Professor Moriarty: The Hound Of The D’urbervilles (25 page)

The Professor looked at me. ‘I’m sure we shall find them before they find us.’

With that comforting thought, we were on our way again.

Outside Trantridge Hall we found Dan’l, standing guard, Gertie at the ready.

‘Saul said you wuz done for. Et by a dog demon.’

‘Saul’s not the first and won’t be the last to report my death. He’s alive then?’

‘Came back in a state. Said hounds of Hell were after him.’

‘So they were.’ I noted the plural.

Inside, we found the company in the dining room. A Guy Fawkes’ Night bonfire roared and spit on the huge grate. A carved, bloody side of beef was hacked to the bone on a platter. Stoke, drunk and affrighted, sunk in an armchair. Mod, in a scarlet satin dress, poured for the Master. Braham paced in front of the fire. Thring stood by, with a trolley of bottles fetched up from the cellar.

Saul, it seems, had gone early to bed after an exhausting day.

Mod swarmed up at me in a froth of concern.

‘Sebastian,’ she cooed, ‘it’s such a relief you are living! We thought you’d perished in The Chase. Another victim of the Curse of the d’Urbervilles.’

‘No, that was Nakszynski.’

She touched my bandaged head and kissed my cheek.

‘You’ve been heroically wounded. Who did those splints for you? I’ll change them properly. You’ll take brandy, of course. And supper.’

I warmed under the spell of feminine attentions. Mod cocked her head, as if only just noticing I was not unaccompanied.

‘This is Professor Moriarty,’ I said. ‘My associate.’

She curtseyed and extended a hand which the Prof did not take. He sized Mod up with a single watery-eyed glare.

Moriarty distrusted and disliked women. I only distrust them.

‘Moriarty and Moran – f--kload of use you’ve been,’ blustered Stoke from the depths of his chair. ‘Nakszynski’s dead, and the dog’s not.’

Moriarty looked at our client.

‘You will have your pelt,’ he assured the craven sot. ‘But, first, Mr – Derby is it? – would you fetch down the portrait which hangs above the mantelpiece? The one on the left. Yes, the fellow in the armour. I wish to examine it...’

Braham was surprised to be so addressed.

‘Are you sure?’ he responded. ‘It’s a dirty, ugly thing.’

‘If I were not sure, I would not make the request. Now, in the name of your Master, please comply.’

In his sozzled fug, Stoke gave a shoulder hitch which indicated his manager should follow Moriarty’s orders.

‘It’s Sir Pagan Plantagenet d’Urberville,’ said Mod to the Professor. ‘Last night, Parson Tringham told us...’

Moriarty waved her silent. She pouted, but recovered.

Braham carried a tall-backed chair close to the fire and stood on it. He had to stretch to heft the picture off its hooks. Flames licked at his trousers. He wobbled on the chair, finding his burden unwieldy. Sticky canvas parted from the frame in a curl.

‘Careful, you shitbird,’ shouted Stoke. ‘That’s my f---ing property!’

Braham stopped the music hall comedy turn and deliberately chucked the picture onto the fire. He reached into his jacket and pulled a pistol.

Making the most expensive left-hand shot of my life, I plugged Braham under the chin. Silver ploughed up through his skull. The top of his head spattered over Uncle Si’s portrait. Braham dropped like a liquid turd from a loose-bowelled elephant.

I assumed my chances with his sister were up the chimney.

Moving fast, Moriarty fetched the picture off of the fire and laid it on the table. He blotted out flames with a napkin.

Mod had her hand in her mouth, stopping a scream.

Braham lay where he fell. No point even checking to see if he was dead. Still, I kicked his gun out of his hand, into a far corner of the room.

Stoke tried to focus. Dan’l hurried in, summoned by the shot.

Thring squeaked and ran. I drew a bead on his back as he made for the kitchen door.

‘Let him go,’ Moriarty said, still concerned with the painting. ‘The butler has nothing to do with it.’

The Professor took the peeled-up corner of the portrait, then ripped the canvas from the frame. Pagan Plantagenet’s picture had been glued over the portrait of a handsome, weak-faced young man.

‘Remind you of anyone?’ asked the Professor.

The hair was dark – otherwise, it was Saul Derby to the life.

This had to be Simon’s son and intended heir, the rake who was too stupid not to turn his back on a woman when a knife happened to be within easy reach.

I felt a sharp pain in my back. Craning around, I saw a meat fork stuck out of my left shoulder. It had been pulled from the beef and put into me. Mod, less solicitous of my health than before, twisted the fork. Pain ran down my arm. My revolver fell from nerveless fingers.

