The Mammoth Book of the Adventures of Professor Moriarty

Quid Pro Quo Ashley R. Lister

December 1867

“You summoned me, Professor Moriarty?”

Moriarty glanced up from his paperwork and shook his head. His features were sharp and angular. He was youthful, barely out of his twenties, but his hair was already the grey of a pending thunderstorm. He could have appeared austere and menacing if not for the brightness of his genial smile. The flash of his teeth shone with obvious good humour and kind, inoffensive mirth.

“Professor?” Moriarty laughed. “Goodness, no. I’m likely the Moriarty you’re looking for. It’s not a common name around these parts. But I’m not a professor. I’m only a humble reader. I haven’t been offered the chair yet.”

He encouraged his visitor to enter the room and motioned for him to sit on the other side of his cluttered desk. There was still snow dusting the shoulders of the visitor’s woollen jacket. His uncapped head glistened with melting snowflakes, which perspired down his brow and over his cheeks.

“Please,” Moriarty insisted. “Make yourself comfortable. The weather is very festive today, isn’t it?”

“Thank you, Professor.”

Like many of the academic offices in the university, Moriarty’s quarters were cramped to the point of claustrophobia. The shelved walls were overflowing with books. The desk was littered with pens, pencils, correspondence, papers, opened and unopened tomes, and piles and piles of marked and unmarked assignments. A copy of that month’s Lancet lay open on the page with Lister’s article about the benefits of his “antiseptic surgical method”. Beside that was a copy of that morning’s Times, headlined with the words CLERKENWELL OUTRAGE.

Moriarty tapped the largest bundle of papers on his desk and said, “Unless my treatise on the binomial theory meets with unprecedented success, I’m likely to remain a humble reader here for a long while.”

His guest, settling into the discomfort of the office’s only other seat, said nothing.

Moriarty found a black leather-bound notebook on his desk and began to leaf through the bright-white pages. The size and shape of the book suggested it might be a diary or a journal. Lettered in gold on the front were the words “quid pro quo”. Chasing his finger down one neatly written journal entry, Moriarty’s lips moved as he read through his day’s scheduled appointments. Eventually, he looked up from the book with a grin.

“It’s Gordon, isn’t it?”

Gordon nodded.

“Thank you for taking the time to come up here, Gordon. I understand you have a lot of important assignments to complete before the university closes for the Christmas holidays so it’s very much appreciated.”

“Why did you want to see me?”

“Good,” Moriarty laughed. “You’re direct. I like that. It suggests a focused mind.”

Gordon said nothing. He waited expectantly.

Moriarty picked up the leather-bound notebook and waved it importantly in the air as though it explained everything. “Professor Bell asked me to read through one of your papers. He believes you’ve been cheating.”

The light in the office was good. It was lit by a large window to the east and the morning sun washed the room with stark wintery warmth. Snow on the sills and ledges added to the brightness, making every detail in Moriarty’s quarters superbly lit.

The sunlight illuminated Gordon’s face.

After Moriarty mentioned the accusation of cheating, Gordon’s pale cheeks blushed with the faintest hint of pink. His lips remained closed. His mouth was an inscrutable line, neither smiling nor frowning. Purposefully, he said nothing.

“This is a serious allegation,” Moriarty went on. His tone was etched with concern. “You’re in your final year, Gordon. It has to be said, your results on the whole have been unremarkable so far. But, up to this point, they’ve always been deemed honest. This accusation could prove ruinous for you.”

Gordon remained silent and motionless.

Moriarty watched the young man intently.

“You’ll note that I said ‘the accusation could prove ruinous’,” he went on. “With a scandal like this the accusation doesn’t have to be true. Accusations alone are often enough to devastate a fledgling career.” He pointed at the newspaper headline: clerkenwell outrage – a dozen dead, one hundred injured. “If they’re left unchecked, accusations can have that sort of impact,” he said darkly.

Gordon met his gaze. His lips didn’t move.

“What do you have to say for yourself, Gordon?”

Gordon straightened in his chair. He rolled his broad shoulders and squared his jaw. “I don’t suppose it matters what I have to say for myself,” he began carefully. “If Professor Bell asked you to read through my paper, the only thing that matters is what you think. Do you think I’ve been cheating?”

Moriarty laughed again. It was a cheery sound and his tone seemed genuine.

“I wouldn’t want to play cards with you, Gordon,” he decided. “I’d wager you’ve won a fair share of bluffs in your day, haven’t you?”

Gordon didn’t answer.

The silence that stretched between them bordered on being interminable.

