Moriarty

I had been waiting for the question. I did not hesitate. I knew that everything, certainly my immediate future, hung on my answer. Even now I can see us, standing alone in the dark crypt with the body stretched out before us. ‘Moriarty received a letter on the twenty-second or the twenty-third of April,’ I explained. ‘It was written by a criminal very well known to Pinkerton’s, a man in every respect as wicked and as dangerous as Moriarty himself, inviting him to a meeting. Although it would appear that Moriarty is dead, I still hoped I might find it about his person, or if not, then perhaps at his place of residence.’

‘It is this man that interests you and not Moriarty?’

‘He is the reason I am here.’

Jones shook his head. ‘Sergeant Gessner was explaining to me as we came here that the police have already made enquiries and have been unable to discover where Moriarty was staying. He may have established his base in a village nearby but if so he certainly used an assumed name. There is nowhere outside here that we can search. What makes you think he might have this letter on him?’

‘Perhaps I’m grasping at straws,’ I said. ‘No, I’ll admit it. I am grasping at straws. But the way these people work … sometimes they use signs and symbols as a method of identification. The letter itself could become a passport — and if so, Moriarty would have kept it close.’

‘If you wish, we can examine him one more time.’

‘I think we must.’

It was a grisly task. The body, cold and waterlogged, felt utterly inhuman in our hands and as we turned it, we could almost feel the flesh separating itself from the bones. The clothes were slimy. Reaching into the jacket, I found the shirt had been rucked back and my hand briefly came into contact with dead, white skin. Although there had been no prior arrangement between us, I concentrated on the upper part of the body while Jones busied himself with the lower. Just like the police before us, we found nothing. The pockets were empty. If they had contained anything more than the few items Jones had mentioned, the rushing waters of the Reichenbach Falls must have brutally ripped them away. We worked in silence. Finally, I reeled away, the gorge rising in my throat.

‘There is nothing,’ I said. ‘You were right. It was a waste of time.’

‘One moment.’ Jones had seen something. He reached out and took hold of the dead man’s jacket, examining the stitching around the breast pocket.

‘I’ve looked,’ I said. ‘There’s nothing there.’

‘Not the pocket,’ Jones said. ‘Look at this seam. This stitching has no business being here. I think it has been added later.’ He rubbed the fabric between his fingers. ‘There might be something inside the lining.’

I leaned forward. He was right. A line of stitches stretched out a couple of inches below the pocket. ‘I have a knife,’ I said. I took out the jackknife that I always carried with me and handed it to my new friend.

Jones inserted the point into the seam and gently sliced down. I watched as the stitches were cut through and the material came away. There was a secret pocket in the dead man’s jacket — and there was indeed something inside. Jones eased out a folded square of paper. It was still wet and might have disintegrated had he not handled it with the greatest delicacy. Using the flat blade of the knife he laid it on the stone table next to the body. Carefully, he unfolded it, a single page covered in handwriting that could have been a child’s.

We leaned over together. This is what we read:

HoLmES WaS CeRtAiNLY NOt A DIFFiCulT mAn to LiVe WItH. He wAs QuIeT iN HiS WAYs and his hABiTS wErE REgulAr. iT wAs RARE fOR HIm To BE up AfTeR TEN at nighT aND hE hAD INVariABLY breAKfasteD AND GoNE OUT BeFOrE i RoSe in The morNINg. SOMEtImEs He SPeNt hiS DAy At ThE ChEmiCaL lABoRatORY, SoMeTimes IN THE dIsSeCting ROoms And oCcAsionaLly iN lOnG WALKs whICH ApPeAREd TO taKE HIM INtO THE LOwEsT PORTioNs OF thE CITy. nothINg COuld exCEeD HiS ENErgY WHeN tHE wORkING FiT WAs upOn HiM.

If Jones was disappointed, he didn’t show it. But this wasn’t the letter that I had described. It did not seem to be relevant in any way at all.

‘What do you make of it?’ he asked.

‘I … I do not know what to say.’ I read the words a second time. ‘I know this text,’ I continued. ‘Of course I know it. This is part of a narrative written by Dr John Watson. It has been copied from Lippincott’s Magazine!’