The Mammoth Book of the Adventures of Professor Moriarty

A Problem of Numbers David N. Smith and Violet Addison

The world was full of victims.

The old man who had just left the bank was a prime example. He had neither the physical strength to put up a fight nor the speed to make an escape. He was easy prey. The high street always had a police presence, but this fool was heading off into the alleyways, far from their protective influence. If he had just withdrawn any money then, after a handful of punches and kicks, those paper notes would shortly become the property of Irving Beck.

Following the old man, Irving kept his cap pulled low and stayed in the shadows, so that any onlookers would not recognise him. He kept his distance for a few minutes, studying his target, waiting until they were far enough from the high street that he could strike.

The man had a large, distinctive high-domed forehead, a receding hairline and sharp, angular features. Irving had seen him before, coming and going from the university. It was James Moriarty, a professor of mathematics, who was frequently spoken of in high regard in almost all circles of society; even those at the very bottom of the social strata to which Irving had always belonged. Regardless of the professor’s reputation as a man of intellect, Moriarty carried himself with an undeniable air of confidence and intelligence, which rather begged the question: why was he doing something so thoroughly foolish?

Irving slowed his step, keeping his distance, his instincts screaming at him that there was something wrong with the whole scenario. However, he could not just let such easy prey walk off when his pockets could be lined with money, could he? What was there to be scared of?

Nothing frightened Irving Beck. The professor may be tall, but Irving was taller. Having spent a decade toiling in the brickyards, mines and ironworks, he had developed broad shoulders and thick forearms, which intimidated most men. He had triumphed in many bar-room brawls, even fought in a few semi-professional bare-knuckle boxing tournaments, so taking down a wiry academic should have posed little concern to a man like him.

“You are not going to disappoint me, are you?” Professor Moriarty had stopped in the middle of the alleyway, with his back to Irving, still presenting the easiest target that could be imagined. One punch to the back of the head and the man would be down for a considerable amount of time. “Come on. I had the highest expectations for you.”

Irving came to an abrupt halt.

Professor Moriarty spun on his heel to face him, spreading his arms in a defenceless way, moving with a surprising agility for a man of his age. How old was he? There were perhaps not quite as many lines around his eyes as Irving had first imagined.

“What are you waiting for, Irving Beck?”

While he recognised the professor, as he was something of a local name, there was absolutely no chance that a man of his standing should ever have heard of the name Irving Beck.

He could not risk an assault now.

“I’m just passing on my way home, sir.” Irving resumed his walk, pulling on the rim of his cap in deference as he strode past the professor, keen to put as much distance between himself and these strange events as possible. “Didn’t mean to spook you, sir.”

“Oh, splendid,” the professor called after him. “An explanation, an apology, and you called me sir, acknowledging my nat ural superiority. You are evidently an honourable, honest and humble man. Although, saying ‘sir’ the second time was a little too much, it made it sound like an act.”

Irving kept walking.

“Your stratagem contained numerous flaws,” the professor continued. “Primarily, there is an unnecessarily high risk of the crime being witnessed, plus an uncertainty over whether I even withdrew any money. Great risk, for potentially no reward? That is bad mathematics by anybody’s calculation.”

Irving was disconcerted by the professor’s confidence. Despite having deliberately followed the professor into the unpopulated alleys, he was suddenly very keen to be surrounded by people again. He felt suspicious that rather than having orchestrated events himself, he had in fact blindly walked into a scenario contrived by the professor.

There was a dark-haired woman ahead, leaning against the wall. She was a common streetwalker, her young face covered in an unattractively large amount of white powder and black eyeliner, her skirt already hitched vulgarly above her knee.

Under normal circumstances, he may have stopped to talk to her, but for now Irving was just grateful that someone else was present. The feeling did not last long.

“The professor ain’t done talkin’ yet, love.” She stepped out to block his path, while toying with a small knife, bringing him once again to an abrupt halt. “You’re bein’ rude.”

Even armed with the knife, Irving imagined he could overpower her. Most people did not have the courage to use weapons; if she hesitated for a moment he would be able to disarm her and knock her down. There was, however, always the chance that she was comfortable using the knife – the way she spun it playfully around her fingers certainly implied she had some experience using the weapon. He was also unsure just how far the old man was behind him – if Moriarty intervened at the same time, then things would almost certainly end badly for Irving.

