The Return of Moriarty (2 page)

Mainly famous as a writer of espionage fiction, the Moriarty character held a special place in Gardner's heart. It was conceived as a trilogy, but only
The Return of Moriarty
in 1974 and
The Revenge of Moriarty
in 1975 were published when a dispute with his publisher led him to drop the idea of writing the third book.

As both a publisher and a friend of the author, I tried for many years to convince him that the third volume would be welcome, both by me and by Sherlock Holmes aficionados around the world, as the first two books were generally lauded as the best pastiches of their kind in the long history of Sherlockian literature. It was not to be until, finally, in 2006, after three decades of my cajoling, arguing, and attempted bribery, he agreed to write the third book. This adventure, titled simply
Moriarty,
was not, however, the planned finale to the trilogy. That book was to have been titled
The Revolt of Moriarty,
with Moriarty joining forces with Trotsky as they fomented revolution in Russia. It was the book he planned to write next when he died of a sudden heart attack in 2007. He did not live to see
Moriarty
published a few months later.

Otto Penzler, June 2012

Preface

There is need for some explanation regarding this volume and how it came into being. Therefore certain facts should be made clear at the outset.

In the summer of 1969 I was engaged in research concerning the current problems and operational methods of both the Metropolitan Police and the sprawling criminal underworld of London and its environs. During this period I was introduced to a man known to both the police and his associates as Albert George Spear.

Spear was at that time in his late fifties: a large well-built man with a sharp sense of humor and lively intelligence. He was also an authority on Criminal London—not only of his time but also of the previous century.

Spear was not without problems, being well-known to the police, with a record of many arrests and two convictions—the last carrying with it a sentence of fifteen years for armed bank robbery. In spite of this he was a thoroughly likable man, whose favorite pastime was reading any book that came to hand. On our first meeting he told me that he had read all my Boysie Oakes books, which he found amusing and entertaining rubbish—a criticism not far removed from my own view.

One night toward the end of August I received a telephone call from Spear saying that he wished to see me urgently. At the time I was living in London, and within the hour Spear was sitting opposite me in my Kensington house. He brought with him a heavy briefcase, which contained three thick leather-bound books. It is as well to say here that the bindings and paper of these books have since been subjected to the usual tests and indisputably date back to the second half of the nineteenth century. The writing contained in them, however, cannot with absolute certainty be dated, the results of chromatographic analysis and further tests being inconclusive.

Spear's story concerning the books was intriguing, the volumes having come into his possession via his grandfather, Albert William Spear (1858–1919), and in turn his father, William Albert Spear (1895–1940).

My informant told me that he had not really examined the books until recently. All three generations of Spears seem to have been involved in criminal activities of one kind or another, and Spear remembers his grandfather talking of a Professor Moriarty. He also claims that his father spoke much about the Professor, who was apparently a legendary figure in the lore of the Spear family.

It was on his deathbed that William Spear first spoke to Albert about the books, which were kept locked in a strongbox at the family home in Stepney. They were, he claimed, the private and secret journals of Moriarty, though at the time of his father's death the younger Spear was more concerned with the activities of one Adolf Hitler than with the family legend.

Although Spear was an avid reader, he had not really read or studied the works of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle until the late 1960's—a strange omission, but one that did not worry me since I was also a latecomer to Dr. Watson's chronicles concerning the great detective.

However, when Spear eventually began to read the saga, he quickly came across the few references concerning Holmes' archenemy, Professor James Moriarty, and was immediately struck by the descriptions in the Holmes books which had bearings on some of the things his father had told him.

One night he became so intrigued by both the similarities and paradoxical inconsistencies that he began to examine the books he had brought for me to see.

The pages were in good condition, and all three books were crammed with careful, rather sloping, copperplate handwriting. One could make out certain dates and street plans, but the remaining script was at first sight unintelligible. Spear was convinced that his father had told him the truth and what he possessed were the real Professor Moriarty's private journals, written in cipher.

