The Mammoth Book of the Adventures of Professor Moriarty

A Function of Probability Mike Chinn

The professor turned the visitor card over and over between his thin fingers. It was of common enough stock and cheaply printed: each of the letters a in the plain typeface was faintly smudged. Square-edged, no attempt at ostentation. Quite unremarkable. Except—

Moriarty placed the card against a wooden rule from his writing desk, nodding his satisfaction at the dimensions thus revealed. He allowed himself a thin smile; as suspected: the card – and the visitor still awaiting his pleasure beyond the study door – were so much more than both pretended to be. The professor took up the card again, using it to point at Hawes, who was silently awaiting his master’s command.

“Show him in.”

“Yes, sir.” The college porter bobbed his head and disappeared through the study’s only door. Moriarty reached for his desk lamp, angling the shade so that the greatest measure of its light fell upon the chair opposite. Settling against the tall back of his own chair he steepled his fingers. A moment later, Hawes reappeared, leading the intriguing visitor. He was tall, pale of complexion and eye; his hair a nondescript shade that tended towards neither blond nor brown. His beard was of a reddish hue, and cut in the imperial style. He was dressed in a simple grey suit, a hat of matching colour held in his left hand whilst a black stick dangled languidly from his right. In all, the figure aspired to the same degree of outward unremarkableness as his card; the professor was not fooled for one instant. Indeed, he felt mildly irritated that this sallow man considered him so easily foxed.

For his part, the visitor quickly surveyed the simple study with colourless eyes. He looked less than impressed by the surroundings – perhaps expecting something more lavish. His pale gaze paused briefly on the painting of a coquettish young woman, resting negligently on the floor to Moriarty’s right; his smooth brow puckered for the shortest time before continuing the careless scrutiny.

Moriarty waved towards the opposite chair, indicating the man might sit. He did so, blinking in the light cast by the angled lamp. He handed both stick and hat to Hawes, who left once more without needing to be bidden.

“Mr Leonard Eastman?” Moriarty repeated the name printed on the card.

The man inclined his head in acknowledgement. “Professor Moriarty. I am delighted to at last make your acquaintance.” There was the faintest trace of an accent.

It was the professor’s turn to nod. “I was unaware you had wished to make it, Mr Eastman. Your name is not familiar to me; are you associated with the field of astronomy?”

The man shook his head. “Not at all, Professor—”

“Banking, then?”

Again the visitor shook his head.

Moriarty fought to bury his faint smile: for all his irritation with the man’s facile deceits he was enjoying the game. “So. In what way might a simple professor of mathematics be of help to you, sir?”

The man hesitated, considering his next words. Moriarty leaned forward, careful not to enter the deflected pool of lamplight. “Whilst you debate what answer you will give, might I remark that I do not appreciate lies – or deceptions of any kind. Especially ones as transparent as this.” He raised the visitor’s card before tearing it in two, allowing the halves to fall on to his desktop. “Shall we begin again, Your Grace?”

The tall man flinched in his chair, face projecting his uncontrolled feelings. It was clear that, in his daily routine, he was unused to being challenged; his will questioned. Small wonder his attempts at deceit were so easily pierced. After a moment, he composed himself, straightening his still immaculate suit coat.

“You think you know me, then?”

“I flatter myself that I am one of the few men in Europe who might. You are The Most Noble Leofric, Duke of Granat- Östermann and Baron von Reichschliesser. You have many titles, but, alas, no land. What little money you do have is either wasted in self-indulgent attempts at political intrigue or lost at the gaming tables. You aspire to being a major piece on the chessboard of Germanic ambition, but are still nothing more than a pawn. You dream of an expanded German Empire – one to rival that of both Britain and Russia. One that may rule both across Europe, and abroad.” Moriarty settled back, enjoying the spectacle as the colourless face opposite him grew increasingly florid and sullen. “And more, despite your name, your rank, your infantile meddling, you remain a nobody in your homeland; less so abroad.”