“Still calculating the odds, Mister Beck?” Professor Moriarty stepped up behind him, having been a lot closer than Irving expected, speaking directly into his left ear. “Very wise. It always comes down to the numbers in the end. I do assure you, the best thing you can do is listen to me.”

Irving turned to face the man.

He was momentarily tempted to thump the professor in the face, but a gentle touch from the streetwalker, directly between his shoulder blades, reminded him that such ideas might end very badly for him.

Moriarty smiled. “Separately, you could easily overpower either me or this young woman, but together we are more than a match for you. As Aristotle observed, the whole is greater than the sum of its parts. We can always do more if we organise and co-operate.”

“What do you want with me?” Irving asked, by now certain that this was no accidental meeting.

“I am recruiting, Mister Beck.”

“I can’t see me working in any university, Mister Moriarty.”

“Mathematics is but one of the fields I work in,” the professor replied. “I have also been known to operate in other fields somewhat more outside the modern moral code.”

“Crime,” translated the streetwalker helpfully.

“My normal associates are otherwise engaged, so I find myself in need of individuals who can recognise an opportunity and pursue it, like you did outside the bank. I need men who are prepared to risk their lives, who have no qualms about liberating wealth from others, but who are able to think on their feet and adapt their plans as necessary. Again, I believe you are such a man. Are you?”

Irving considered his options.

Life had rarely given him many opportunities, except the ones he had taken by brute force, but he had little to lose by playing along with this man’s plans for now.

He nodded. “If there’s money, I’m always interested in taking it.”

“Excellent,” Moriarty replied. “You see, I said, it always comes down to the numbers. Be on the nine a.m. train if you wish to pursue this most auspicious opportunity, Mister Beck. I shall explain all once the full team is assembled.”

Moriarty spun on his heel and marched off down the alleyway, disappearing with remarkable speed.

“I do apologise for the knife,” the streetwalker added, walking past him, swinging her hips provocatively, while slipping the weapon into her sleeve. “But you do get the most unsavoury sorts down these back alleys.”

Irving boarded the locomotive and worked his way through the carriages. He found Moriarty sat in a first-class cabin, with one eye on his pocket watch and the other on the compartment door.

The professor beckoned him in.

There were two other members of the team already seated around the table.

One of them was the dark-haired streetwalker, who sat in the corner with her feet pulled up on to the seat, her chin placed just above her knees. She gave Irving a small smile as he sat down at the far end of the table, gazing at him through her dark eyelashes. The final member of the team was a burly middle-aged sailor, in a smart blue uniform, with a great grey moustache that ran all the way around his face and into his sideburns.

“Nine o’clock.” Moriarty clicked his pocket watch closed and then tucked it into the pocket of his waistcoat. A moment later, with a great hiss of the steam, the locomotive began to pull out of the station.

“Lady and gentlemen, this is our target.” Moriarty dropped a photograph on the table, which showed a black and white image of a three-masted steamship. “This is the RMS Heroic.”

“I don’t see no lady here,” growled the sailor sourly, ignoring the photograph and glaring at the streetwalker.

“Oh, love,” she replied, “I can be anything you want, if the price is right.”

Moriarty leaned over and grabbed the sailor by the ear.

“Given the crimes we are about to commit, I suggest you give up any delusion of having any moral high ground. As I hope we are all aware, such scales are meaningless, they are just a way to keep the rabble powerless.”

He let go of the man’s ear and tapped his long index finger against the hull of the ship, refocusing their attention on the photograph.

“On the ship there will be two passengers of note,” Moriarty continued, passing out two envelopes – one to the streetwalker and the other to Irving. “They are both wealthy individuals re locating to the United States, so they are taking every valuable they own, every pound note of it, with them. The safes in the staterooms will be loaded with riches you cannot imagine.”

“You want us to break into these safes?” enquired the streetwalker.

“No.” Moriarty shook his head. “They have four tumblers, with ten digits apiece, which is over ten thousand combinations. As ever, the numbers win.”

“Or, we could blow a hole in the side,” Irving suggested. He had a little experience with explosives.

“Crude,” Moriarty replied, shaking his head. “The best way of getting away with any crime is to make sure nobody even knows it has been committed.”

Irving frowned. “Then how do we get into the safes?”