I cannot deny that my first sight of those books gave me an immense thrill, though I remained on guard, expecting the sharp Spear to put in a plea for hard cash. But money was not mentioned. It would please him, he told me, if someone could decipher the journals and perhaps use them to good advantage. His interest was purely academic.

In the days that followed I came across a number of immediate inconsistencies, not least of which was the fact that the journals continued for many years after the spring of 1891—the year in which, according to Watson, Holmes disappeared at the Reichenbach Falls, presumed dead after a fight with Moriarty, only to reappear in 1894 with the story that it was Moriarty who had perished.

If these journals were those of the same Moriarty, then obviously someone was either glossing fact with fiction or there was some strange case of mistaken identity.

My own knowledge of ciphers being small, I eventually took the books to my good friends and publishers Robin Denniston (who has had much experience with codes and ciphers) and Christopher Falkus. After many long hours of arduous trial and error, coupled with applied science, the cipher was broken. The result is that at the time of writing, some one and a half books have been decoded.

Quite early in this operation we realized that the documents could not be published as they stood. Even in these permissive times there is little doubt that Moriarty's inherent evil—which lurks on every page—could cause concern. Also, the memories of too many revered and famous personalities would be subjected to wanton rumor and scandal.

We decided, therefore, that it would be best for me to publish Professor Moriarty's story in the form of a novel, or novels. This is why some of the locations and events have been slightly altered—though in some cases, such as Moriarty's involvement in the Ripper murders and the so-called de Goncourt scandal, there is no point in concealing the facts.

A further reason for this form of treatment is that Spear disappeared shortly after handing the journals to me. As I have already stated, we cannot positively date the writings, so it is just possible, though I do not believe this, that Albert Spear, with a mischievous sense of humor, has taken some pains to perpetrate the second largest literary hoax of the century. Or maybe his grandfather, who is much mentioned in the journals, was a man of imagination? Perhaps the publication of this first volume may bring us some of the answers.

I must, however, add one final acknowledgment, which is, I believe, of interest. I am deeply indebted to Miss Bernice Crow, of Cairndow, Argyllshire, great-granddaughter of the late Superintendent Angus McCready Crow, for the use of her great-grandfather's journals, notebooks, correspondence and jottings—papers which have been invaluable in writing this first volume.

J
OHN
G
ARDNER

Rowledge,
Surrey

For three long years … Watson and the world thought that Holmes also lay dead beneath the dark and swirling waters of the Reichenbach; but Holmes in 1894 was very much alive.…
Why not Moriarty? …
Anyone familiar with the history of evil in the world since 1894 has little difficulty in seeing that Professor James Moriarty was taking advantage of a long period of social unrest to consolidate and expand his undisputed position as the Napoleon of crime.…

—W
ILLIAM
S. B
ARING-
G
OULD

THE RETURN OF MORIARTY

LONDON:
Thursday, April 5,1894

(RETURN TO LIMEHOUSE)

“S
O THE TRUCE
is to be tested at last.” The man behind the desk allowed himself a grim smile of satisfaction. “You're in no doubt?” His questing eyes searched the face of the small, whippetlike figure standing before him.

“No doubt at all, Professor. I'd know, so would Parker.”

“It's Parker you've had in Baker Street then?”

“No other.”

“Suitably disguised, I trust?”

“Been his beat for the past month, acting as a lurker.”

“Performing on his Jew's harp, I suppose.”

“It's his best side.”

“Mmmm. That and the thread.” The man behind the desk was familiar with Parker's skill as a garroter. There had been cause to use him many times in the past.

The room was pleasant, a high ceiling, two windows looking out onto the river, and not overcluttered with furnishings.

The furnishings, in fact, looked relatively new, as they indeed were, the redecoration of the room having been carried out in a safe, private manner by Godfrey Giles & Company of 19 Old Cavendish Street.

