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I admit to being irritable that morning as I arose from my slumber. While I had not participated in the previous night’s Bonfire Night revelry, the sounds of drunken impropriety had filtered through my window, and awoken me many times.
Entering the living room of my lodgings at 221b Baker Street, which I share with Professor James Moriarty, I found my friend already awake, his shirt untucked and unbuttoned, his hair more rumpled and messy than it usually is.
He had the remnants of a bruise on his face, the sure markings of an evening spent at the dockside taverns. “Do sit down, Moran,” he said without looking up from the letter he was reading. “We shall be receiving Inspector Lestrade shortly.”
“I suppose you know this because you heard the rattle of a carriage with one faulty wheel, and from the sound you judged its weight to be - …”
“I know this,” Moriarty said sharply, and I could see he was most vexed with me for making light of his talents, “because a rather raggedy policeman indeed dropped this letter off earlier this morning, while you were still snoring.”
“I do not snore, Moriarty.”
Moriarty grunted, and tossed the letter savagely at my head. “Please note the signature. You will see that it reads ‘G. Lestrade.’ From this, I deduced that the letter was sent by Inspector Lestrade. Also, you will note a sentence some four lines down where Lestrade says ‘I shall visit you at about eight in the morning, circumstances permitting.’ A critical clue, and one I took to mean that he would visit us at roughly eight this morning, so long as the circumstances were favourable.”
“I can see you’re in a poor mood,” I said, in my best placating tone.
“A poor mood? No, Moran, absolutely not. As you can see, I am abuzz with the glow of deduction.”
From that point onwards, he said nothing more to me, choosing instead to shrink his long frame as small as he could, so that he was huddled in the armchair, and sulk. It was foolish of me, I realised, to mock his talents, even as light-heartedly as I did, for Moriarty was as vain and sensitive about them as a young noblewoman would be about her beauty.
Sure enough, Lestrade arrived at ten past eight, wringing his hands together anxiously. “Moriarty! How fortunate that you’re here!”
“I live here,” Moriarty replied sourly, as if this meant that he’d never be anywhere else at any time.
Lestrade ignored this. “As you may imagine, and as I alluded in the letter, there has been a – most terrible murder. Last night, during the celebrations, a drunken mob bore down upon the Bishop of London and, dragging him to their bonfire, burned him alive!”
“An unlikely tale,” Moriarty said immediately.
“I admit,” I interjected, hoping to provide some diplomacy, “it is difficult to believe, Inspector. Why, the Bishop was well-loved: Benevolent, pious, charitable and loyal. Was it not him who set up the Bishop’s Hospital for Children within the walls of his own home?”
“I struggled to believe it myself, but it is so. We did not even know he was dead until we found him atop a still smoking bonfire, still in his white and green priest’s attire.”
“A mob burned him while he was dressed up as a priest, on the night of the year where even speaking ill against Her Majesty’s church will have gutted in the streets?” Moriarty asked. “Your story becomes more remarkable by the minute, Lestrade. You should consider a career in fiction.”
“I’ve marked out a crime scene,” Lestrade said brisky, and I wondered how much practice he had with just ignoring Moriarty, “and will happily escort you down there myself so that we can root out each member of this mob and bring them to justice.”
“Thank you for the offer,” Moriarty said. “No.”
“No?”
“Why, it appears you have the case more than under control, and I do have another job, as you’re aware. I have a lecture at ten which I will not be late for, and by the time I am done, your men will have ruined the crime scene,” Moriarty said, rising to his feet. “My apologies for the wasted trip, Inspector.”
“Moriarty, this simply will not do.”
“It’ll have to. If you are so desperate, why not take Moran? Be wary, though, he’s decided to become a humourist, and may attempt to test his burgeoning skills on you,” Moriarty gave me a bland look.
I spluttered. “Moriarty, you can’t be serious.”
“Unlike you, Moran, I haven’t developed a sudden interest in comedy, so yes, I am serious. Bring back some samples. Skin. Hair. Clothing. Ash from the pyre. I will look at them when I have the chance.”
So it was that I followed Lestrade down to the crime scene, cursing my fellow lodger’s name.
- Major S. Moran.