Duke Leofric drew himself up. “Herr Doctor Professor, I did not come here for you to—”

Moriarty raised a hand. “Professor is sufficient. In England we do not aspire to more than one title at a time.”

The duke frowned and attempted to speak; Moriarty continued regardless, having no wish to endure whatever self-serving excuses the man might invoke.

“Your Grace, you came here under the most ludicrous of disguises – one a child might penetrate in moments. Little wonder your feeble attempts to influence Imperial German affairs remain frustrated: you have no imagination. No flair. To be frank, you have insulted me.”

“Herr Professor—”

“No, Your Grace – I will hear no more.” Moriarty dismissed the duke with an impatient flap of his hand. “I neither know nor care why you thought to seek me out. I permitted this charade merely so that I might express my opinion to your overindulged face. If the word ‘no’ had been applied more rigorously years ago, I fancy you would be a better man today. Good day.”

“Professor—!”

“Good day, sir!”

The study door swung open and Hawes stood framed between the door jambs, the duke’s hat and stick held ready for retrieval. Duke Leofric glanced first towards him then at Moriarty, who was fastidiously placing the torn halves of the visitor card into a waste bin.

“Professor, you accuse me of having no imagination. Of lacking flair. Perhaps this is true, but before you eject me may I just say one thing: the ensured death of Kaiser Wilhelm …”

Moriarty replaced the bin on the floor and dusted at his hands. He glanced once at Hawes and the man vanished from the study as silently as he had entered. The professor heard the faintest click as the door was prudently locked.

He gazed deep into Leofric’s eyes; the duke remained ignorant of the intense scrutiny. “Despite four assassination attempts, I think the emperor enjoys excellent health …”

“Indeed. Obstinately so. But I believe you to be in a position which may alter that.”

“I?”

“I am not the only man in this room who plays at charades.” The duke leaned forward, his face earnest. “We are neither of us who we claim to be. If I have insulted you, then I apologise unreservedly; please do not compound the error by seeking to offend my own intelligence – as wanting as you believe it to be.”

Moriarty settled against his chair. He templed his fingers and touched them against the smile he could no longer contain. “You prefer plain speaking, then? No more guises?”

“It will be refreshing.” The duke took a silver cigarette case from within his coat, offering one to Moriarty. The professor refused, but did not go so far as to forbid Leofric himself from smoking – much as he detested the stale smell of tobacco in his study. After lighting his cigarette, the duke appeared to relax: he settled into his chair, holding his smoke between thumb and forefinger. Its fragrance told Moriarty that the cigarette was of Balkan origin.

“The emperor is ninety years old,” the professor said. “It must surely be a matter of time before nature will take its course.”

“Wilhelm clings to life tenaciously. His son, Friedrich Wilhelm Nikolaus Karl, is seriously unwell and not expected to last out the year.”

“I believed the emperor well loved by the German people.”

The duke waved an impatient hand. “He is, but at heart he is still a Prussian. More, he has liberal tendencies, and poor advisers.”

“You speak of von Bismarck?”

“The chancellor has long demonstrated that he pursues pol icies of his own; it is no secret that he and the kaiser disagree on many subjects. But every time Wilhelm tries to rein him in, von Bismarck threatens to resign and His Imperial Majesty capitulates. They are like children arguing over a rattle!” Leofric took a long pull on his cigarette. “And there is his wife, of course …”

“Of course.” Moriarty thought carefully before again speaking. “If the Emperor were to outlive his son before dying – of whatever cause – the natural successor would be Friedrich Wilhelm Viktor Albrecht von Preussen. A man noted neither for a cool head, nor his tolerance for Chancellor von Bismarck’s policies – despite both men initially being close.” He rested his hands in his lap. “Such a man might not be content to allow Germany to rest on its laurels; or be persuaded to be less content.”