Moriarty reached for pen, ink and paper. He placed them on the blotter and began to write a missive. As he wrote in a fussily neat hand, he read the words aloud.

“Dear Professor Bell,” he began.

Gordon’s eyes narrowed.

“At your request I have carefully examined the academic paper you suspected of being plagiarised.”

Moriarty glanced up from the note and studied his visitor.

Gordon tapped his shoe lightly on the floor. He could have been trying to dislodge snow from the tread, Moriarty thought. But, from the student’s posture, it seemed obvious that the toe of his boot was now pointing towards the office door. Even if Gordon was unaware of the fact, Moriarty thought, the young man appeared to be planning an escape route.

“I can understand why you had suspicions about this piece.” Moriarty continued to read the words aloud as he wrote them. “After having read some of the other works you feared had been copied, I also noted that there were some strong similarities in their structure, lexical choice and derivative conclusions.”

Gordon’s lips had tightened to a puckered scowl.

Wrinkles of concentration creased his otherwise smooth brow.

His hands were curled into fists.

Despite what he’d said before, Moriarty suspected, if Gordon really was a poker player, he should be well advised to limit his gambling to low stakes games. The blush was now more than a faint suggestion of pink. It was difficult to tell where the melting snow ended and Gordon’s nervous perspiration began.

“However,” Moriarty continued.

He paused long enough to write the word.

“I am comfortable confirming that, in my opinion, this is all original work. The student appears to have worked hard on this paper. His efforts, whilst wholly conventional and lacking in imagination, are all his own endeavours. I trust his labours will be acknowledged appropriately without further recourse to unfounded accusation.”

Moriarty added his signature to the letter. Gordon watched him fold it three times and seal it with wax before sitting back in his chair.

“Why did you do that?”

“You really are very direct,” Moriarty mused. “I do admire that quality. It shows a discipline of thought that so many lack.” He pointed at the open Lancet article on his desk and said, “That’s the same level of disciplined thought as Doctor Lister has shown in using carbolic acid to treat infection during surgical procedures. If only more of us could be like that great man.”

“Why have you just declared me innocent of plagiarism?”

Moriarty closed his journal. His fingers drummed on the gold-lettered words: quid pro quo. Eventually, he picked up the book and the letter and started out of the door. “Follow me, Gordon,” he called over his shoulder. “Let’s see if Professor Bell is in his office.”

He didn’t bother looking back to see if Gordon obeyed the instruction. He turned a sharp right out of his doorway and headed along an ancient Yorkshire stone corridor that led towards the courtyard. Readers and professors alike were dressed in a uniform of cap, gown and hood at all times. Moriarty’s robes flowed behind him like black waves of night. He marched through the halls that led to the courtyard with a brisk pace that made Gordon stumble to keep by his side. His boot heels clipped loudly against the stone floors of the university’s hallowed corridors.

Passing students and lecturers nodded curt greetings to Moriarty.

The occasional student stopped to doff a cap.

Moriarty acknowledged each address with a polite smile and a word of greeting. He had the charming ability of remembering faces and calling people by their names and titles. It was no wonder, Gordon thought, that the man was so popular in the university’s halls.

“You haven’t answered my question,” Gordon reminded him. He kept his voice lowered to a hush. “Why have you told Professor Bell that I’m innocent?”

Moriarty opened his mouth as though he was about to reply.

“Sir?”

Before Moriarty could speak a red-headed youth stepped in front of him, stopping him abruptly. His whey-coloured complexion was lost beneath a murk of rusty freckles. His clothes had the pristine cut and starch of a privileged third year. Over one shoulder he carried a boxy leather bag. Clinking noises came from within the bag. Gordon recognised the sound as the music al tones of full glass bottles kissing together.

For an instant Gordon thought he could see a menacing glower on Moriarty’s features. Unlike the honest smile and full joviality of the man’s usual disposition, this was an expression that seemed appropriate for the narrow face and the iron-grey hair. This expression was a flicker of feral ferocity that could have belonged to a very violent man. If the expression had rested for an instant longer, Gordon would have stepped between the pair to prevent the younger man from suffering injury. Moriarty was raising his arm and looked set to smash the whey-faced youth to the floor.

“Sir,” the redhead youth repeated earnestly. “I was just coming up to find you. Indeed, this is fortuitous.”

“Hunt,” Moriarty beamed. He brought his arm down and clapped Hunt warmly on the shoulder.

Whatever suggestion of menace Gordon had thought was in Moriarty’s expression now seemed to have disappeared. The idea that it might ever have been there struck Gordon as damning evidence for the poor quality of his imagination.

