity replied,” I see the world not as it is, but as what it could be. Shaped by my hand and that of others. Of money, I have no lack. My labors, and those of my association, have put any physical object I desire within my grasp. I dare say there is nothing on this world I could not arrange to fall into my hands if I so wished it.” “But I have begun to find such labors dull. They have lost some of their zest for me. At first I thought the formation of an association that did not follow the normal rules of commerce, and more particularly, the continual running of such an operation, would require every ounce of my concentration, every effort of my will. But now I find the days have grown long and dull. Those that would stand against me are mindless creatures, thundering hounds that chase the fox, but the fox has robbed them of their sense of smell. There is nothing to it! I believe that my operations could easily continue apace at this point without my hands to guide them, and that no one would ever expect their operation from now until the turn of the millennium itself!”
“No, Mr. Holmes,” Professor Moriarity continued slowly, and in a lighter vein, his temper seeing to return to normal, “I have my eyes upon a larger goal. But it is not one I could ever achieve. It requires a certain social standing, and due to certain actions of my past, before I learned the values of discretion, I have risen as far as it is possible for me to go in the public light. If I wish to go any further, it must be behind the scenes, in the back corridors of power.” “I have made some inroads along these lines. Politicians are, after all, but mortal folk. But you see, I have nearly reached my limits once again. There is something blocking my progress, an immovable object that resists my every effort to create my own place. Appointees are blocked, ballots recounted at apparent whim, and my delegates spoken ill of in places I cannot yet reach. It is most distressing.”
“I imagine so,” said Mycroft Holmes solidly, “though to be honest with you Professor, I find nothing but relief at the prospect of your growth being limited. I do not think you are a man, despite your obvious intellectual gifts, to guide anything more important than a four wheeler. And I would do my best to keep you from even that humble position, now that I know of you.” “Indeed”, said Moriarity, “and may I say sir, in candor, that to hold such a position as you do, and not do anything else with it but see to its perpetual motion is a pointless action. You are an Atlas to be sure, and much weight rests upon your shoulders. But Atlas was never freed of his burden, and he bore it to no good purpose of his own. Power wielded but not used for personal gain is a prison, Mr. Holmes. This is a belief that has seen me far in this world.”
“But perhaps not much further, I would think.” said Mycroft Holmes, and directed a look that was casual in apparent appearance, but caused Mycroft to stat slightly in his chair.
“That has yet to be seen, Mr. Holmes.” the professor said quickly regaining his equanimity. He reached into his coat, glancing at Mycroft Holmes as he did it. Seeing no reaction there, he smiled, and asked “Do you mind if I smoke, Mr. Holmes? I find it calms the nerves in an extended conversation such as this.”
When Mycroft nodded his head shortly, Moriarity withdrew a small golden cigarette case from an inside pocket, along with an elaborate ivory cigarette holder. Moriarity quickly made use of it and was soon puffing away at the cigarette. The smell of rich tobacco filled the room with its languorous odor.
“And now to our final and really only piece of business, Mr. Holmes,” the professor said, a he tapped out his cigarette in a nearby ashtray.
“I was wondering when you would get around to it,” Mycroft Holmes said with weariness, “I find this all very tiring.”Ã?Â?
“I would imagine so,” said the Professor, “for a man of your bulk I’m surprised it is not more trouble than it is worth to make it as far as this club.”
“One makes sacrifices for ones pleasures.”
“Ah yes. Too true, in fact I find myself in a position where I must do likewise.” With an easy movement, Moriarity flicked the cigarette out of his ashtray with one hand, and withdrew a tiny object form the lapel of his jacket with the other. He quickly inserted the object into the base of the cigarette holder and held it to his lips.
“I suspected as much,” Mycroft said, with a boredom that made Moriarity wince slightly, as if insulted, “you couldn’t, of course, smuggle any firearm into my presence without my noticing, or any weapon of any significant size, for that matter. Poison was the only way you could do it.”
“And given your bulk, and the physical strength it would take to maintain it, the idea of closing with you, needle in hand, made me wary,” Moriarty said with another smile, “and of course you would never had eaten or drunk anything I had handled, or even while you knew I had been in the building for that matter.”
“And of course you would not act through an agent,” Mycroft Holmes continued, “as your sense of elevated self-importance and pride would never allow you to terminate one you so wrongly qualify as an equal.”
A sudden expression of rage, crossed Moriarty’s face, but he quickly concealed it, “You wrong me sir. What I do now is out of bitter necessity. That I do it myself is a sign of respect for your position and the intellect necessary to maintain it. I have never, in all my previous endeavors, ever personally committed a crime, only the occasional indiscretion.”