Why were people crying at the university? That was unusual. Moriarty didn’t entirely trust it.
“James!”
The lumbering figure - red-faced, rotund, white-haired, and surprisingly short - of Professor Jacobson approached, wrapping Moriarty in a hug. Moriarty liked Jacobson. He was incompetent, but he hardly ever ranted about the fall of civilisation, or the decay of academia, or the lack of respect for the upper classes, which made him surpassingly tolerable to be around.
(That those who did rant about those things often made certain to do so in Moriarty’s presence only made it more irritating.)
“Good to see you, man,” Jacobson slapped him on the back. “I thought you might not come in. Professor Smith didn’t, citing reasons of emotional sickness. It’s all hands on deck for damage control right now, lectures cancelled because the students are insensible, everybody who’s anybody making preparations for Mister Abernathy’s arrival.”
“I seem to have missed something,” Moriarty said. “Why are people crying? What damage do we need to control?”
“You’ve not heard. Samuel Abernathy, one of our foreign students from the New World – cocky little shit, if you don’t mind me saying, had a history of starting fights and barely paid attention in my lectures. He was, well, he was found dead. Burned. Police are saying a mob dragged him atop a bonfire and burned him to death.”
Samuel Abernathy. The name was familiar, in passing - the son of Joshua Abernathy, a New Worlder businessman specialising in the both the production and sales of arms, and the recruitment and training of soldiers to use them.
Moriarty’s eyebrows went up. “Are they now? I must say, I’ve heard that story before, I think.”
“I suppose it was inevitable. New Worlders, they don’t understand Her Majesty’s church like we do, and Samuel was always … very abrasive. Looking for fights. Combine that with the high tensions and …” Jacobson shrugged. “Something was bound to happen.”
“I suppose it may well. Lectures are cancelled, you say?”
“They are.”
“Terrible news, terrible news. I have a bottle of brandy that’s not seeing any use in my office – if you let me borrow Samuel Abernathy’s student file, I’m sure there’s half in it for you.”
Jacobson looked unsure. “Well …”
“Three quarters?”
“… You have yourself a deal, James.”
I returned to find Moriarty reading over a file. He barely acknowledged me as I entered.
“I brought those samples,” I said by way of greeting.
I had not expected his reaction to be so excited. He flung himself up from his chair, discarding the file to one side and snatched the samples from me. “Let’s see – ah, skin, very good, ash, hair, clothing, grass from nearby. This should do for a start.”
“Earlier today,” I said, busying myself pouring a drink. “You seemed utterly uninterested, I must say.”
“Times change. New evidence has come to late that makes this much more interesting than a mob murder – indeed, I suspect I will soon confirm that this is no act of a mob at all,” Moriarty grinned.
Reaching into one of the cases I brought him, he extracted a strip of the bishop’s skin. It was burnt black in most places, those few unburnt spots washed purple. Moriarty made an intrigued noise, like a child presented with a new raffle.
Then he lifted the skin and bit it.
I felt ill. “Moriarty,” I began, falteringly. I put the drink aside, for I could not bear to drink anything while he was gnawing on a dead man’s skin, lest I throw it up onto the carpet, “please don’t eat holy men. I think that counts as heresy.”
Moriarty ignored me, putting the skin aside and picking up the ash. He poured a little on his fingers, sniffing it and then tasting it.
“I’d rather you didn’t eat ash, either,” I added.
“The fire this ash came from was not the fire that killed the bishop,” Moriarty said abruptly.
“How could you possibly know that?”
He gave me an irritable look. “Moran, it is simplicity itself. The ash clearly came from a fire burning wood, grass and nothing else. But the dead man’s skin tastes like whiskey and is purple.”
“Moriarty, I fail to see where you’re going with this, and frankly I’m a little ill at ease.”
“Moran, surely you have heard of benzene, which tastes not unlike a fine Scotch. When combined with paraffin, it forms a highly reactive chemical cocktail, which could burst alight simply from contact with air. The fire produced is quite powerful, especially if you were to use premium paraffin, which is dyed purple.”
He beamed happily at me. “The Bishop of London was not killed by a mob. Lestrade is on totally the wrong track. We have a far more clever killer on our hands – one who burned his victim, then after the bonfire had gone out, placed his victim’s corpse on the remains to divert suspicion.”