“I thought you’d have left by now,” Moriarty told Hunt. “Don’t tell me you want to do another year’s Latin?”

Hunt laughed with inordinate enthusiasm. He clutched Moriarty’s hand and pumped it enthusiastically up and down. Glancing slyly at Gordon, he said, “Do you know this fine gentleman is the only reason I was able to continue my studies?”

Gordon raised an eyebrow, encouraging him to continue.

“I had the most miserable first year,” Hunt explained. “My interest in economics was failing. I didn’t feel as though I’d made any friends at the university. But Professor Moriarty here—”

“I’m not a professor,” Moriarty cautioned him. “I’m only a humble reader. I haven’t been offered the chair yet.”

The interruption seemed to surprise Hunt. “Haven’t you submitted your treatise on the binomial theory?”

“Yes, but Professor Phillips remains the incumbent in the mathematics chair. And, unless my treatise meets with unprecedented success before the board of governors, I’m likely to remain a humble reader here for a long while.”

Hunt laughed again. This time the mirth sounded like genuine merriment rather than the forced laughter of a sycophant. “I think the board of governors will have to offer you a chair when they see your treatise. It’s the work of a genius.”

Moriarty lowered his gaze and looked abashed. “You’re too kind, Hunt. I’m sure I’d feel a lot more comfortable about such a situation if you were on the board of governors.”

Hunt shook his head apologetically. “The only person I know on the board is Williamson’s father and you know that Williamson and I don’t see eye to eye.” Hunt paused and added, “Of course you know about that. You were the one who intervened when Williamson demanded I face him in a duel.”

As Gordon watched, Moriarty tightened his hold on the leather-bound volume. His thumb ran along the gold-printed lettering on the cover. He seemed to be tracing the shape of each letter in the three Latin words: quid pro quo.

“Headstrong Williamson,” Moriarty remembered. “He really did fancy himself as the romantic hero of some Boys of England narrative, didn’t he?”

Hunt laughed.

“And,” Moriarty went on, “now you mention it, I do believe you’re correct. Williamson’s father is on the board of governors, isn’t he?”

Hunt nodded.

“Williamson’s father did seem relieved that I’d been able to talk his son out of facing you with pistols at dawn,” Moriarty remembered.

Gordon watched the pair. The three of them stood in tableau for a moment before Hunt finally spoke.

“I just wanted to thank you again,” he said. From the bag he was carrying he produced a bottle of whisky. Gordon could see the words Ballantine’s Finest printed on the label as Hunt passed the bottle to Moriarty. “It’s a token of my gratitude, sir.”

“Whisky?” Moriarty seemed curious.

“Just a small token,” Hunt assured him. “And if there’s ever anything else you need from me in the future …”

He left the open promise of eternal obligation unspoken.

It hung between them like a physical presence.

Moriarty smiled and graciously accepted the gift. “Thank you, Hunt,” he said solemnly. “It’s been a pleasure having you in my lectures.” He lifted the whisky and added, “I’ll make sure to toast your name when I open this bottle.”

Hunt grinned. His teeth were crooked but his smile was easy to like.

Moriarty stepped past him and continued on his way to the courtyard. Over his shoulder he called back, “Hunt, please congratulate your father on his promotion to governorship of the Bank of England.” As he said the words, like a curious involuntary action, his hand squeezed on the book. His thumb rubbed across the lettering: quid pro quo.

“How did you help him with the bullies?”

Moriarty shook his head. “It was nothing really. Hunt is prone to bullying. I suspect it’s with him being red-headed. Many people assume a red-headed man has Irish blood in his veins and there’s always been a lot of anti-Irish sentiment brewing in this country.” He frowned and said, “I suspect it will get worse after the Clerkenwell outrage last night.”

Gordon nodded agreement. He’d read that morning’s Times before visiting Moriarty. The explosion at the Clerkenwell detention centre appeared to have been an ill-conceived catastrophe. Fenian activists had botched an attempt to help one of their comrades escape incarceration. Twelve innocents were dead. More than a hundred had been injured.

“Is Hunt Irish?”

“No,” Moriarty admitted. “There’s no Gaelic in his lineage. But that didn’t stop a gang of students from making his existence a misery because they thought he looked Irish.”

“How did you intervene?”

Moriarty paused and turned to face Gordon. His thumb stroked the gold letters on the book again. “We came to an amicable agreement about the situation,” he said carefully. “Some of those involved in the bullying come from prominent families. You know Gladstone’s children come here, don’t you?”

