Professor Moriarty: The Hound Of The D’urbervilles (39 page)

Moriarty walked nearly to the end of the platform, and peered into the dark as if through a telescope. Could he discern life on some far-distant star? Or was he just fixed on some theoretical point half a mile into the tunnel?

‘I sense a visitor,’ the Reverend said, and stood up straight as if for inspection.

We were all ignoring him now, but he was right. In the dark of the tunnel, a tiny flame burned.

‘It is an apparition of fire,’ Doone announced. ‘We must be calm and receptive. Those who have passed beyond the veil are more frightened of us than we are of them.’

The flame was bigger. No, it was the same size... but coming closer.

Madame Valladon’s hand was in her bag, curled around her revolver, no doubt. She could fire through the seam if she had to.

We watched the light. It bobbed slightly as it advanced.

‘Well met, spirit,’ Doone said, almost singing.

The fake Carnacki touched his fingers to his temples, as if doing a music hall mind-reading act.

‘That is no spirit light,’ Monsieur Sabin declared. ‘It is a railwayman’s dark lantern. There is always, you see, a logical explanation. Have I not proved this? Yes, I have.’

The Frenchman was right.

Now we could see the lantern, swinging from side to side, and make out the man carrying it. He wore a peaked cap, which flashed silver, and a long, black coat.

‘James, is that you?’ the Professor shouted.

‘Yes, James,’ came the answer.

‘Hurry up,’ Moriarty insisted. ‘It’s cold here on the platform.’

‘I’m aware of that. It’s cold here in Cornwall. On winter nights, those tend to be the climactic conditions throughout these isles.’

‘Climatic. “Climactic” refers to a climax or culmination, not the weather,’ the Professor said.

The newcomer shrugged off the correction.

Stationmaster Moriarty trudged along the gravel rail bed and up the incline to the platform, where the Professor waited impatiently. The brothers exchanged beak nods. They walked together towards the rest of us. They shared a stalking gait.

Young James was a Moriarty all right, with piercing eyes behind thin-rimmed spectacles and the beginnings of the family stoop. His face had not yet sunk to the vulture leanness shared by the Colonel and the Professor, but that would come in a few years if nobody hanged him. Walking up to our group, he set down his lantern and took off his cap. He had a fuller, darker head of hair than either of his brothers. He ran his fingers through his locks, probably a sly dig.

‘James, you’re not looking well,’ he said, mildly. ‘The country does not agree with you. You are a city bird.’

‘I say, do you two know each other?’ Lucas asked. ‘I only just realised, same name and all that. Stationmaster Moriarty. Professor Moriarty. You must be father and son?’

At this suggestion, the Jameses made faces as if they’d bitten something sour.

‘They are brothers,’ Sabin said. ‘I am surprised you failed to find that out when you researched our summons here.’

‘Research? Oh I never bother with that. Prejudices the mind. Prods you to premature conclusions.’

‘Tchah,’ said the Frenchman, dismissing Lucas’
pensée.

‘I suppose James told you to keep away from Fal Vale,’ Stationmaster Moriarty said to the Professor. ‘He’s made his position clear, as usual.’

‘I thought
you
were James?’ Madame Valladon said.

‘No,
he
is James,’ Doone said. ‘Professor James Moriarty.’

Neither brother explained. Our fellow travellers were left in confusion.

Professor and Stationmaster smirked together, almost undetectably – a family expression which excluded the rest of us. I got a chill from more than the night air.

The brothers didn’t much care for one another, but each knew the other well. I was on as intimate terms with the Prof as he would allow, yet I was often forced to admit I shared rooms with a stranger. Hitherto, it hadn’t bothered me: Moriarty kept secrets from everyone, so why should I be any different? I was his employee, not his friend. We knocked about for mutual advantage, not hale-fellow-well-met nonsense. Sometimes, I despised him more than I hate my old man... with a similar, curious sort of hate commingled with admiration, passion and a sense they were impossible to get away from.

I broke with Sir Augustus to avoid becoming simply ‘the dutiful son’, only to become Moriarty’s Number Two. In many things, the Professor had supplanted pater – whippings were less direct, but no less frequent. With the appearance of Moriarty’s brothers, I realised there were those closer to his cold heart. Family by blood, not association. I’d thought the Professor invincible, beyond human hurt or harm, but it seemed the other Jameses could prick him.