“You have it!” The duke sat forward again, his cigarette wielded as a fencing foil. “With the kaiser’s grandson at its head, the Fatherland will step free of von Bismarck’s overbearing shadow and pursue its manifest destiny.”

“Indeed? And why should I – a loyal servant of Her Majesty and the Empire – embrace such a scheme? I see little gain for Britain, and no small risk to it.”

The duke made an expansive gesture. “Is the prince not also the oldest grandson of your queen?”

“The bitterest rivals are most often to be found within the embrace of close family. Blood is no shield.”

“You are a cynic, Herr Professor …”

“I am a realist, Your Grace. But let us be clear.” He took a thin ledger from a desk drawer, dipped a pen into ink and began to write slowly and carefully upon a fresh page. “You are proposing that the kaiser should meet a premature end?”

“Indeed.” The duke drew an ashtray closer, stubbing out his spent cigarette.

“Indeed.” Moriarty recharged his pen. “And you are of the belief that I should be able, in some ways, to effect this?”

Leofric’s beard was twitched by a crooked smile. “I thought we spoke plainly, Herr Professor. You pride yourself on being one of the few outside my homeland who might recognise me; I pride myself in having an information network as extensive as your own. Perhaps greater. I recognise you, Moriarty; I know you.”

“Indeed.” The professor wrote a further line before rotating the ledger and sliding it towards the duke. The written page was caught in the full glow of the lamp. “Read carefully what I have transcribed. If you are in agreement as to the figures, kindly sign here and we shall consider – how may I say it? – that your account has been opened.”

The duke glanced at the book and then up at Moriarty’s shadowed face. “You will put this in writing?”

“You say you know me. Then you will know that I am a careful man. I commit to no cause until I am sure of it. And I will trust no man who is not willing to put a name to his own enterprise.”

The duke paused a while longer, reluctant. Eventually, however, Leofric took up the pen and signed his name with a flourish. Moriarty slid the ledger back towards himself, casting his eyes over the signature before slamming the book closed.

“We understand one another, Your Grace. And as gentlemen, we need not say another word upon the subject.” He reached a thin hand across the desk; after a moment, the duke took it. They shook solemnly.

“When may I expect to hear from you?” asked Leofric, standing.

“You may not. The event of which we speak cannot pass un noticed: it will feature in every newspaper within the civilised world. Then you may wish for another audience, and, at such a time, we will discuss the termination of the account.”

Leofric bowed with a click of his heels. Hawes appeared once more with hat and stick as though he had heard every word spoken in the study. The duke took them and, with another curt bow, left Moriarty and the porter alone. Hawes closed the door on the duke’s back.

“An interesting coincidence, sir.”

Moriarty blinked slowly; clearly the porter’s thoughts ran along similar lines to his own. “Coincidence is but a function of probability, Hawes, not the workings of some supernatural agency.”

“Indeed not, sir. But it chimes closely with your plans.”

Moriarty turned the lampshade back to its regular position, partially releasing his face from its shadowy seclusion. “The voyage to Germany already booked for next week, you mean. Indeed, it is quite fortuitous.” Prior to their unification under the kaiser, the Germanic states had been little more than serfdoms ground under the boot of police oppression. Crime had been easy to uproot and crush. The burgeoning empire was, however, fresh-tilled soil for one with the right seed. A united country meant united criminality; the professor had long been planning an incursion into that nursery and cultivating his own peculiar vineyard.

“Two birds with one stone, eh?” Hawes took up the portrait of the young woman from the floor.

The professor grunted. “I have never considered it prudent to involve myself too directly with my contracts. From the lowest stews of London to the mandarins of government itself, I have agents at every level; agents upon whom I may call to act precisely as they are directed. But after last year’s Buckingham Palace humiliation, I wonder if I should not, on occasion, take upon myself direct leadership; especially when the prize is inordinate, the odds great.”

“And the colonel?”

