Moriarty

Athelney Jones had produced a gun. Against all the rules, he must have carried it into the legation and it had been in his pocket all along. He brought it up and aimed at the child.

I took out my own gun. Jones looked at me and I think I saw shock, dismay and finally resignation pass through his eyes.

‘I’m sorry,’ I said, and shot him in the head.

TWENTY-ONE

The Truth of the Matter

It would appear, my dear reader, that I have deceived you — although, in truth, you are not very dear to me and anyway, I have taken the greatest pains to avoid any deception at all. That is to say, I have not lied. At least, I have not lied to you

. It is perhaps a matter of interpretation but there is all the difference in the world, for example, between ‘I am Frederick Chase’ and ‘Let me tell you that my name is Frederick Chase’ which I remember typing on the very first page. Did I say that the body on the slab in Meiringen was James Moriarty? No. I merely stated, quite accurately, that it was the name written on the label attached to the dead man’s wrist. It should not have escaped your attention, by now, that I, your narrator, am Professor James Moriarty. Frederick Chase existed only in my imagination … and perhaps in yours. You should not be surprised. Which of the two names appeared on the front cover?

All along, I have been scrupulously fair, if only for my own amusement. I have never described an emotion that I did not feel. Even my dreams I have made available to you. (Would Frederick Chase have dreamed of drowning in the Reichenbach Falls? I don’t think so.) I have presented my thoughts and opinions exactly as they were. I did like Athelney Jones and even tried to prevent him pursuing the case when I learned he was married. I did think him a capable man — though obviously with limitations. His attempts at disguise, for example, were ridiculous. When he presented himself dressed as a pirate or a fisherman on the day we set out for Blackwall Basin, I not only recognised him, I had to work hard to prevent myself laughing out loud. I have faithfully recorded every spoken word, mine and others. I may have been forced to withhold certain details from time to time, but I have added nothing extraneous. An elaborate game, you might think, but I have found the business of writing a curiously tedious one — all those hours spent pummelling away at a machine that has proved unequal to the task of eighty thousand two hundred and forty-six words (a peculiarity of mine, the ability to count and to recall the number of every word as I go). Several of the keys have jammed and the letter e is so faded as to be indecipherable. One day, someone will have to type the whole thing again. My old adversary, Sherlock Holmes, was fortunate indeed to have his Watson, the faithful chronicler of his adventures, but I could afford no such luxury. I know that this will not be published in my lifetime, if at all. Such is the nature of my profession.

I must explain myself. We have travelled thus far together and we must come to an understanding before we go our separate ways. I am tired. I feel I have written enough already but even so it is necessary to go back to the start — indeed, even further than that — to put everything into perspective. I am reminded of the Gestalt theory proposed by Christian von Ehrenfels in his fascinating volume, Über Gestaltqualitäten — I was reading it, as it happens, on the train to Meiringen — which questions the relationship between the brain and the eye. There is an optical illusion that has become popular. You think you are seeing a candlestick. Then, on closer examination, you perceive that it is in fact two people facing each other. This has, in some ways, been a similar exercise though hardly quite so trivial.

Why was I in Meiringen? Why was it necessary to fake my own death? Why did I meet with Inspector Athelney Jones and become his travelling companion and friend? Well, let me turn on the electric light and pour another brandy. Now. I am ready.