- Major S. Moran.
Entering the living room of my lodgings at 221b Baker Street, which I share with Professor James Moriarty, I found my friend already awake, his shirt untucked and unbuttoned, his hair more rumpled and messy than it usually is.
He had the remnants of a bruise on his face, the sure markings of an evening spent at the dockside taverns. “Do sit down, Moran,” he said without looking up from the letter he was reading. “We shall be receiving Inspector Lestrade shortly.”
“I suppose you know this because you heard the rattle of a carriage with one faulty wheel, and from the sound you judged its weight to be - …”
“I know this,” Moriarty said sharply, and I could see he was most vexed with me for making light of his talents, “because a rather raggedy policeman indeed dropped this letter off earlier this morning, while you were still snoring.”
“I do not snore, Moriarty.”
Moriarty grunted, and tossed the letter savagely at my head. “Please note the signature. You will see that it reads ‘G. Lestrade.’ From this, I deduced that the letter was sent by Inspector Lestrade. Also, you will note a sentence some four lines down where Lestrade says ‘I shall visit you at about eight in the morning, circumstances permitting.’ A critical clue, and one I took to mean that he would visit us at roughly eight this morning, so long as the circumstances were favourable.”
“I can see you’re in a poor mood,” I said, in my best placating tone.
“A poor mood? No, Moran, absolutely not. As you can see, I am abuzz with the glow of deduction.”
From that point onwards, he said nothing more to me, choosing instead to shrink his long frame as small as he could, so that he was huddled in the armchair, and sulk. It was foolish of me, I realised, to mock his talents, even as light-heartedly as I did, for Moriarty was as vain and sensitive about them as a young noblewoman would be about her beauty.
Sure enough, Lestrade arrived at ten past eight, wringing his hands together anxiously. “Moriarty! How fortunate that you’re here!”
“I live here,” Moriarty replied sourly, as if this meant that he’d never be anywhere else at any time.
Lestrade ignored this. “As you may imagine, and as I alluded in the letter, there has been a – most terrible murder. Last night, during the celebrations, a drunken mob bore down upon the Bishop of London and, dragging him to their bonfire, burned him alive!”
“An unlikely tale,” Moriarty said immediately.
“I admit,” I interjected, hoping to provide some diplomacy, “it is difficult to believe, Inspector. Why, the Bishop was well-loved: Benevolent, pious, charitable and loyal. Was it not him who set up the Bishop’s Hospital for Children within the walls of his own home?”
“I struggled to believe it myself, but it is so. We did not even know he was dead until we found him atop a still smoking bonfire, still in his white and green priest’s attire.”
“A mob burned him while he was dressed up as a priest, on the night of the year where even speaking ill against Her Majesty’s church will have gutted in the streets?” Moriarty asked. “Your story becomes more remarkable by the minute, Lestrade. You should consider a career in fiction.”
“I’ve marked out a crime scene,” Lestrade said brisky, and I wondered how much practice he had with just ignoring Moriarty, “and will happily escort you down there myself so that we can root out each member of this mob and bring them to justice.”
“Thank you for the offer,” Moriarty said. “No.”
“No?”
“Why, it appears you have the case more than under control, and I do have another job, as you’re aware. I have a lecture at ten which I will not be late for, and by the time I am done, your men will have ruined the crime scene,” Moriarty said, rising to his feet. “My apologies for the wasted trip, Inspector.”
“Moriarty, this simply will not do.”
“It’ll have to. If you are so desperate, why not take Moran? Be wary, though, he’s decided to become a humourist, and may attempt to test his burgeoning skills on you,” Moriarty gave me a bland look.
I spluttered. “Moriarty, you can’t be serious.”
“Unlike you, Moran, I haven’t developed a sudden interest in comedy, so yes, I am serious. Bring back some samples. Skin. Hair. Clothing. Ash from the pyre. I will look at them when I have the chance.”
So it was that I followed Lestrade down to the crime scene, cursing my fellow lodger’s name.
- Major S. Moran.
Why were people crying at the university? That was unusual. Moriarty didn’t entirely trust it.
“James!”