“Moran has much ground to recover before I again entrust him with a major enterprise.” Moriarty allowed himself a dry chuckle. “Advise him of my imminent absence. He will recognise the opportunity to be once more reckoned an asset. And if he does not, well— Give him every assistance.”

“You know that I will, sir.”

“Indeed.” Moriarty glanced at the painting clutched in the porter’s hands. It was unfortunate that he must lose it, but the moment it became clear that ridiculous detective from London had recently gained access to his chambers, the item’s fate was irrevocable. It had been sheer hubris to hang the portrait in plain sight: any man with the slightest eye for art would know a Jean-Baptiste Greuze to be far beyond the plain income of a university professor. It was a rare error; one soon to be corrected – and never repeated.

Moriarty sat with his untouched coffee pushed aside, carefully rechecking the column of figures in his notebook. It was a fine, cold day and outside the small kaffeehaus the Unter den Linden was sparsely populated. The professor was the shop’s only customer. He glanced up, eyes focused on something far beyond the window. To his right towered the Brandenburg Gate, but he was blind to its triumphalism.

The shop’s door tinkled open, allowing in a breath of late winter air. Moriarty ignored the rotund, heavily swathed figure that entered, apparently oblivious to his presence even as he came to stand at the professor’s table.

“A refreshing day.” The stranger spoke German in a dialect that suggested Vienna rather than Berlin. He removed his tall hat. “But not one for enjoying the boulevard, I think. The leaves of the Tilia are still little more than buds.”

Moriarty took his gaze away from whatever he had been seeing, focusing instead upon the newcomer. The man’s round face was red from the breeze, framed by unfashionably long brown hair and a magnificent handlebar moustache. His black overcoat sported a thick astrakhan collar. He unbuttoned the coat, all the better to enjoy the kaffeehaus’s warmth.

“It is certainly not a day to be abroad on frivolous matters,” replied Moriarty, his German flawless.

“And the Kaiserreich is not the regime to encourage frivolity.”

Moriarty closed his notebook, resting a hand upon its black cover. With his pencil he gestured for the newcomer to sit. “Thank you for coming, Herr Eisenerz.”

“It is my pleasure, Herr Schiffersohn.” He summoned the waiter with a snap of fingers, ordering coffee, schnapps and a slice of chocolate cake. Drawing a large humidor from his coat he offered a cigar to Moriarty, who declined with a brief shake of the head. Once his smoke was lit to his satisfaction, Eisenerz asked: “So, what may I do for you?”

“You have the reputation of being, shall we say … a facilitator.”

Eisenerz smiled broadly and spoke around a vast plume of fragrant smoke. “I have contacts, if such is your meaning. It is true that I am able to—” he drew on his cigar “—ease introductions.”

“Such was my understanding.” Moriarty recalled to mind an image of the column of numbers in his notebook. “My particular requirement is not an introduction, as such.”

“Ask away.” Eisenerz’s order arrived. The segment of cake looked, to Moriarty’s eye, to encompass at least a forty-degree angle. “Ask away,” he repeated, feeding a generous forkful into his mouth. His eyes wrinkled in delight.

“I require entrance into the Berliner Stadtschloss.”

Eisenerz swallowed his morsel and washed it down with coffee. “My dear fellow, you may enter the Stadtschloss whenever you wish.” He took up his schnapps and drained the glass in one swallow, immediately signalling for another. He dabbed at his moustache, grin broadening. “But if I understand you, you will not wish to do so under normal circumstances.”

“Your understanding is faultless, Herr Eisenerz.”

The large man took another mouthful of rich gateau; Moriarty was content to let him play his game: he could be patient. “If you had come a little later in the year, this request would be so much easier. The Stadtschloss has been the Hohenzollern winter home for generations, and the kaiser is, in many respects, a man of tradition.” Eisenerz enjoyed another forkful. “Although with security understandably heightened it is still conceivable that a window may be accidentally left ajar or an open lock overlooked. I am certain that in such a place the staff are overworked and under-appreciated. Mistakes are inevitable.”