“If you wish to perceive it in that light,” said Mycroft easily, with he slightest trace of contempt in his voice, “then by all means do so. I assume my death will appear entirely natural?” “Oh yes,” said Moriarty, “I must say, that as a former instructor of physical education, Mr. Holmes, that you are truly a monstrous example of gluttony. And though it serves me well in this purpose, I must say that as a man of intellect, I find it very distressing that you could posses such a personal deficiency as to allow yourself to become so distorted by so petty a vice.”
“As opposed to a greater vice, I assume?”
“Exactly so sir.”
“This vice as you call has never before cost me anything, and it is the fashion in which I prefer to live.”
“With all respect sir, it is also going to be the cause of your death.”
“I have always known it to be so. The heart cannot easily bear such burdens as my weight puts upon mine. But I suspect you are talking of a more immediate cause.”- “Indeed, because of your weight, a far smaller amount was necessary of this particular venom to cause your heart to explode. You could never reach me in time to stop me, it would take you an hour’s time just to crawl out of your chair, and you certainly do not posses the speed to dodge the missile.”
“And you are no doubt aware,” said Mycroft Holmes, glancing towards the door, “that this room is effectively soundproofed?”
“When it is your only office for so many important meetings?” Moriarity asked, “It could hardly be otherwise, could it?”
“Indeed,” said Mycroft, looking at Moriarty intently, “it appears you have given this much thought.”
“Oh indeed. I could have, of course, had you killed on the street or within your home, but I felt dying here, in the place where you been so much for so long, showed more respect.” “You seem obliged to do me much honor.”
“It is the least I can do. For apart from your obvious flaws of character, which have made you spend your life to no good end, and to shorten it by an inordinate laziness and addiction to consumables, you may well be one of the greatest men to ever guide the course of this country, and certainly the most talented.”
Mycroft Holmes bowed his head slightly, “I must admit, that you do all you can to take the sting out of oncoming death with compliments.”
“I pay them gladly,” said Moriarty with a cruel smile, “as I know that you have had them but seldom, and because they are the last ones you are ever going to have.”
“Really?” said Mycroft Holmes, affecting mild surprise, “Do you think so?”
“Oh, I am quite certain,” aid Moriarty, raising the pipe to his lips, “I’m afraid it is time, Mr. Holmes. Understand I do this merely as a means to an end, and not out of any personal malice.”
“Yes I rather think it is the end”, said Mycroft Holmes looking off into some unknown distance, as if either bored by the affair or already contemplating his role in the next world. And then there was a loud clatter behind him.
Moriarity, leaped to his feet, the pipe still held to his lips, as he stared at the book that had fallen to the floor a few steps from behind Mycroft Holmes’s chair. His eyes looked wildly at the fallen book, and then up to stare at the space it had just vacated. Form the darkness between two mysteries, jutted the barrel of a gun. Its immediate type was difficult to determine, for only the barrel was visible, but it was almost certainly a pistol of some sort. And it was pointed directly at Moriarity.
Moriarity gasped, and took a step back. “It’s impossible!” h cried, choking back his fear, “I saw the plans for this building! They…”
“Plans can be altered to hide things better left unseen.” said Mycroft Holmes with equanimity, “as I’m sure you aware Professor.”
The Professor gasped for several seconds, eyes darting form side to side, and then with an abrupt motion, he tossed the cigarette holder into the fire.
“Hmm.” said Mycroft Holmes, looking on as the cigarette holder began to burn, “It seems a pity I had that fire on.”
“Yes!” said Moriarity, “They might be able to save the holder from the flames but the thorn is already quite consumed, I’m sure.”
“I don’t doubt it”, said Mycroft Holmes with a shrug, “But what of our witness behind the bookcase? He is a living testament to what happened here.”
“An employee of yours? In a contest of your word against mine? It would be a narrow thing I think!” said Moriarity, slowly getting his composure back, but still staring at the barrel of the gun rather than at Mycroft Holmes himself.
“I don’t think it would be as difficult as you imagine it to be. Besides, I see no reason to trust this matter to the vagaries of the court.”
“What?” said Moriarty, finally shifting his eyes from the barrel of the gun to Mycroft Holmes again.
“I have little doubt as to the ultimate resolution of a court trial, but I am not prepared to take the chance of your cohorts either breaking you loose or pulling some shenanigans with the judge or jury, which I’m sure they would be capable even without your estimable guidance.” When Moriarity simply continued to stare at him open mouthed, Mycroft Holmes continued, “You are a most dangerous man, Professor. You are only the second man ever to discover me,” Moriarty’s eyes widened slightly, and Mycroft Holmes nodded, “yes, the second, though I will admit to a…connection with the other that made it somewhat easier for him to guess at my true nature. But suffice it to say, you are, in my long experience, in such matters, the most reprehensible individual I have ever met, whatever talents you might posses by quirk of fate. They are certainly undeserved by any other medium.”