“Our victims will open them themselves.” Moriarty smiled. “This vessel is about to have an accident. It will sink shortly after leaving the harbour. Even when the ship is sinking, despite all logic and reason, these two individuals will risk their lives and go back for the contents of their safe. They value wealth above all else. However, once they are on the lifeboats, they will eventually trade those riches for mere handfuls of food and water, which we will be carrying. Having been defrauded of every penny they own, they will still be thanking us for saving their lives.”

The streetwalker laughed, delighted by the Machiavellian beauty of the scheme.

“What about the passengers and crew?” she interjected. “I do not mind risking my life, but I’m hesitant about committing mass murder.”

“There will only be a small number of passengers on-board, so there will be adequate lifeboats on hand for all,” he said, trying to assuage any remaining moral doubts. “The rest of the passengers are not due to board the ship until it reaches Liverpool, for the onward trip to New York, which are two stops that this ship will no longer be making.”

“What about the captain?” Irving asked, curious to see the professor’s response. “It is traditional for a captain to go down with his ship.”

The sailor glared at him.

“Oh, I’ll be fine,” he replied gruffly, tapping the four gold rings around the cuff of his uniform jacket, which denoted his rank as captain.

Irving shrugged.

Moriarty tapped a finger against the two envelopes on the table.

“Inside, you will find a boarding ticket for the RMS Heroic, a plan of the ship, a photograph of your target, plus details about them and of what I expect to be in their safe. Befriend them. Stay close to them. Make sure they end up at the lifeboat indicated on the plan, with the contents of their safe, but do not take anything from them, unless they give it to you of their own free will. Let’s not give anyone a crime to investigate.”

Irving carefully opened the envelope and let the contents fall into his hands.

The photograph showed a tall man, in a military uniform, with noticeably thick upper arms and large fists. Amongst the paperwork was the name “Major-General Fitzwilliam”.

The streetwalker opened her envelope and plucked out what appeared to be a photograph of an elderly woman.

“What if they don’t want to trade away their wealth?” Irving asked.

Moriarty smiled.

“Then they will starve, dehydrate and die, as the victims of an unfortunate shipwreck. And we take their money anyway.”

The RMS Heroic was waiting in the dockyard.

To Irving, she looked invincible. He could easily see how such a giant could conquer the worst storms, but was equally aware that she was no match for Moriarty’s cold intellect. He would be able to sink her with no more than a tiny hole.

Irving made his way up the gangway on to the deck. He was wearing a new suit, provided by Moriarty to help him fit in with upper-class passengers. He felt uncomfortable in its stiffly starched collar. His discomfort was not shared by the captain, who had boarded the ship shortly before him and was already ordering around members of the crew.

The streetwalker was the next one up the gangway. She had somehow transformed her appearance during only a handful of minutes locked in a public lavatory. She had changed her dress, removed and redone her make-up, restyled her hair so that it was now fashionably braided around the crown of her head. The streetwalker was gone, replaced by a lady, who was gliding elegantly along deck with a parasol in her hand.

“Oh, where shall we begin?” She pouted, her alleyway accent replaced by a more sophisticated drawl. “A stroll around the deck perhaps?”

“I would suggest the cargo hold,” advised Moriarty, as he climbed aboard. “They are loading their lives aboard this vessel, but these are people of money, so they will want to supervise proceedings. They would not be capable of entrusting such an important task to people they regard as their inferiors. Become acquainted with them, a meagre measure of familiarity now will make them more inclined to trust you later.”

Having given his instruction, Moriarty moved off towards the rear of the ship.

“A cargo hold is no place for a lady alone.” The dark-haired woman smiled, offering Irving her arm. “Perhaps you would be kind enough to escort me, sir?”

“And what should I call you?”

“I, sir, am Miss Emma Bennett, and you would be?”

“Irving Beck.”

“No, sir. That is not the name written on your ticket.”

Irving glanced at the piece of paper in his hand, which bore a different name entirely.

“Isaac Brewer,” he replied, noting that Moriarty had kept his initials the same, so that the name was easier for Irving to remember. Despite all the flattery, the man clearly did not place much trust in Irving’s intellectual abilities. He was here because of his physical strength, in case things went wrong. It had never been said, but Irving knew it was true. “Tell me your real name.”

“You overstep yourself, sir.”

“Yes, I do.” Irving nodded, opening a door for her. “Frequently.”