“It is only human.” Moriarty opened his notebook at a fresh page and quickly wrote down a figure. Carefully he tore the page free and slid it across the table with a fingertip. Eisenerz glanced down, seeming to take little interest in what was inscribed there.

“That is inordinately generous, Herr Schiffersohn.” He raised his coffee cup and some of the dark liquid splashed across the sheet, masking the numbers. “Ah. Clumsy of me.”

Moriarty stifled a smirk, screwing up the wet paper and dropping it into the saucer of his own, now cold, coffee.

Eisenerz’s second schnapps was delivered; this time the large man took his time, sipping thoughtfully. “I will not presume to ask why you need this done, Herr Schiffersohn, but I confess to being intrigued.”

Moriarty relaxed against his chair. “There is an item I wish to procure.”

Eisenerz devoured the last morsel of chocolate cake and drained his coffee. “That is no more than I expected.”

For more than a decade, Moriarty had assiduously created a variety of aliases across the continent: names and reputations, costumes ready for him to don should the occasion arise. Let the vainglorious detective in London have his music hall disguises to complement the abductive reasoning upon which he so heavily relied. It was the price of the fame against which he so unconvincingly protested. The strongest disguise was anonymity. Just as in England Professor James Moriarty was a well-respected, if dull, professor of mathematics, in Germany Heinrich Schiffersohn was a less reputable but equally renowned collector of the strange and obtuse; a man for whom nothing might stand in the way of his desires. Already the European newspapers had reported the disappearances of eight priceless and outlandish objets d’art. All blamed on the mysterious Schiffersohn, and all equally fictitious. The professor had no intention of wasting time and resources on genuine thefts when a suitably outrageous lie would suffice.

“The kaiser has come into the possession of a certain … item. His claim upon it is questionable. If the true owners became aware of this, the repercussions would echo across the globe. I intend to relieve His Imperial Majesty of the burden.”

Eisenerz smiled again. “And he can hardly report the theft of such a piece. I congratulate you: a masterly design.”

“Thank you.” Moriarty noted that the man had failed to question how the fictitious Schiffersohn had been able to learn of this nonsensical item when the supposed owners had not.

“But can you not wait until the kaiser is no longer in residence? It would be prudent.”

“He takes it with him at all times. I must relieve him of it personally, as it were.”

Eisenerz’s eyes grew as round as his face. “Audacious. Then I wish you luck, for I believe you will need it.”

Moriarty’s lips twitched in a brief smile. “I am not an advocate of luck or chance, only probability and logic. All which is beautiful and noble is the result of reason and calculation.” On a fresh slip of notepaper he wrote an address. “This is the hotel at which I am staying.” He handed the page across. “The staff may be trusted. Once all of the arrangements are made, send word.”

Eisenerz slipped the note into an overcoat pocket. He stood, taking up his hat and making a crisp bow. “A pleasure conducting business with you, Herr Schiffersohn.” Buttoning his coat as he went, Eisenerz left the kaffeehaus.

“And you, sir.” Moriarty turned back to the page on which stood the column of figures. He crossed out the first number, delighted that he had predicted it so accurately.

Although the hour was late, the household had not fully retired. Moriarty expected no less. As he strolled through the lowly quarters of the Stadtschloss – those dim and ignored corridors frequented only by the servants – he would occasionally pass a member of the night staff, hurrying by on some errand. He was rarely acknowledged, never challenged, perceived as just another dusty retainer going about his own business. The palace staff was numerous, frequently rotated with those from other state buildings; an unfamiliar face would not be unusual. Indeed he had been at greater risk of discovery beyond the building: both the Unter den Linden and Schlossplatz were still frequented by twowheeled droshkies and pedestrians enjoying the cold night air.