Stationmaster Moriarty produced keys and opened the waiting room. We all pressed eagerly indoors. Thanks to Lucas lifting his hat and getting in the way, Madame Valladon claimed the chair nearest the fire. Sabin wasn’t happy leaving his precious boxes on the platform, but reluctantly did so. Doone said he was sure the spirits wouldn’t disturb Sabin’s belongings.

Only the fake Carnacki kept away from the fire. I wondered if he was wearing a wax nose which would melt if he got too close.

The Stationmaster stood like a man in command, enjoying the company he had put together, anticipating fun and frolics. I’ve known society matrons take pleasure in seating next to each other people they know will quarrel before the fish course is done. ‘Fireworks’ are all part of the entertainment. I wondered if Young James had combined sceptics and believers in this party for similar reasons, then recalled none of this lot were who they said they were. Ergo, this ghost-worm hunt was nothing of the sort.

The Professor stood to one side, watching his brother.

One other thing: Young James Moriarty hadn’t asked who
I
might be.

During the journey, I’d ferreted out that everyone else present had received a personal invitation. Though his note to the Professor referred to ‘you and your party’, the Stationmaster could scarcely have expected his brother – a maths master, so far as anyone knew – to show up at Fal Vale with a war-scarred, semi-notorious reprobate in tow. Most folk would be astonished that Professor Moriarty was even on a nodding acquaintance with the ferocious Basher Moran. So, I reckoned Young James already knew who I was. Unlike Colonel Moriarty, he had an idea what business the Prof was really in. Our Stationmaster hid his dark lantern under a bushel in the Cornish wilds, but some stratagem boiled in his Moriarty brain.

‘Now, about this worm...’ Young James began. ‘What am I bid for its secrets?’

I had not expected to attend an auction in the waiting room of an obscure railway station. Apparently, the ‘secrets of the worm’ were on the block. I couldn’t say whether Stationmaster Moriarty intended his brother to join the bidding or had invited the Professor to observe and be impressed.

None of the other Special passengers immediately stuck up paws, scratched noses or waved sheaves of banknotes. The game had changed quickly, and our pack of psychic investigators were still playing the last hand.

Young James looked pleased with himself.

‘The legend of the Fal Vale Worm is well known,’ he said. Stepping aside, he pointed to an indifferent, faded picture hung over the fireplace. It showed a creature slithering white coils among green Cornish hills. Hairless and earless, it had a catlike snarl and human eyes. A knight in armour raised a lance against plumes of flame pouring from the beast’s nostrils. Rude peasants sensibly scattered away from the titanic combat. The creature had no legs, but from the peculiar way the unknown artist had depicted the running peasants I judged legs weren’t his strong suit, so he might have been tempted to leave them out.

‘The story is old as clay,’ the Stationmaster continued. ‘An undying beast, native to the depths of the ancient mine-workings, the worm emerges by night to exhale infernal flame. Every village hereabouts has an inn called The White Dragon where folktale collectors buy drinks for yokels who trot out their family legends. Always, someone claims their grandfather or great-uncle saw or met or fought the worm, and it’s always some other man’s grandfather who got burned or eaten. You have variations on this theme all over the country, in remote regions where a Beast of the Bog or a Wyvern of the Wold might hide away from the local hunt or the catchers from London Zoo.’

He produced another framed picture to spice up the narrative, a photograph of a canvas and papier-mâché worm with twelve human legs protruding from its body posing against a stone wall. It had a snarling, frilly eyebrowed, fanged head at either end.

Young James continued, ‘Every year at the Padstow May Day Festival, a team of six Fal Vale men represent the worm. They skirmish in the street with rivals from other villages who dress up as ’obby ’osses.’

Evidently, lecturing was a Moriarty family trait. I wished Young James would hurry up and get to it.

‘Uncommonly for its breed, the Fal Vale Worm has been active lately, and left evidence of its night work. You will have seen notices in the press of the fires which have troubled this area in the last few months; fires which will not be put out by buckets of water. Copses and haystacks turned to white ash. Fields brown and smoking after heavy rain. A farm at Compton Dando burned to the ground. A scarecrow caught fire two nights ago, and the black skeleton of a crucified man was found where the scarecrow had stood.’

The Professor nodded. If he had known about this incendiary outbreak, he hadn’t shared the information.

