The Deadly Soldier

By Spencer Perkins

This story first appeared in the MX Book of Sherlock Holmes Stories Volume I.

Spencer Perkins first discovered his passion for the world of Sherlock Holmes while watching the BBC’s miniseries adaptation nearly a decade ago. Since then, he has enjoyed delving into the original source material and writing his own works set in Arthur Conan Doyle’s universe. In addition to writing historical fiction, he has recently gone back to school for a second degree—this time in web development. Upon graduation, he hopes to split his time between writing fiction and coding websites. He currently resides in Portland, Oregon. If you’d like to know more about Spencer’s upcoming publications and his thoughts on the writing process, you can visit his blog at:

https://spencerperkinswrites.wordpress.com

Bobby Franano has been featured in international exhibitions and is in numerous private collections. In recent years, Bobby has become known for painting large, colorful canvases in a style he calls “Pop Surrealism”, was born in Kansas City, Mo. He displayed talent in the visual arts, as well as, music even in his early years. As a musician, Bobby has recorded on many albums. He also has been in 3 videos on MTV with “The Front” & “Bakers Pink” and designed 2 album covers. Bobby has also made many contributions through his art to various charities, even designing the logo for one international organisation.

Bobby Franano on Facebook.

Artwork size: 25” × 25”

Medium: Free hand oil on birch

Someone was trying to kill him. Of that, Professor James Moriarty was certain. For three nights now he’d seen the shadow of a man standing outside his Conduit Street residence. The man stood just out of the way of the gas lamps that lined the street, so only the long silhouette of him was discernable in the light.

When a carriage passed by, it disrupted the play of light on the cobblestones, throwing the shadow into long contrast against the walkway to Moriarty’s home, as if the shadow itself was an insidious beast, lengthening and reaching out to take Moriarty within its grasp.

However, Moriarty was a scientist and believed in nothing of the terror to be found in beasts and shadows. He was rational above all else, and though his pursuer had been careful to keep his face well hidden, his unmoving, attentive posture was that of an army man.

Moriarty had no personal quarrels with Her Majesty’s Army, nor had he recently done business with anyone who had a bone to pick with a man from the service, which made him conclude that this man had been hired by someone else altogether.

While in the practice of thinking, and especially when puzzling over some incredibly intricate piece of mathematics or trying to decide in just such a way how he would deliver a certain client’s request, he had taken to pacing long, sure strides along the floor of his library. The movement of his legs helped energise his brain, and occasionally his fingers would twitch about the window coverings, pulling them back to view the city’s comings and goings.

It was a pity that the gas lamps gave off too much light to accurately see the stars; the view of such a thing would have settled his mind much more than watching the scurrying to-and-fro of the citizens of London as they rode by in hansom cabs or walked arm in arm as lovers—all inconsequential to him, like so many ants upon a hill.

Yet, the stars were obscured from him, so he contented himself with stalking his rooms, thinking and watching. It was during just such an evening days ago that he’d first noticed that shadow of the man standing too still and purposefully ensconced in darkness.

The sight had amused Moriarty; for if the man had been sent to watch him, he’d have a long evening ahead of himself indeed, as the professor had no plans to leave his home that evening.

By the time he’d risen the next morning, the spot on the sidewalk where the man had stood was vacant, and while not putting the situation out of his mind, he filed it away carefully to be recalled if need be, though he had far more important things to think about than mysterious men standing on sidewalks.

Yet the long shadow of the man was back the very next night, and then again the next. Moriarty had noticed him again in one of his pacing turns about his library when he’d pulled aside the curtain to imperiously view his little spot of earth.

As he stood with black silk curtains still grasped in one hand and in full view of the window, he imagined the man must be stalking him, and perhaps compiling information upon his whereabouts to present to a third party. Then Moriarty noticed the silver glint of a gun as it was aimed and oh, wasn’t that just the thing to spice up a dreary evening?

Moriarty was a tall man, nearing fifty, though slender as a matchstick with viper-fast reflexes. The very sight of the gun had sent off the impulse in him to duck before his conscious mind had caught up, and rightly so—his pursuer fired once, then twice, straight through the window.

The glass gave way with a powerful crack and shatter, raining down upon him in slivers like razor-sharp snowflakes. Moriarty, flat on his stomach, face pressed into the dull pattern of the Persian rug that carpeted his library, pulled himself away from the window, not risking raising his head to look out. He scuttled further into the room to reach his own weapon.

Despite being a man of books and cunning, it would be folly of him to not carry a piece for these such very reasons. In the decade since he’d got into his particular brand of criminal acts, he’d made a laundry list of enemies, and attempts on his life had run the gamut from poisoned tea to an attempted kidnapping. Though the latter had been botched from the start and ended rather abruptly when, having been tied to a chair and threatened with the red hot tip of a fire poker, he calmly inquired to the man holding if it he was going to attempt to burn the soul from him. He’d wondered aloud if such a thing were possible if he were lacking a soul to begin with.