It had taken Eisenerz a fortnight to report back, during which time Moriarty had surveyed the Stadtschloss and its environs at all hours and weathers, filling his notebook with figures, observations and timings. By the time the awaited message had been delivered, the professor was confident he knew the palace’s routine better even than the highest-placed member of the emperor’s household. A disaffected Serb agreed to leave a door unbolted, one far away from the streets and their attendant lighting. The man cared nothing for reasons – Germans were no better than Austro-Hungarians in his eyes, and deserving any ill that might befall them – only for the banknotes Eisenerz had pressed into his hand. It was a prudent and fortuitous choice: if chance should play a hidden trump, or the professor’s calculations contain an unlikely error, the Serb would be a convenient and logical scapegoat.

Moriarty briefly consulted a map of the building, assuring himself of his position within its walls. He had to admit to a frisson of a kind he had not experienced since his formative years. Was this, he wondered, why that detective so frequently took what to the professor appeared to be foolish risks? Was he addicted to the excitement? The danger? Not for the first time, Moriarty regretted he had not himself attended to the disastrous Buckingham Palace contract: not only would his presence have likely ensured its success, he may even have enjoyed the hunt.

The moment passed; he waved the thought away with an irritable flick of his hand and pocketed the map, lest another passing servant wonder why he should need it.

The Emperor’s rooms were on the floor directly above him. Normal access was through a well-guarded corridor, but the palace had its own undisclosed, tangential world. Hidden from view within the palace’s very walls, a secret to the general staff, through which the most trusted servants might come and go, quietly and unhampered, almost invisible to their masters.

Moriarty checked his watch: timing was of paramount importance. Wilhelm had been in poor health for many days; confined to his chambers and tended by his personal physician, the emperor’s person was checked with Prussian efficiency every hour. The next observation was forty-three minutes away. Enough time, the professor calculated, to enter the rooms via the secret access and guarantee the eventual succession of Wilhelm II.

He paced silently along the corridor; a map of the palace’s hidden ways unrolling in his mind. There was only one physical plan detailing the concealed world: that of the architect Andreas Schlüter, who had overseen the reconstruction of the palace during the previous century. A plan the German authorities misguidedly believed safely hidden in a Nuremburg bank vault. The panel he sought was simple and unadorned, placed unobtrusively amidst a gallery of Hohenzollern portraiture. Even though he was actively seeking it, Moriarty passed by and walked on a further ten feet before realising his error. Retracing his steps, he made a thorough search of the spot where his mental diagram told him the hidden entrance must be. Marvelling at the artistry with which the panel was disguised, Moriarty eventually located the catch – placed high above a length of moulding, beyond where it might be accidentally triggered – and depressed it. The panel swung open no more than an inch, and with commendable silence. Checking that the corridor remained empty of observers, the professor stepped through the portal, easing it shut behind him.

He lit a candle and surveyed his new surroundings. The space inside the walls was no wider than a yard, roughly plastered, the floor muffled by faded strips of carpeting; all immaculately clean. Those who knew of and used this maze had no intention of arriving at their destination covered in dust or shreds of cobweb – no matter how private or unheeded. Moriarty forged ahead. There would be narrow steps leading up to the next floor, and from his eidetic map he knew it was a mere dozen feet away, in the darkness beyond the candlelight.

The steps loomed out of the blackness: half the width of the passage, constructed of smoothly rendered brick so that even the heaviest tread would be muffled. Moriarty ascended, admitting to himself that now his goal was but scant feet away he was experiencing a further quiver of anticipation.

The steps ended at what appeared to be a blank wall. Raising his candle, Moriarty made out the outline of another disguised panel; one that, should Schlüter’s plans be accurate, must lead directly into the chambers where Wilhelm slumbered in blithe ignorance. There was a dark spot on the smooth panel at eye level. Moriarty leaned forward: it was a lens set into the panel, no bigger than his smallest fingernail. Pressing an eye to it, the professor saw a distorted view of the chamber beyond. A single candle flickered from a dresser in the furthest reach of the room, next to a wide doorway, casting a thin, uncertain light. Other than a figure bundled upon an opulent bed, the room appeared to be empty of human occupants.