The lumbering figure - red-faced, rotund, white-haired, and surprisingly short - of Professor Jacobson approached, wrapping Moriarty in a hug. Moriarty liked Jacobson. He was incompetent, but he hardly ever ranted about the fall of civilisation, or the decay of academia, or the lack of respect for the upper classes, which made him surpassingly tolerable to be around.
(That those who did rant about those things often made certain to do so in Moriarty’s presence only made it more irritating.)
“Good to see you, man,” Jacobson slapped him on the back. “I thought you might not come in. Professor Smith didn’t, citing reasons of emotional sickness. It’s all hands on deck for damage control right now, lectures cancelled because the students are insensible, everybody who’s anybody making preparations for Mister Abernathy’s arrival.”
“I seem to have missed something,” Moriarty said. “Why are people crying? What damage do we need to control?”
“You’ve not heard. Samuel Abernathy, one of our foreign students from the New World – cocky little shit, if you don’t mind me saying, had a history of starting fights and barely paid attention in my lectures. He was, well, he was found dead. Burned. Police are saying a mob dragged him atop a bonfire and burned him to death.”
Samuel Abernathy. The name was familiar, in passing - the son of Joshua Abernathy, a New Worlder businessman specialising in the both the production and sales of arms, and the recruitment and training of soldiers to use them.
Moriarty’s eyebrows went up. “Are they now? I must say, I’ve heard that story before, I think.”
“I suppose it was inevitable. New Worlders, they don’t understand Her Majesty’s church like we do, and Samuel was always … very abrasive. Looking for fights. Combine that with the high tensions and …” Jacobson shrugged. “Something was bound to happen.”
“I suppose it may well. Lectures are cancelled, you say?”
“They are.”
“Terrible news, terrible news. I have a bottle of brandy that’s not seeing any use in my office – if you let me borrow Samuel Abernathy’s student file, I’m sure there’s half in it for you.”
Jacobson looked unsure. “Well …”
“Three quarters?”
“… You have yourself a deal, James.”
I returned to find Moriarty reading over a file. He barely acknowledged me as I entered.
“I brought those samples,” I said by way of greeting.
I had not expected his reaction to be so excited. He flung himself up from his chair, discarding the file to one side and snatched the samples from me. “Let’s see – ah, skin, very good, ash, hair, clothing, grass from nearby. This should do for a start.”
“Earlier today,” I said, busying myself pouring a drink. “You seemed utterly uninterested, I must say.”
“Times change. New evidence has come to late that makes this much more interesting than a mob murder – indeed, I suspect I will soon confirm that this is no act of a mob at all,” Moriarty grinned.
Reaching into one of the cases I brought him, he extracted a strip of the bishop’s skin. It was burnt black in most places, those few unburnt spots washed purple. Moriarty made an intrigued noise, like a child presented with a new raffle.
Then he lifted the skin and bit it.
I felt ill. “Moriarty,” I began, falteringly. I put the drink aside, for I could not bear to drink anything while he was gnawing on a dead man’s skin, lest I throw it up onto the carpet, “please don’t eat holy men. I think that counts as heresy.”
Moriarty ignored me, putting the skin aside and picking up the ash. He poured a little on his fingers, sniffing it and then tasting it.
“I’d rather you didn’t eat ash, either,” I added.
“The fire this ash came from was not the fire that killed the bishop,” Moriarty said abruptly.
“How could you possibly know that?”
He gave me an irritable look. “Moran, it is simplicity itself. The ash clearly came from a fire burning wood, grass and nothing else. But the dead man’s skin tastes like whiskey and is purple.”
“Moriarty, I fail to see where you’re going with this, and frankly I’m a little ill at ease.”
“Moran, surely you have heard of benzene, which tastes not unlike a fine Scotch. When combined with paraffin, it forms a highly reactive chemical cocktail, which could burst alight simply from contact with air. The fire produced is quite powerful, especially if you were to use premium paraffin, which is dyed purple.”
He beamed happily at me. “The Bishop of London was not killed by a mob. Lestrade is on totally the wrong track. We have a far more clever killer on our hands – one who burned his victim, then after the bonfire had gone out, placed his victim’s corpse on the remains to divert suspicion.”
- Major S. Moran.