Gordon nodded. He was aware that the leader of the opposition’s children patronised the university. Cohorts over the previous years had included European royalty, the sons of celebrated military heroes and the children of industrial tycoons. Gordon considered himself fortunate that his parents had invested so much into his education so he could study alongside the future leaders of the country.

“A lot of prominent families send their children here,” he agreed.

Moriarty nodded.

“Hunt’s family didn’t want to pursue the incidence of bullying. They were aware that things could reflect badly on Hunt if he was perceived weak enough to be a victim of bullying. The fam ilies of the bullies were equally relieved to learn that the matter was being resolved without becoming public knowledge. The whole situation was resolved amicably.”

Gordon digested this quietly for a moment. Hunt and his family were now indebted to Moriarty. The eminent families of a gang of bullies were equally beholden to him. Was there anyone in the university who didn’t owe this kind man some small favour? Was there anyone in the universe who wasn’t in his debt?

“How do they pay you back?”

Moriarty blushed. He turned and started back towards the courtyard. “We all find a way to pay our debts, Gordon.”

Gordon wanted to pursue the matter, but Moriarty had reached the courtyard and was striding purposefully towards Professor Bell’s offices.

The lawns were covered in a thin veil of white. The slates of the building roofs were frosted with snow. The air was cold enough to make each exhalation plume softly. Moriarty seemed embarrassed by the question of repayment and Gordon was trying to think of a way to retract the question. Before Gordon could find the right way to put his thoughts into words they were again interrupted.

A tall, broad man approached. He walked with the gait of a military gentleman. A stick in his right hand clipped softly through the snow as an accompaniment to every other step. Moriarty slowed as the man neared and, when they were close enough, the pair clasped hands with the ferocity of lifelong friends.

“Sebastian Moran,” Moriarty called cheerfully. “It’s so good to see you.”

“Likewise, Professor.”

Moriarty laughed the epithet away. “I’m not a professor yet. I’m only a humble reader. I haven’t been offered the chair yet.”

“Haven’t you submitted your treatise on the binomial theory?”

“It’s been submitted,” Moriarty assured Moran. “I’m waiting for feedback from the board of governors. And even then, there’s the issue of Professor Phillips.”

Moran sighed. “Did you see the Fenians botched their escape plans last night?”

“I read the piece in The Times.” Moriarty shook his head sadly. “Some people say the city is in the grip of an organised criminal mastermind but this seems to have been a very disorganised affair.”

“Informers had notified authorities,” Moran told him. “But the authorities didn’t heed those warnings.”

“It’s almost as though they were given help,” Moriarty mused. He stared wistfully across the courtyard. He seemed unmindful of the light snow falling about him. “It’s almost as if some mastermind, acting in the interests of the Irish Republican Brotherhood, called in favours and asked figures in authority to turn a blind eye to any of the warnings they received.” His thumb rubbed across the gold lettering on his leather-bound volume: quid pro quo. His smile looked to have frozen in the chill morning air. “It’s almost as though someone went to all that trouble. And still the Fenians botched everything.”

Moran cleared his throat.

Moriarty frowned and studied Moran with a peevish glare.

Moran nodded at Gordon. “I’m sure this student doesn’t want to hear about your speculation on last night’s bombing,” Moran said pointedly.

“A good point,” Moriarty agreed. “Perhaps we should meet for lunch this afternoon and share our speculation on the Irish problem then?”

“A splendid idea,” Moran agreed. He hefted up the walking stick he’d been carrying and passed it to Moriarty. “Before we part I must show you this device. A German colleague engineered it for me.”

“A walking stick?” Moriarty smiled. “Do we really need German engineers for such devices?”

Moran took the stick from Moriarty, placed the handle against his shoulder as though he was wielding a rifle, and then aimed into the distance.

A sprinkling of snow continued to fall from the sky.

To Gordon’s mind, unless Moran was the world’s most exceptional marksman, whatever he was pointing the stick at, the target was fully obscured by the weather.

“Moran?” Moriarty asked doubtfully.

There was a hiss of air.

Gordon thought he saw some small missile explode from the pointed end of the walking stick. But it all happened so fast he couldn’t be entirely sure. More interesting than Moran’s hissing walking stick was the distant sound of shattering glass across the courtyard. The noise was followed by a shrill whisper of wind. It made a sound like a heartfelt cry of dismay.

“Fascinating.” Moriarty sounded genuinely impressed. “I can imagine we’ll find plenty of future uses for such an ingenious creation when we’re having lunch.”