Moriarty snuffed his candle and left it upon the top step rather than risk even the smallest trace of dripped wax in the room beyond. After carefully easing the panel open, he stepped into the dim room and engaged in a second, more thorough visual search. The four-post bed had a single occupant; the walls were partly clad in a wood that looked black in the poor light, the rest papered by what Moriarty was surprised to recognise as either a William Morris design or a clever copy. The bed and windows were hung with drapes of a matching pattern. He found it repugnant.

A swift glance at his watch told him there were twenty-eight minutes remaining. He removed a tiny paper bundle from a coat pocket, silently approaching the bed across a thick carpet. The emperor lay on his back, breathing slowly and with the faintest rattle. In the candlelight, his face, neat moustache and bristling side-whiskers were all a matching sallow shade. From the paper bundle, Moriarty removed a needle, careful not to graze himself on the sharp tip. Kneeling at the bedside he took the emperor’s left hand and slid it across the covers. The old man hitched a breath and the professor froze, not moving until the German’s breathing returned to its steady, soft rattle. Fitting a jeweller’s loupe to his left eye, Moriarty leaned close to the hand, bringing the needle up to a fingernail. Gently, knowing a sudden, sharp prick might awaken the old man and all would be undone, he slid the needle under the nail, breaking the skin with a gentle scratch. Wilhelm coughed, but the professor held the hand steady. He allowed ten seconds to pass before removing the inoculating needle and packing it once more in the paper. There was a faint red mark under the nail where no one would think to look. The emperor was ill; if he should take a more serious turn and ultimately die, even the most suspicious of doctors could see nothing unusual in that.

Moriarty stood, once again consulting his watch: there were eighteen minutes before the emperor would next be checked. He gazed at the sleeping man, awarding him a brief bow. “In Frieden ruhen, Herr Kaiser.” Then he left through the secret Morris-patterned panel.

Hawes opened the study door and stood aside, allowing Moriarty entrance. “Welcome back, sir. I read in the newspapers that your journey was fruitful.” The porter tactfully failed to enquire why the professor had not returned immediately: it was almost three months since the passing of Emperor Wilhelm.

Moriarty responded with a skeletal smile, placing a valise upon his writing desk. Hawes assisted with the removal of his overcoat, cradling it across an arm. “And that German gentleman has visited, sir. Five times.”

Moriarty removed his notebook and ledger from his bag, placing both on the desk. “And I fancy he will be shortly dropping by a sixth time: his hired informants will have already passed on the news of my return to England.”

“Of course, sir. Will there be anything else?”

“You need only show in His Grace when he arrives.” Moriarty looked at his watch. “I anticipate his arrival within the half-hour.”

“Very good, sir.” The porter closed the study door softly behind him.

Moriarty breathed in the air of his venerable study. It was good to be home. The sun blazed through his window, lighting the room even as the rays left his writing desk in shadow. The only change was the painting hanging above his chair, replacing the Greuze: a bucolic scene of cloying sentimentality that he loathed instantly. It was perfect. He sat, opening both notebook and ledger. Taking up a pen, he began copying figures from the notebook into the larger volume, totalling them, and comparing it to the original figure he had presented for the duke’s approval. The numbers were gratifyingly close.

He leaned back in his chair, content now to await Duke Leofric’s arrival.

Moriarty had many reasons for remaining so long in Berlin. He had wished to observe the fruits of his deed at close quarters, and it had been necessary to enact certain precautions. After the successful completion of the contract, he considered it unwise to quit the country whilst the health of anyone who might later bear witness against him continued in a robust manner. He did not imagine Eisenerz to be such a fool that he could not solve the equation, and his respective share within it. And even though Moriarty did not consider the Serb to be any form of threat, the man had swiftly deleted himself from the balance: killed in a drunken brawl with two Austrians.

