Moriarty

‘You wear no wedding ring, which might not be conclusive in itself but — you will forgive me — no wife would permit her husband to leave with such stains on his cuffs nor with shoes that cry out to be reheeled. As to the apartment, that is again simply a question of observation and deduction. I notice that the fabric of your jacket — the right sleeve — has been quite worn down. How could this have occurred unless you had become accustomed to climbing several flights of stairs, rubbing your arm against a metal banister? I would imagine your office has an elevator. An old-fashioned apartment block might not.’

He stopped, and I could see that all the talking had tired him for he rested more heavily on his stick. For my part, I was gazing with an admiration that I made no attempt to disguise and might have stood there for a while longer had the door not suddenly opened and the two police officers reappeared. They spoke rapidly in German and although the meaning was unclear, their tone was friendly enough, and I gathered that they were now ready to escort the Scotland Yard man to wherever the body lay. This proved to be the case. Jones straightened up and began to move towards the door.

‘Can I have a word?’ I said. ‘I am sure you have your instructions, Inspector Jones, but it may just turn out that I’m able to help you. Everything you said to me — that extraordinary demonstration just now — was absolutely right. I’ve followed Moriarty here because of a communication that was made three weeks ago and which may have serious consequences for you and for me. It is true that I cannot identify him, but it is of the utmost importance that I’m at least allowed to see the body.’

The man from Scotland Yard paused, his hand clenched around the top of the walking stick. ‘You understand, sir, that I am here following orders given to me by my superiors.’

‘You have my word that I will not interfere in any way.’

The two Swiss policemen were waiting for us. Jones came to a decision and nodded. ‘Er kommt mit uns.’ He turned to me. ‘You can join us.’

‘I am truly grateful to you,’ I said. ‘And I give you my word that you won’t regret it.’

We left my luggage at the police station and crossed the village, following the main road past a scattering of houses. All the while Jones and Gessner spoke in German, keeping their voices low. At length we arrived at the church of St Michael, a queer little building with its bright red roof and rather top-heavy bell tower. The policemen unlocked the door for us and stood back as we stepped inside. I bowed my head in front of the altar but Inspector Jones, I noticed, did not. We came to a flight of steps leading down to the crypt and he indicated that he wished to continue with me alone. Gessner needed little persuasion: even in the coolness of the church with its thick stone walls, the smell of death was already apparent.

The body was as I have described it. When living, the man who lay stretched out in front of us would have been unusually tall though with stooped shoulders. I could imagine him a librarian or perhaps a lecturer in a university, which, of course, James Moriarty had once been. His clothes, black and old-fashioned, clung to him like seaweed — I fancied they were still wet. There are many ways to die but few leave a nastier imprint on the human frame than drowning. His flesh was heavy and foul. Its colour was hideous to describe.

‘We cannot be certain that this is Moriarty,’ I suggested. ‘You were quite correct when you said that I could not identify him. But can you?’

Jones shook his head. ‘I never set eyes on him. Nor did any of my colleagues. Moriarty lived in the shadows most of his life and made a virtue of it. It is possible that in due course we will be able to find someone who worked with him in his capacity as a professor of mathematics, and be assured that I will set about just such an investigation on my return. For the present, however, I will say this much. The man in front of us is the right age and the clothes he is wearing are undoubtedly English. You see the pocket watch? It is silver-cased and clearly marked, “John Myers of London”. He did not come here for the pleasures of the countryside. He died at the same time as Sherlock Holmes. So I ask you again. Who else can he be?’

‘Has the body been searched?’

‘The Swiss police went through the pockets, yes.’

‘And there was nothing?’

‘A few coins. A handkerchief. Nothing more. What is it you were hoping to find?’