I was no longer in a position to sneer at the late Alexander Stoked’Urberville.

From the foyer, a whistle sounded.

The doors opened. In walked Saul Derby, accompanied by four wolves. The pack trotted in step with him – big mouths open, spit-ropes hanging from fangs, eyes bright, fur thick with reddle and gore.

One animal broke ranks and loped over to Braham to lick salty mess from his head. Saul whistled, sharply. The wolf sat up, alert.

Sauntering as if he owned the Hall, pets matching his pace, Saul came to the table. He admired the portrait as if looking in a flattering mirror. Then, he took notice of the picture’s discoverer.

‘Professor Moriarty, I presume,’ he said, mildly.

Moriarty nodded and responded ‘...and you are “Pagan Sorrow”. Sorrow Durbeyfield.’

Saul regarded the Prof with admiration.

‘You could call yourself Sorrow Clare, if you took your mother’s married name,’ continued Moriarty. ‘Or claim the name and estates of your father, variously called Alexander Stoke, Stoke-d’Urberville or plain d’Urberville.’

Saul touched his father’s painted face. I suppose he was mad, but who in this room wasn’t?

Moriarty lectured on what was doubtless the wolf-whistler’s favourite subject: himself.

‘You’re supposed to have died in infancy, are you not? There’s some tuppenny tears anecdote about an unbaptised babe refused the solace of a tiny grave in Marlott churchyard. Was that a trick or did you have a shortlived twin? No matter. You were raised discreetly with your mother’s siblings. No one in Wessex keeps a name whole. Over centuries, D’Urberville became Durbeyfield. Clipping it to Derby was a recent expedient. This is your Aunt Modesty. That fellow cooling by the fire is your Uncle Abraham. Your aunt Elizabeth-Louise is around somewhere, hanging her head in shame for her impersonation of her sister’s ghost. Did you huddle together in the d’Urberville tombs all those years ago, swearing to have your birthright and bring ruin to the perfidious Stokes?’

Saul-Sorrow shrugged. So did his wolves.

‘It’s a curious thing, when one parent murders the other. Clouds issues. And the inheritance.’

‘Trantridge is mine, whichever way you look at it,’ said Saul-Sorrow, who didn’t seem so foolish now. ‘Whether through the Stokes or the d’Urbervilles, I am true Master.’

‘C---sucker!’ rumbled Stoke from his chair. He’d drawn up his legs at the sight of so many Red Shucks. He must think he was seeing through the multiplying glass of drink. ‘Whey-faced c--t!’

It was easy to forget Stoke was in the room. While Moriarty laid out the plot, I was more concerned with the pressing – not to say stabbing – matter of the fork in my back.

‘There is another claimant,’ Moriarty told Saul. ‘My client.’

‘That’s for damn certain,’ put in Stoke.

‘I want no battle with you, Professor,’ Saul said. ‘I am an admirer. I daresay few appreciate your achievements as I do. What I’ve done has taken applied thought. It’s not been rushed into like ordinary crime. It has been a scientific campaign.’

Moriarty’s head oscillated. Someone was in trouble.

I wished the bloody fork out of my back. My hands were at present useless to me. Saul stepping on my gun-hand was no mistake but a strike in his campaign.

‘I had to prime Tringham to revive the Red Shuck legend. I had to craft that plaster cast to sell the monster. I had to find, treat and train my pack. I had to harry away, not too quickly, removing all Stoke’s comforts and aides. It’s taken much to reach this pass. There have been sacrifices.’

We all stood or sat still, mindful of the beasts in the room. Mod, in theory of the wolves’ party, was uncomfortable around them. Among Saul’s ‘sacrifices’ had been his brother’s former fiancée, I remembered. Aside from physical discomfort, I was rather cheered it was all now out in the open. You know where you are when you can see the animal’s eyes. Or, in this instance, the animals’ eyes.

‘Whatever Stoke is paying you, I’ll double,’ Saul said to the Prof. ‘Look at him. Your client. A useless, drunken, cowardly braggart. Practically an American! No fit Master of Trantridge. I have plans for the estate, Professor. Scientific plans. I intend to reintroduce the Wessex Wolf to England. I’ll clear out the village, of course. People get in the way. But The Chase will be preserved. Do we have an understanding?
Double the fee!’

Stoke whimpered, clutching an empty goblet. I believe he wet himself.

Moriarty’s head continued its swaying.