Eisenerz’s eradication was neither so casual nor straightforward, for he was by nature and experience discreet and circumspect. Nevertheless, for all his caution, Eisenerz died under the wheels of a runaway dray on the Königgrätzer Strasse, less than four hours before the kaiser drew his final breath. Moriarty had arranged for an anonymous wreath to be laid during the man’s funeral; after all, in the days before his accident, Eisenerz had arranged introductions between Heinrich Schiffersohn and many of the more ambitious businessmen from German society. Moriarty saw it as a gesture of heartfelt thanks.

As expected, even though terminally ill, Wilhelm’s son had been invested as the Emperor Friedrich III; and equally expected, as Moriarty sat in his study awaiting Duke Leofric, it was clear that Friedrich was only days away from joining his father. Even though it had been no more complex than the simplest subtraction, the professor still felt pride in his achievement. That he was present added a certain piquancy to the affair.

There was a knock on his door. “The Duke Leofric is here, sir,” announced Hawes.

Moriarty glanced up, frowning. He had been lost in rêverie; most regrettable. “Show him in,” he said, closing both books and piling them neatly on his right. Leofric swept into the study, an air of brash confidence roiling in his wake. He dropped his hat on to the desk and sat without an invitation, one hand resting on his walking stick. Moriarty lay back in his chair, retreating into the dimness behind the sunlight streaming through his window.

“The news from Germany seems to agree with you, Your Grace.”

Leofric’s pale face spread in a wide grin. “And why should it not? Soon we shall have another kaiser – a fresher, more invigorated one. Through which the Fatherland may finally realise its destiny.”

“Is there anything more ephemeral than political certainty?” Moriarty tapped the leather binding of his ledger. “You have come to settle your account?”

Leofric withdrew one his infernal cigarettes and lit it. He crossed his legs and relaxed against the chair. “Not at all, Herr Professor. I think I do not owe you so much as a farthing.”

“Indeed? And by what route did you reach this conclusion?”

“You were engaged to despatch the late kaiser to his eternal reward, but he died of natural causes. It is in all of the newspapers.”

Moriarty tapped his fingertips together. “Ah, then I must have misunderstood Your Grace. I did not realise that His Imperial Majesty’s death was to be a sensational and obvious murder.”

A little of the duke’s élan dissolved in the wash of the professor’s chill demeanour. “Is this how your reputation was gained, Professor? By the taking of credit for the inevitable?”

“I admit to usually working through intermediaries, but I will only claim the dues that are rightfully mine.” He tapped the ledger again, a little harder. “I would advise Your Grace to settle this particular debt, and with alacrity. At our first meeting you said that you knew me; if that claim was – as I trust – not simply the boast of a spoiled prince then you also know I will not be gainsaid. It is a dangerous practice.”

“No.” Leofric extinguished his cigarette and stood, taking up his hat. “I shall not pay, mein herr, for I do not believe you have satisfactorily completed the contract. You will not pursue the debt; in this the courts are closed to you. So I will bid you auf wiedersehen.” He opened the study door, not waiting for the vigilant Hawes.

Moriarty stood slowly, straightening his coat. He crossed to the open study door, signalling the astonished porter standing beyond with the briefest shake of his head, and closed it. Retracing his steps, he opened the study window and left it ajar by six inches before sitting himself behind his desk once more. He slid the ledger towards him, opening it at the page listing the calculations for the duke’s contract. Beyond the window, he heard a woman’s abrupt screech, the horrified cries of men and the screams of an injured horse. Ten seconds later, Hawes opened the study door and peered through.

“I’m afraid there’s been a bit of an accident, sir. It appears that German gentleman stepped out in front of a speeding cab …”

Moriarty opened his notebook to the line of figures he had jotted down whilst returning across the Channel. He swiftly compared them with the ledger’s numbers, nodding to himself as he mentally reconciled both columns. Taking up a fresh pen, the professor dipped it in ink and carefully inscribed three red words across the ledger page: PAID IN FULL.