Moran agreed. He bade them both a good afternoon and allowed Moriarty and Gordon to continue walking towards Professor Bell’s quarters.

“What was that device?” Gordon asked when Moran was out of earshot.

Moriarty shrugged. “I have no idea,” he admitted. “I suspect Moran will tell me all about it over lunch.”

A light wind blew through the settled snow, dislodging a small flurry of flakes across their route. Moriarty’s black gown and mortar board were both white with icy residue and Gordon thought the man looked like some saintly figure from the days of the Bible. Hurrying behind him, desperate to escape the frosty elements, Gordon bundled himself tight in his woollen jacket and kept his head down until they had entered the building on the opposite side of the courtyard.

Moriarty shrugged the snow from his cape with a roll of his shoulders. Gordon tramped up and down to dislodge snow from his boots and shake it from his head. They hadn’t started on the stairwell up to Bell’s quarters when an elderly man approached them.

“Professor Moriarty,” he began. “May I have a word?”

“Chancellor White.” Moriarty’s smile remained polite. “Of all the people I need to remind, surely you know I’m not a professor yet.” He said the words with easy cheer. “I’m only a humble reader. I haven’t been offered the chair yet.”

Chancellor White shook his head. “I’ve just come from a meeting with the board of governors. We’ve been reading through your treatise on the binomial theory. The governors would like to offer you a chair in mathematics, Professor Moriarty.” He stressed the title, took Moriarty’s hand and squeezed it in his own. “Congratulations,” White muttered. “And, please remember, I’m still in your debt.”

Moriarty seemed briefly puzzled.

“Without your intervention my daughter would have been locked away in a sanatorium. If you ever need any favour from me, any favour at all, please rest assured I’ll do whatever is in my power to—”

“I might just take you up on that offer one day,” Moriarty broke in genially.

He continued shaking the elderly man’s hand.

He held the leather-bound journal in his other hand. His thumb continually stroked the gold letters: quid pro quo.

“I should also tell you,” the chancellor went on, “that your appointment to the chair is timely.”

“Timely?”

“The chair was previously held by Professor Phillips. Not ten minutes ago he collapsed in his study.”

“Good grief,” Moriarty gasped. “Collapsed?”

Chancellor White nodded. “His office window is broken and it’s almost as though someone shot him.”

“Who on earth would want to shoot an incumbent professor in the chair of mathematics?” Moriarty asked.

White shrugged. “Maybe one day there’ll be a great detective who can solve such mysteries,” he admitted. “But, until such a person comes along, the likes of you and I shall have to muddle along in ignorance, oblivious to the causes of such matters.”

He shook Moriarty’s hand for a second time, acknowledged Gordon with a curt nod, and then left them to make their way up the stairs to Professor Bell’s quarters.

They paused outside the room.

“I’ll give this to you now,” Moriarty told Gordon, handing him the letter. “And I’ll leave you to talk with Professor Bell. If I’m going to make that meeting with Moran I’ll need to get back to my quarters and change.”

Gordon shook Moriarty’s hand and held it a moment longer than necessary.

“How fortunate you’re a good man, Professor Moriarty,” he mused.

“How so?”

“It just occurred to me, because so many people are in your debt, you could one day wield a lot of power. If you were not an honest man – if you were a dishonest man – the empire of your control would be a formidable one.”

Moriarty considered this for a moment. “What an interesting thought.”

“At the moment,” Gordon went on, “people are in your debt because of your kindness. But, if you chose to blackmail any of those individuals with your knowledge of their circumstances or indiscretions, you could control the same web of corruption as the criminal mastermind you speculated about earlier.”

Moriarty nodded. “Indeed,” he said. “I can see how that would work.” His easy smile flashed briefly and he added, “It’s fortunate that I’m honest.”

Gordon shook his hand. “Thank you for saving me from the accusations of plagiarism,” he said earnestly. “I’m now another who is in your debt. I have desires to work in the constabulary and an accusation of dishonesty would have posed a serious threat to such a career ambition.”

“The constabulary?” Moriarty sounded surprised. “I had no idea.”

He paused and considered Gordon expectantly. “And, in future years, should I ever need the intervention of a police officer would I be able to call on you?”

“Of course,” Gordon promised.

“Very well then.” Moriarty smiled. “I shall bid you farewell now and look forward to meeting you in the future, Officer Gordon.”

Gordon shook his head. “You have me wrong, Professor Moriarty,” he apologised. “Gordon is my first name. My surname is Lestrade.”