Whether it was his perfectly calm demeanor at the question, as if they were discussing something of no more importance than the weather over tea, or the fact that the pupils of Moriarty’s eyes were coal black and betrayed no fear, he found the poker being dropped and his kidnapper backing away, muttering something about “This ain’t worth it—the crazy bastard,” under his breath. At the time, he’d laughed.

He laughed again, crawling across his floor three hours after sunset with broken glass crunching under his knees and the elbows of his jacket. The laugh was a low, unholy rumble, mad and lacking in any real mirth. It was a laugh that cautioned you’ll be sorry. He got to his knees when he reached his piano, deft fingers feeling across the wooden seat, finding the catch underneath. Once opened, he lifted up the false bottom to unearth an opening the length of the seat in which he kept a loaded rifle.

Outside he heard voices. There had been shrieks at the shot and the tramping of feet—probably someone running to call a constable. He lived in too respectable a neighbourhood not to warrant the concern of the police when something as alarming as gunshots occurred.

How disappointing. I’d have liked to deal with him himself, Moriarty mused from his crouched position; his long spindly fingers still wrapped around the handle of the gun aimed directly at his window. He only stood once he’d heard an authoritative voice call, “Is there anyone inside?” with the accompanying light from a shining torch.

He rose in a fluid, near-serpentine movement, lowering his gun slightly—though not all the way in case the soldier was only pretending to be police—and took stock of his own countenance. His jacket and trousers were rumpled from his abrupt movements and a fine layer of white dust coated the dark garments. This he immediately tried to brush from his clothing, disliking the way it marred the fabric.

His features, too, he schooled into the look of bewildered apprehension he assumed the situation called for, his brow furrowing, eyes widening slightly. His lips, already a rather thin slash in his face, going even thinner with faux fear. By the time the constable peered in at him through the window, Moriarty was playing his part quite well.

“Alright in there, sir?” the constable inquired, reaching in through the broken glass of the window with his torch to widen the gap in the curtains. As his ruddy looking face came further into view, Moriarty lowered his gun completely and abandoned it on the closed piano bench, giving a nod.

“Quite alright now,” he assured the policeman. “Though those gunshots were indeed a shock. Would you like to come in?”

The officer nodded his agreement and Moriarty crossed the room to let him in the front door. He showed the man into the library where the assault had taken place.

After a cursory glance around the room, both men’s eyes followed the trajectory of the bullets, both of which were lodged into the spines of books upon Moriarty’s shelf opposite the window. One had even pierced the spine of his own work, Dynamics of an Asteroid, and oh, whoever this shooter was would pay dearly for that.

“Do you have any idea who might want you dead?” the constable inquired, head tilted up to look into Moriarty’s eyes.

Moriarty pretended to pause momentarily, as if to consider the question before replying in the negative. “I’m afraid not. I don’t have any enemies as far as I’m aware. I suppose this means you weren’t able to apprehend the suspect?”

The constable shook his head. “The ruffian must’ve fled the scene before I arrived.”

“Pity, that.”

Again, the constable glanced around, taking in the opulence of the room. Though Moriarty’s upper-class residence wasn’t out of place in Westminster, he did own rather a large collection of both ancient and new texts, not to mention a nice looking piano and a telescope in the corner of the room.

“Could be a thwarted robbery,” the constable mused. “That wouldn’t be uncommon in a neighbourhood like this. Thieves prey upon the wealthy.”

Moriarty suppressed an eye roll. A thief, this assailant was not, nor could he imagine there being much call for astronomy books and scientific apparatuses to fence on the black market.

His gaze once again drew to the bullet holes. Judging by their relative height, the first shot would’ve struck him square in the chest had he not ducked, and the second was likely the assailant’s second attempt to get him before he hit the floor. The fact that the man had got off two quick shots in succession like that spoke of his experience, which further bolstered Moriarty’s suspicion that the man responsible had a military background.

The constable pulled him out of his musings by speaking once more. “I could have some of my boys do a patrol of your street if you’d like, to make sure he doesn’t come back.”

“No, no,” Moriarty waved the suggestion away. “I’m sure I’ll be perfectly alright here.” He did have use for a police officer, but he’d already had one in his employ who understood the sort of business he conducted. “If I have further need for the police, I’ll speak with Inspector Turner at the CID.”

The constable’s brows rose nearly to his hairline at the mention of the name. “Oh sure, of course, sir. I didn’t know you were friends with the higher ups.”

Moriarty just gave him a tight nod, growing bored and impatient with the constable’s dull, bumbling presence, and crossed the room, opening his front door swiftly for him in an effective dismissal.