“But, you can’t!” Moriarity cried, “Not here!”
“Professor!” said Mycroft Holmes in a thundering tone that actually caused the professor to wince, “As you have already stated this room is soundproofed. Mansfield is the only witness to your arrival, and he is currently behind that bookcase. I rarely leave this room, but when I do, it is locked behind me. I assure you that I can spend a day quite easily with you lying tossed up in a bit of quilting under the window while I see to my normal tasks. And this evening, Mansfield can take you down stairs, open up the door to the furnace and the entire problem will be…”
With a sudden scream of fear and terror, the Professor leaped for the door. Fumbling but an instant at the latch he had it open and in a moment’s time there was nothing but the clatter of receding footsteps outside the door to show that he had ever been there.
Mycroft Holmes sat in his chair, for a moment, and listened to the distant crash of the great old doors of the Diogenes crashing shut.
A moment later, Mansfield appeared at the door, a nervous expression on his face, his eyes wide in fear.
“Sir, is something wrong?” he asked in a nervous quaver,” I was just setting the things out for your lunch when suddenly Mr… I mean, Professor Moriarty came running out of her as if all the demons of hell were at his heels! Should I…I mean…should I do something?”
“No Mansfield,” Mycroft Holmes said, in his ponderous way, “I and the Professor merely had a disagreement. I’ll be out for lunch directly.”
“Um…yes sir…” said Mansfield, still very confused by the events of the day, but taking refuge in the patterns of routine, “As you wish sir.” And he was gone.
As soon as the door closed, Mycroft Holmes began to slow process of making his way to his feet. When that task was completed, he turned to the bookcase, and ponderously bent over to pick up the copy of Haversmith’s “A Guide to British Field Artillery”. If Mansfield had seen the book, he certainly would have commented on it, probably would have moved to pick it up, but it had been blocked from his sight by Mycroft Holmes’s bulk.
Stranding straight again, Mycroft Holmes looked directly into the barrel of the gun, almost invisible in the shadows of the bookcase, unless you knew exactly where to look for it. He considered it for a minute, and then reached up and shoved the barrel back into the recess until he heard a faint click. He then replaced the volume from where it had been shoved, and turned away. He then made his way back to his chair, being careful as he did so to avoid the slightly tarnished floorboard immediately to the right of his chair. His brother had once accidentally trodden on that spot, he remembered, with a slight smile, and had been as startled as Mycroft Holmes could ever remember seeing him as he suddenly found himself covered by a pistol. Mycroft Holmes disabled the contraption when he left the room, of course, not wishing to drive the cleaning staff into hysterics, but it had proved a very useful device.
And then, with the cleaning up done, Mycroft Holmes went to lunch.
In conclusion, of course there is not very much to say, though some readers might question that Mycroft Holmes and Moriarity had no more to do with each other. After all, both were powerful men in their way, and it was certainly within the scope of either of them to do away with the other. But Moriarity knew now, or thought he did, what a dangerous and cold-blooded man Mycroft Holmes was, and he realized that such a man would take steps to avenge his untimely death, a point Mycroft Holmes drove home by having one of his more talented intermediaries leave a rather direct message in Moriarty’s medicine cabinet one morning.
On the other hand, it was within Moriarty’s power to reveal to the public the nature of Mycroft Holmes’s activities, which would have exposed Mycroft and those within the government that supported his ‘unusual’ position. In these Republican days, it is important for the people, for the sake of harmony, to feel that have some control over their government, and it is even more important for the politicians to feel so. The idea that Mycroft Holmes was single handedly directing many of the British ventures home and abroad would have caused a great scandal, which would have forever marred the good name of the English government, though I hope at some later date that this reaction to Mycroft Holmes Holmes’s participation in our country’s well being might lessened by the passing of time, and he might, in memory, get the credit he so richly deserves.
In conclusion, it should be noted that even after he gave me permission to print this memoir at some distant time, (well after his death as it turns out), Mycroft Holmes declined to tell me the true story of Mr. John King, save that he was a very dear friend. He told me that John King was an alias that the man had insisted upon as a part of his agreement to work with him. When I said that Mr. King should be given proper credit for his services to his country, Mycroft Holmes insisted that Mr. King had desired it that way, and had insisted on complete annonymity.
I would have liked to have learned more about this man, and his connection to Mycroft Holmes, which Moriarity had indicated was a close one. But Mycroft Holmes declined to say anything more about the matter and so the only words I can say on the matter were the ones I read upon a tiny tombstone one cold November afternoon in desolate corner of little used cemetery:
John King
Friend