‘No, Mr Sorrow,’ he said, at last. ‘It will not do. I have taken a commission. Thus far, Mr Stoke-d’Urberville has kept his part of the bargain. I have a reputation to uphold.’

That was a laugh. He’d sold out clients for profit so often it was almost a habit – though he was careful to keep it quiet so as not to inhibit trade.

Stoke looked desperately hopeful.

‘Have you ever seen anyone torn apart?’ Saul asked. ‘By wolves?’

‘Not by wolves,’ the Professor replied.

‘It’s most...
instructive...
’

Saul gave a short, shrill whistle. His wolves leaped...

Stoke screamed as Red Shuck –
four
Red Shucks! – swarmed all over him. Their teeth caught in his clothes. Cloth ripped.

Then, another noise assaulted my eardrums.

And the wolves laid off our client.

Moriarty had produced his crank-handle music box. Its thin, unearthly whine filled the dining room. Unpleasant to human ears, it was agony to canine senses. The wolves rolled over, choking on their froth, biting their own tails, pawing their skulls.

Saul was almost as sorely affected. The confidence went out of him. Dan’l got meaty arms around him and held him from behind.

I scraped the fork out of my back against a long-case clock. I felt a wet seepage inside my jacket. Better out than in, though.

Mod made a rush towards the Professor, but I tripped her – then put a boot on her head to keep her on the carpet.

The wolves’ eyes rolled and bulged, as if their brains were boiling in their pans. Bloody tears started from their eyes. Red foam oozed from their nostrils.

My gold back teeth pained me.

At once, the Professor’s gadget shut off, with the twang of a snapped string in its works. Its job was done, though. The demon dogs lay, heads leaking – dead as fur rugs.

Stoke uncurled from his ball of terror and stood. In a poor state, quivering like a recruit who’s survived his first charge, he bled from a dozen scratches. Half his face was slack, skewing his villain’s moustache to one side.

Swiftly, our client got his starch back. As he crossed the room, he stood taller, taking pleasure in having the upper hand and his enemies out in the open.

Mod writhed and kicked, but I kept her down with boot pressure. For skewering me, the minx deserved worse.

Stoke would serve his enemies as he saw fit.

He picked up Gertie, which Dan’l had dropped, and felt the stick’s weight. I recalled my deduction that it had been used in night-work. Saul struggled in Dan’l grip, but had nothing to say for himself. He bled from the ears, showing kinship with his wolves.

Stoke fetched an enormous clout to Saul’s face. Cheekbones gave way.

Let go, Saul fell to his knees. Stoke rained blows on his head and shoulders, then launched into kicks to the chest – with odd reverse heel-stabs which would have made sense if he were wearing spurs – and vicious jabs at the groin.

Our client kicked Saul from one side of the hall to the other. Saul’s clothes soaked through until they were a match for Diggory Venn’s.

Mod keened in frustration. I noted a sympathetic spasm on Dan’l’s face. The big cowboy wasn’t entirely with his boss in all this. He liked Saul and Mod and – despite what had happened in front of his face – his slow mind wouldn’t change for a while yet...

Eventually, Stoke left off kicking and went to the table. He stuffed a thick slice of beef into his mouth and washed it down with a quaff of wine. Exercise had given him an appetite.

Saul rolled into a heap, among his dead wolves.

Stoke was drunk on the thrill of hurting someone helpless, aglow with the sudden change in his fortunes. He wasn’t afraid any more. Despite the sorry state of his appearance, he was Master of Trantridge again.

‘You’ll join me in a drink, Moriarty? Moran?’

I needed to get a hellcat out from under my foot, but appreciated the offer.

‘Just a tipple,’ I said.

Mod thumped the floor.

‘Our business is concluded,’ Moriarty said, curtly – freezing Stoke as he reached for the bottle. ‘There is the question of the agreed fee. Five thousand pounds for a pelt.’

Stoke grinned. ‘Indeed. You’ve earned it right smartly, Professor. You and your little gimmick-box. That was your
angle,
of course. You could have just sold me the box and I’d not have needed your personal services. I’ll not grudge you that. It’s sound economics, one businessman to another.’

Stoke took a key from his waistcoat and opened a cabinet. Inside was a big, solid safe. Several gents of my acquaintance could have opened it quicker without knowing the combination beforehand than Stoke did working the wheel with excited, still-bloody fingers.

‘Silver to your satisfaction?’

Stoke laid five weighty bars of Tombstone silver on the table.

Moriarty waited, making no move.