‘There is natural explanation,’ Sabin insisted.

‘You never know, though,’ Lucas said. ‘Not with a worm.’

‘I doubt a spirit would cause such harm,’ Doone said.

I was not immediately inclined to conclude that the Fal Vale Worm was the genuine article. My first suspect would be some sweaty, burn-marked little fellow with a box of lucifers, a jug of paraffin and a heart which skips whenever anything catches light.

We had a couple of firebugs on our lists; gents who go by names like Benny Blazes, Tim the Torch or Firebrand Sam. Even if there’s a solid bit of profit, from insurance or otherwise, to be had, it makes sense to use someone who knows – and loves – fire to perform arson duties. They’ll do it for nothing but jollies, for a start. The flame which burns when doused with water is a firebug tell. It’s not magic, just a mix of chemicals: they all have favourite recipes and jealously guard their secret ingredients.

‘The worm has been seen,’ the Stationmaster said, ‘zooming along the rail bed outside, disappearing into the tunnel faster than any train. I can produce sworn testimony. But sworn testimony will not, I believe, impress anyone in this room. I shall accept no bids until you’ve the evidence of your own senses.’

He smiled, readily. Not an expression I associated with his brothers. From his waistcoat pocket, he produced a railwayman’s watch.

‘If we forsake the comfort of this room for a few moments, we may bear witness to an, ah, occult phenomenon.’

‘...Which runs on a timetable, James?’

‘Yes, James. Punctually.’

‘Many spirits are affected by cycles of the moon,’ Doone put in.

I had the uneasy feeling I was the only one in the room completely in the dark. It was plain we were no longer hunting ghosts.

‘I say,’ Lucas said. ‘Where’s our Carnacki toddled off to?’

Madame Valladon swore in German.

The imposter had slipped out of the room when everyone else was paying attention to the Stationmaster. He had left his pipe propped by a stopped clock, so his smell lingered.

‘This is not to be tolerated,’ Sabin declared.

‘Raw-ther,’ Lucas agreed.

‘Mayhap Mr Carnacki was an astral projection all along?’ ventured Doone.

‘An astral projection who left the door open?’ I said.

The Stationmaster seemed to be thrown off his game by this distraction, but swiftly tried to re-establish order. He held up his watch and tapped it.

‘I insist that agreed rules of conduct remain in force,’ said the Frenchman.

Young James put his railwayman’s whistle to his lips and blew a shrill toot.

‘I suggest we follow my brother’s direction, for the moment,’ the Professor said. ‘We shall see what is to be seen, then draw conclusions. Is that acceptable?’

Sabin nodded. The others fell in line.

Moriarty looked to his brother, like a headmaster who has shown a junior staff member how to quiet the boys. Our host, I fancied, was irritated. Of the three Jameses Moriarty, he was the least commanding... It seemed a comedown that a family which could produce a Professor Moriarty and a Colonel Moriarty should run to a mere Stationmaster. Now, I wondered whether Young James had not been promoted above his natural abilities.

The Professor lead us out onto the platform. His brother followed.

A thick mist had risen, turning the rail beds into rivers of white. I smelled something like sulphur... which I associate with firearms rather than hellfire. I could
taste
danger in the air. Fal Vale Junction felt like a fort just before the attack. While the others formed their observing party, I sauntered towards the pile of luggage and slipped a rifle out of my gun case. I carried it unostentatiously, barrel-down like a crutch. I felt much happier with a loaded gun at hand.

‘What’s through that tunnel?’ Lucas asked.

‘Tin mines,’ explained the Stationmaster. ‘In the daytime, ore trains run to and from Tarleton. The metals are cold at night.’

‘The so-called worm, it abide in its mine by day, and emerge by night?’ Sabin asked. ‘This is your suggestion?’

‘More than a suggestion,’ Young James said. ‘You can set your watch by it.’

Everyone turned towards the tunnel. All I could see was night and fog.

In a music hall, when the magician wants you to watch the pretty lady in tights or pay attention to his waving wand... that’s the time to look everywhere else, to see how the trick’s being pulled off. I let the ghost-finding brigade peer into the hole, and scanned the station and environs. The fake Carnacki was hiding somewhere. I’d not forgotten the lady conductor with the throwing-knife either. With all this mist, there were many places nearby where a person could lie low.