“He made my pseudonym from the names of two characters devised by Jane Austen; evidently he thinks I have a romantic nature.” She smiled, as she stepped inside the ship and folded away her parasol. “Or perhaps it is just a cruel joke, because of my former employment, one he thinks I will not get. Either way, he is wrong.”

Much of her statement confused Irving, he had never had much time for books, but his best guess was that she was referring to works of literature of which he was unaware.

“I doubt the professor is ever wrong about anything.” Irving shrugged, covering his ignorance. “Given your knowledge, it is an easy name to remember. I imagine he chose it to make things simpler for you.”

The woman glanced at him, raising a curious eyebrow, surprised by his observation.

“Everything is certainly planned to the smallest detail, but I’m not sure I can trust him and, on a doomed ship I would be a fool not to trust someone, so I will trust you,” she replied, curtseying slightly. “I’m Nora Crogan.”

Irving bowed slightly, feeling uncomfortable faking such social formality, given their previous meeting and criminal intentions.

“Come on.” Nora grinned. “Let’s find our victims.”

The hold was unlike anything Irving had seen in his life. It was two storeys high and ran almost two-thirds the length of the ship. There were piles of packing crates, suitcases, numerous wagons, industrial-sized freight pallets and even livestock. Irving let out a low whistle, surprised at just how much had been crammed into the cargo compartment.

“Where’s yours?” Nora’s accent had shifted back to that of the back alleys of the city.

Irving nodded to the rear of the hold, to where he could see a man in an old-fashioned, bright scarlet military tunic shouting at the men loading his belongings.

“Let’s go and introduce ourselves, shall we?” Nora picked up the hem of her skirt and stalked forward. As they approached, she gently fell back into character, letting go of her skirt, straightening her back and raising her chin. Her voice gushed with feigned excitement. “Good afternoon, sir! Are you heading for a new life in the United States too? It certainly looks that way. It is the most exciting enterprise, is it not?”

Major-General Fitzwilliam was not a pleasant man. He met their enquiries with short, blunt answers, evidently more interested in his cargo than making new acquaintances.

“What an absolute arse,” Nora summarised succinctly once they had moved away. “And imagine how much worse he’d have been if we’d been the real us?”

Irving shrugged; he was not particularly bothered by how people treated him, especially when he was planning to take every single pound they owned.

“Is your target here too?” he asked, glancing around the shadowy hold.

Nora nodded. “Over there. The heiress Estelle Lloyd-Trefusis. Her husband was one of the largest landowners in the south-west, before he died in mysterious circumstances.”

“I can’t see her.”

“Over by the pigs, looking terrified.”

Irving moved his gaze over to the livestock pens and smirked at the sight of a well-dressed woman, her nose pinched between her thumb and forefinger, frantically shouting orders at her farmhands. She was so agitated that she lost her footing, overbalanced and ended up trapped amongst the squirming pigs. She screamed.

Irving laughed. “She’s in her element.”

“I’ll handle this one. You laughing won’t help us.” Nora patted him on the arm and then gestured with her thumb, pointing behind him. “Besides, it looks like the boss wants you.”

Moriarty had appeared on the walkway above them. He stood there silently, looking out across the hold. Irving, not wanting to draw any attention to them, slowly climbed the steps up to him, until they stood side by side.

“Do you know why they own all these possessions, while you own so little, Irving?” the professor asked, while making sure his pocket watch was fully wound.

“They earned it in some clever way, I guess.” Irving shrugged. He had never been one to question his status in life. There did not seem much point, given there was so little that he could do to change it.

“They earned it?” Moriarty raised his eyebrows and scoffed. “Not the farmhands who tend to those pigs, or the young soldiers that the Major-General sent to their deaths?”

Irving shrugged again.

“The likes of you must have Karl Marx spinning in his grave.” Moriarty shook his head sadly. “Economics is just another branch of mathematics. I see the equations to which you are blind. Where you see only chaos, I can see intellects manipulating the values. It truly is the perfect crime. None of you can even see the riches that have been taken from you.”

“What can we do about it?” Irving shrugged.

“We can take it back.”

“You see yourself like a Robin Hood then? You steal from the rich, give to the poor?”