The carpet was a knotted-pile Persian; one of the famous “Sir Walter Raleigh” smoking chairs stood angled to the fireplace where, because of the unseasonal early spring chill outside, a cheerful fire crackled in the grate. Behind the smoking chair was a bookcase lined with leather-bound tomes, among the spines of which, the discerning could have observed such works as Bosanquet's
Essentials of Logic
or
The Morphology of Thought
and Émile Faguet's
Politiques et moralistes français du XIX sîecle
nestling cheek-by-jowl with Lagrange's
Analytical Mechanics,
a beautiful copy of
Principia Philosophiae
and Moriarty's
The Dynamics of an Asteroid.

Apart from the large desk—the central feature of the furnishings, a kidney-shaped Regency-style piece with a leather top—there were a pair of Chippendale tables in dark mahogany and two Morocco-covered easy chairs, the latest design from Hampton's of Pall Mall. There was no bric-a-brac, no attempt to overlay the utilitarian, stern interior with fripperies. There was, however, one painting, which occupied a central place on the wall opposite the desk, so that it could be seen by the man who sat there: a haunting work showing a young woman, head on hands, peeping out of the canvas with a coy, sideways look. To the expert it was undoubtedly the work of Jean-Baptiste Greuze, that unusually successful French artist of the 1700's, popular for his paintings of young girls like this one, and scenes depicting family virtue.

The man behind the desk lowered his head, as though in thought, while the whippet person shuffled his feet.

There was a third occupant in the room, sprawled in one of the easy chairs. A man in late middle age, with a high, deep-lined brow, aggressive nose and cruel blue eyes, the lids of which drooped cynically. He shifted purposefully.

“Is he still in Baker Street?” the third man asked.

The one who stood before the desk flicked his eyes from his interlocutor in the easy chair to the man behind the desk.

The first speaker, seated behind the desk, slowly raised his head, the face moving from side to side in a manner reminiscent of an iguana.

“That is for me to ask, I think, Moran.” His speech was quiet but with a great sense of authority. “You have done well in my absence, apart from one or two stupid and unnecessary bunglings, such as this foolish business of Adair, but I would be grateful if you would remember that I am now back in full command.”

Moran grunted, his eyes narrowing.

“Is Mr. Holmes still at the Baker Street house, Ember?” continued the Professor.

“He has gone to Kensington, to visit his friend Watson.”

Moran made another irritable, grunting noise from the depths of his chair.

“Ah, the physician.” The Professor allowed himself a thin smile. “That means …”

“It means he will begin meddling with the Adair business,” cracked Moran sharply. “Watson is already interested.”

“So you informed me. Moran, you are a fool to have become involved with Adair. With Holmes and Watson interested we will have to take steps I could have done without at this stage. I have much to do, a great deal to organize now that I am back at the helm: the business in France, the general progress of anarchy throughout the world, not to mention the day-to-day work here. You saw how many people were waiting downstairs, all wanting to see me, all wanting favors.” He raised his right hand, flicking it toward the door in a peremptory gesture. “Leave us, Ember.”

The whippet, Ember, nodded sharply and backed toward the door after the manner of one leaving the presence of some Eastern potentate. When the door had closed behind Ember, the man they called the Professor rose from his chair.

“Let me deal with Holmes.” There was venom in Moran's tone. “If I do it, he'll be out of your way once and for all, Moriarty.”

An unseen observer would have been surprised to hear the Professor being referred to as Moriarty. Apart from the habit of oscillating his head like a reptile, the man who stood behind the desk bore little resemblance to the only recorded description of Professor James Moriarty.
^*

This man was not unusually tall, around five feet ten inches, one supposed, in his stocking feet. True, he was not of bulky build, but you would call him slim rather than thin, and his head was topped by a generous mane of well-barbered hair, graying at the temples in a distinguished fashion. His posture was upright, shoulders square and not rounded as Holmes' description leads us to believe. As for his face, the complexion was certainly not pale; rather it was that of a man who has spent a generous amount of time in the sun, not deeply brown, but certainly tanned. He was clean-shaven and there was indeed a certain asceticism about him, but the eyes were bright, far from being sunken. In all he appeared to be a man of much younger age than that suggested by the Holmes description, which until now has been taken as historical fact.