Moriarty laughed. “What a fantastical notion. An honourable crime.” The smile faded from his face. “No, I don’t steal from the poor, because the poor have nothing worth stealing. Why pick a pocket, when you can empty a safe? Why rob a craftsman of his tools, when you take his valuable skills and enslave him for a pittance of pay? The only way to have any power in this world is to take it from those who have it. To not be enslaved by dictates of others. That is what I do.”

Irving nodded. He had no qualms about stealing from the people here. He had no qualms stealing from anyone. He needed to make sure he had clothes on his back, food in his stomach and a dry place to sleep; those were his priorities. As long as Moriarty offered him those, who was he to question his motivations or instructions?

“Go and have dinner, Irving. Then catch a little rest in your cabin if you can.” Moriarty clicked his pocket watch closed. “You have exactly nine hours. The explosive charge is in place, the captain will be detonating it at ten minutes after midnight. Nobody will ever guess what started the fire in the engine room. Let Emma know. Be ready.”

Moriarty turned on his heel and left via the door to the deck.

Irving stared at the sprawling contents of the hull. It really was a shame that such riches were going to go straight to the bottom of the ocean. He felt especially sorry for the pigs. They would drown. Nobody would care.

Irving was sitting on the edge of his berth, waiting for the inevitable explosion. He envied Moriarty his pocket watch, the man was undoubtedly calmly counting down the seconds, but Irving had no way to measure the time. Pocket watches were expensive. He had not slept. All he could do was anxiously wait for the explosion, never knowing exactly how close they were to the moment of detonation.

Would he even know it when he heard it?

He had his answer a moment later. There was a short, sharp bang, followed by the scream of tortured, twisting, juddering metal. A vibration ran through the walls and flooring, shaking the room. A moment later, there was the sound of doors opening, followed by voices in the hallway outside, as worried passengers left their staterooms. Irving rose to his feet and opened his door, to find Major-General Fitzwilliam and a host of other passengers standing outside, discussing the noise. As a noticeable burning odour slowly filled the air, their faces paled. The major-general muttered the one word that no sane person on a ship ever wanted to hear.

“Fire.”

An alarm bell began ringing.

Taking charge, Major-General Fitzwilliam marched off down the hallway in search of the captain, so Irving followed. He did not want to let his target out of his sight. The agitated man rudely pushed past Nora and the heiress, to be confronted by the captain coming the other way.

“We have a fire in the engine room,” the captain announced, pointing along the hallway. “I need you to make your way to the lifeboats! Now!”

Panic-stricken gasps rippled along the hallway.

The illusion of polite society dissolved in a moment, as people began fleeing, not paying any attention as to whether they were stepping on their companions. Major-General Fitzwilliam stormed back down the hallway, but, just as Moriarty had predicted, he hesitated by the door of his stateroom and then made his way back inside. The heiress, shrieking in fear, flew back into her room and slammed the door.

Irving glanced at Nora, who at some point in the last few hours had acquired a large oilskin coat and a sailor’s canvas knapsack, which she was carrying over one shoulder.

“Given the situation, is there anything in the world you would go back for?” he enquired.

“My daughter,” she replied, without hesitation. “Everything I do, I do for her. My respectable family disowned me when I had her out of wedlock, left me to fend for myself on the streets the only way I could; so my daughter is the only thing in the world that I would risk dying for. You?”

The frank answer took Irving by surprise, so much so that his own answer had turned sour in his mouth.

“No,” he muttered. “There is nothing I would go back for.”

He had never understood before quite how little he had. He did not even own the clothes he was wearing. He had nothing.

Irving leaned into Major-General Fitzwilliam’s cabin, to check on the man’s progress. The major-general had quickly pulled on his uniform’s scarlet jacket, and was now down on his hands and knees, dialling numbers into the lock of his safe. He slammed his fist against the metal door in frustration, evidently having made an error in his haste. Irving had no idea how long it would take for the ship to sink, but he knew this was no time for delays. The hallway was rapidly filling with smoke.

“Help me, man!” the major-general cried frantically, not questioning why Irving was lingering in his doorway. “Get me that bag!”

He pointed to a leather satchel that had been discarded by his berth, which Irving dutifully fetched, as the soldier finally managed to get the safe open. Inside were stacks of white paper notes. It was more money than Irving had ever seen in his life. The major-general quickly rammed the money into the bag, along with various other deeds and bonds, most of which were beyond Irving’s understanding.

He also saw a military revolver go into the bag.

He would have to make sure that the weapon somehow parted company from the man, as otherwise events could quickly spiral beyond even Moriarty’s control.

“You must tell nobody how much I am carrying! Understand me?” the major-general barked at him as he made his way out into the smoke-filled hallway, momentarily moving in the wrong direction. “The world is full of thieves and villains these days.”

“This way!” Irving grabbed him by the elbow, guiding him back towards the lifeboat. The man almost certainly now owed Irving his life, but he did not stop to express any gratitude. He barrelled down the hallway, running for the door to the deck.

Glancing back down the hallway, Irving could see the heiress, still stuffing a handbag with necklaces and other pieces of jewellery. Nora fought to shepherd the distraught woman out on to the deck, but she eventually had to abandon all manners and brutally shove the woman outside. Irving followed them out, pulling the door shut on the smoke-filled hallway.

The nearest lifeboat was crammed full of frightened people.

Smoke was blossoming out of almost every vent in the rear of ship.

Irving leaned against the railing, trying to find a way to board the already packed boat.

Moriarty was crouched at the end of the vessel, helping the heiress aboard, taking a moment to reassure the frightened woman and guide her to a seat. He produced a cork lifejacket, which he helped her into, then fastened around her. She was so taken in by his duplicitous charm that she hugged him for a moment and kissed him on the cheek, complete unaware that she was pouring her gratitude on to the man whose ruthlessness was responsible for her plight.

Nora was already on-board, seated beside the heiress, pulling on her own cork lifejacket.

“This is all the passengers from the first class,” Moriarty shouted above the noise of panicking passengers and alarm bell. “How much longer should we wait?”

He threw the question at the major-general as if it were a dagger. He was an adept manipulator; he knew there was only one answer a frightened, selfish man would give.

“Let’s go now! Many more and we will overload the boat.”

Moriarty spun to face the deck, his finger pointing directly at Irving. “You there! Operate that winch! “ Moriarty ordered. “Lower us into the sea!”

Irving glanced at the winch, which controlled the ropes at the prow and stern of the little craft. Was he to be left behind on the sinking ship? He did not put it beyond Moriarty. It would save paying him later. Nonetheless, he found himself obeying the order, turning to the winch and spooling out the rope. He had been complicit in these events, so the least he could do was make sure these people survived. The little boat hit the dark ocean, with a splash that sent a small wave crashing over its own side, eliciting surprised screams from all on-board, except Moriarty.

“Come on, man!” Moriarty shouted. “Get aboard.”

Irving did not hesitate. There was so much smoke billowing out of the ship that he had nowhere else to go. He clambered over the railing, hanging on to the rope, and attempted to climb downwards. He lost his grip and fell.

The cold water consumed him, closing over his head, sucking him down.

He flailed blindly in the dark for a moment, unable to breathe, unsure which way was up and which was down. Was this how he was going to die?

It turned out he did still own something that he did not want to lose: his life.

He broke through the surface of the water. He heard Nora yelling at him. He saw Moriarty’s hands reaching out towards him. Before he could draw a breath, a wave closed over him, pushing him down. He had never felt so cold in his entire life.

He gave one last kick, but was not strong enough to reach the surface again.

Moriarty’s fingers wrapped around his wrist.

Irving gasped for air.

The star-scattered night was gone, replaced by the pure blue of a daytime sky. The world spun around him, tilted over and then spun back around the other way. His stomach heaved, so he scrambled up on to his knees and vomited over the side of the boat.

His wet clothes had been removed, replaced by the warm blankets, an action that would almost certainly have stopped him dying of hypothermia. He briefly wondered to whom he owed thanks, until he realised that Nora was sat beside him.

“It’s nothin’ I ain’t seen before,” she whispered, winking at him, pushing his clothes back into his hands.

Irving took hold of the ruined shirt and suit, which had been dried in the sun, and put them back on. Somehow, now they were crumpled and damaged, he felt more at home in them.

“Perhaps now he is awake again, you would like to ask his opinion too!” Major-General Fitzwilliam’s angry shout smashed against Irving’s already throbbing head.

“Oh, I shall,” Moriarty replied from his seat at the back of the boat. “What is your name, my good man?”

Irving blinked. “Isaac Brewer,” he replied.

It was a simple question, but not asked for simple reasons. With one enquiry, Moriarty had been able to determine secretly whether Irving was in control of his wits. By answering with his correct pseudonym, he would have proven to Moriarty that he was sufficiently recovered to participate in whatever game he intended to play.

“This young lady is hoarding fresh water and food.” The major-general scowled at Nora. “And despite being trapped together for the best part of a day, she refuses to share.”

“I expect him to pay its worth,” Nora corrected. “Not a difficult concept for an honourable soldier, is it?”

“That’s extortion!”

“You’ve got money, a bag full.” Irving laughed, deliberately belittling the man.

Major-General Fitzwilliam’s face reddened, his fist balled, his anger and fury rising to the surface. It was at that moment that Irving remembered he also had a revolver in the bag.

“This is a perfect example of Alfred Marshall’s theory of supply and demand, sir,” Moriarty explained slowly, patronising the angry man, trying to break his resolve. “She has the only supply, we need the water, so the price is high. It’s simple mathematics. You cannot argue with whatever price she names.”

“I should just take it from her.”

“I would stop you,” Irving replied. It was a dangerous response. A few punches he could handle, but a bullet was quite another matter.

“And how will you pay?” the major-general taunted Irving.

“His is free, sir,” Nora interjected. “His reward for having offered to defend me from you, if required.”

“Have a pity, woman.” The major-general seethed. “I have just lost everything I own!”

“And yet you still have more than I have ever had,” Irving replied, unable to quash the idea that Moriarty had seeded; that people like Fitzwilliam had somehow been cheating him since the very moment of his birth in ways he did not even understand. “Perhaps we should all step off this boat as equals.”

The major-general snorted his derision. “We are not equals. I am an officer and a gentleman, from one of the most respected families in all of England. What are you?”

“An orphan, with little education.” Irving stood up and advanced on the man, until they stood nose to nose in the centre of the boat, barely a handspan separating them. It was a short enough distance that Irving could throw a punch, long before the soldier had retrieved the revolver from his bag. “Does that make me less than you? We all need water.”

The heiress coughed, delicately attempting to defuse the argument.

“I shall pay my share. I need the water,” she said, shattering the tension. Her cotton-gloved hands pulled gold chains and bracelets from her handbag. “Provided it covers a supply for my farmhands and the staff from the ship.”

“Noble sentiments,” Nora replied, taking a bottle of water from her knapsack and handing it over to the heiress, in exchange for the bag of riches. “Naturally, it shall.”

“Fool!” the major-general exploded, his envious eyes fixed on the bottle. “Now you have lost everything!”

“Now I have nothing,” the heiress replied glumly. “Save for my life. But for that I shall be eternally grateful.”

“Come, sir.” Moriarty leaned forwards, a flicker of impatience crossing his face. “This is but a microcosm of the real world. Embrace the misfortune of circumstances with good grace, pay the lady what she is due.”

“I shall.”

There was no intonation of acceptance in the soldier, just resolve and anger, as he turned and picked up his satchel. Irving had been in enough disagreements to know when a person had reached their breaking point and was reaching for a weapon. The major-general’s hand plunged into the bag of pound notes, but pulled out the revolver.

Irving grabbed his arm, turning it out to sea, as the shot exploded out of the barrel. The shot passed harmlessly into the waves. He punched the soldier in the side of the head, knocking him down.

Moriarty moved quickly, pulling the gun from the man’s hands. He looked at it for a moment, appearing disgusted, before throwing the weapon out into the ocean, making it disappear from the world for ever.

Moriarty rounded on the officer, grabbing him by his uniform’s lapels.

“I have never witnessed something so abhorrent!” Moriarty seethed, physically shaking the already befuddled man. “To threaten and extort what you want from an innocent person, it is contemptible. You are no gentleman! You are no better than a criminal!”

The words sounded genuinely heartfelt, but they were laced with so much hypocrisy that Irving was surprised Moriarty could even say them. Nora coughed politely, precisely imitating the sound the heiress had made earlier.

“Let us finish out transaction, sir. Pay me for the water, or die of thirst.” Nora smiled. “Your choice. See if anyone else here cares.”

Moriarty let go of the soldier, letting him fall to the deck.

The major-general glanced around the little boat. He was suddenly adrift in a sea of horrified faces. He was outnumbered nineteen to one. He threw the bag of money at Nora. One or two of the white paper notes took flight, fluttering out into the ocean.

Nobody chased after them.

Irving was woken by a kiss.

He was lying in a warm bed, in a luxurious seafront hotel, with Nora’s naked body partly coiled around him. Given the amount of times he had woken up in an alleyway, cold and alone, things were definitely looking up.

A distant clock tower tolled the time, while Nora nuzzled in his ear.

“We’re supposed to be meeting Moriarty for breakfast in an hour,” she whispered.

“An hour?” he responded, turning to meet her lips. “Best not waste that time then.”

An hour later they had dressed, and made their way downstairs to find Moriarty sitting by the window reading the newspaper. The front page was filled with photographs of RMS Heroic, the newspapers were still obsessed with stories of the passengers, all of whom had survived the disaster. Even the captain, who had stayed with ship until the end, had apparently been pulled from the sea, having managed to cling to wooden wreckage that had drifted towards shore. He had been given an award for his bravery.

Their own lifeboat had made its way to shore shortly after the money had exchanged hands. To many passengers, it appeared to be a miracle, but once Irving had found out that Moriarty had been in charge of the little boat’s navigation, it suddenly seemed a lot less miraculous.

“I took the liberty of ordering you breakfast,” the professor informed them, folding up his newspaper as they sat down oppos ite him. “I do hate to ruin a good meal with business, so let us conclude our dealings before it arrives, shall we? Give me the money and jewellery.”

Irving and Nora had discussed this trade at great length the previous night. They could have taken the money and run, however they would have then spent the rest of their lives living in fear of his retribution. They did not want Moriarty as an enemy; they doubted such people lived for long.

Instead, they had discussed how much they should ask to be paid for their participation. Nora had eventually persuaded Irving to simply see what Moriarty offered. He had so far proven to be a generous employer, having covered the costs of their tickets, clothes and hotel rooms. These were costs he would need to recoup.

Nora handed over a satchel, containing both the money and jewellery, which Moriarty checked with a glance and placed on to the seat beside him.

“You have removed nothing for yourselves?” he asked.

“No, sir.” Irving shook his head. “We leave the subject of pay to you.”

Moriarty nodded. “I offer you a quarter of our takings, or the opportunity to continue in my employ. Would you prefer to continue working for me?”

Both offers took them both by surprise.

The money would enable them to live well for many years, but the chance to continue working for him could lead to infinitely more.

They were granted a moment to consider the offer due to the arrival of a serving girl, who delivered three fried breakfasts to their table, causing them to suspend their discussion until she had moved on.

“It has been a profitable partnership, so far,” Nora replied, although oddly her eyes were focused on her plate rather than Moriarty. It was unlike her to appear so humble. “Would our quarter also include the value of the ship and cargo?”

Moriarty laughed. “I have one hundred and five witnesses, including her captain, who will all testify that the RMS Heroic is at the bottom of the ocean.”

“One hundred and four,” Nora pressed. “All I saw was a lot of smoke. And I can’t help but notice that the RMS Moriarty, docked outside, looks remarkably similar to the vessel in question, save for a little paint and the name on the side.”

“I underestimated you, Miss Crogan.”

“’Appens a lot, sir.” She smiled, using her knife to cut the bacon on her plate. “I’m assumin’ we’re eatin’ the livestock?”

Irving looked down, becoming properly aware of the sausages and bacon that he had piled on to the end of his fork.

“I waste nothing,” Moriarty told him. “But branded pigs are difficult to sell whole.”

Irving stared at the fork, raised it into his mouth, then chewed and swallowed the mouthful of flesh.

“My offer does not include any of the value from the ship or cargo,” Moriarty clarified. “You did not assist in their acquisition.”

“Well, I reckon we might accept the job offer then,” Irving replied, once his mouth was clear, glancing at Nora for her approval. They had both agreed that they would make the decision together.

“Yes, we shall,” Nora agreed.

“Of course, you will.” Moriarty nodded. “What other choice could you make? I shall organise rooms and money in London for you. I have plans there.”

As he sat at the table, finishing his breakfast, Irving Beck glanced at Nora Crogan and James Moriarty and realised that he had been mistaken in his previous beliefs. The world was not full of victims. The world was full of conniving thieves and villains, who were sophisticated and organised, constantly pursuing a chance to progress in the world, unconcerned about how they affected anyone else.

He could be one them, or he would be nothing at all.