That night Moriarty was unable to sleep. The boarded up window marred the perfection of his library, looking crude and out of place, like a scar marring otherwise perfect skin. He shut the curtains to block it from view, but even having retired to his bedroom, he still could not rest for knowing it was there, so back down to the library he went, resuming his pacing. Upon every turn of his heel he glared at the window, eyes narrowed and full of simmering fury that doubled with each passing hour.

At the first light of dawn, he decided he could wait no longer to leave the house. He’d go to Clapham and see Andrew Turner right away.

Turner had been a former client of his. At the time, the up and coming constable had been aiming for the job of detective and it had come down to he and another man in the end. The other man, a Mr. Charles Woodlite, had at least a decade in age on Turner, and had been working as a constable a handful of years longer. That was where Moriarty had come in. At Turner’s behest, Moriarty had arranged for Woodlite to be struck by a runaway carriage, killing him and leaving Turner as the only available candidate for the job.

Moriarty had been pleased to take on work for a member of the police and had waved away payment, telling him instead that if the time arose when Moriarty needed his particular services, he would call upon him. That had been a good eight months back, and they’d thus far parted ways without any contact, though with the attempt on his life, Moriarty now saw need for him.

When he came to the row house in which Turner lived, he gave three solemn raps on the door, and then waited a few moments before repeating the action when he heard no movement from within.

He imagined Turner and his family were still asleep upstairs, though that was no concern of his. He needed a job done and he expected his wishes to be attended to posthaste.

Finally, the door opened, revealing a sleep-rumpled Turner, his short blond hair tousled and sticking up on end. He was still in pyjamas and a plain navy blue cotton dressing gown, the sash of which he was still tying as he opened the door.

Upon seeing Moriarty, his posture immediately changed, eyes widening first in recognition, then apprehension, back straightening as though he were a marionette whose strings had suddenly been jerked. “Professor . . .” he trailed off, seemingly at a loss, before swallowing thickly. When he spoke again, his voice was hushed. “It’s early, what can I do for you?”

Moriarty made no mention of the time, though he was pleased to see the immediate deference and subtle hint of fear Turner gave off at the sight of him. “You can invite me in, for a start.”

Immediately, Turner stepped back, allowing Moriarty into his home. “Can I get you anything?” he asked. “Tea?” He hesitated and added, “My wife and child are still asleep upstairs,” by way of explanation for his lowered voice.

Moriarty took no care to lower his own tone, speaking instead in the same cold commanding note as ever. “No tea. This isn’t a social call. We have business to discuss.”

“Right.” Turner nodded, his Adam’s Apple bobbing again as he swallowed apprehensively, taking Moriarty’s coat and hat before leading him into a sparsely decorated parlour. He immediately set about starting a fire in the fireplace while he beckoned Moriarty to take a seat on the sofa. “What can I do for you?”

Moriarty perched on the edge of the sofa, noticing the stitching worn threadbare in places. His lip curled up in a sneer of distaste, the lack of sleep he’d suffered only serving to make him all the more impatient and demanding. He explained the events of the previous evening in few words before arriving at the point of his visit. “I believe my assailant will try again. I’ll need you to tail me over the next few days and keep an eye out for anyone else who might be doing the same.”

He spoke the words to Turner’s back, watching him stoke the fire with a poker before the man finally stood, turning to face Moriarty again. “Have you filed a report on it? I could try my best to get assigned to your case.”

Moriarty’s head swiveled on his neck, turning from one side to the other slowly, as if to stretch his muscles, though his eyes never left Turner’s. It gave the appearance of a snake sizing up a rodent it was about to devour. “I’m not interested in filing a report,” he answered at length, his tone clipped. “When my pursuer is apprehended, I’ll not be handing him over to the police. I’d far prefer to deal with him myself.”

The threat within those words were unmistakable, and Turner, of anyone, should know just what sort of things Moriarty did when he’d decided to deal with someone on his own terms. Turner nodded again, though he still looked unsure, his hands toying once more with the sash of his dressing gown. “Westminster isn’t in my division. I’m not allowed to patrol whichever part of London I choose. Perhaps there is something else I could—”

Moriarty had heard enough and cut him off before he was able to get another word out. “The man pursuing me is clearly dangerous. Is it not your job to make London a safer place for all citizens?” he inquired. “With a wife and child, I’d imagine you’d want our streets to be free of murderers.”

Turner swallowed again. “I—”

“It’s just that it would be a shame,” Moriarty continued smoothly, as if the Inspector hadn’t spoken, “if something were to happen to your child. An infant girl, am I correct? Rebecca.” He hummed the name out, a slow smile spreading his severe, bloodless lips even thinner.

Colour bloomed high on Turner’s cheeks; anger and fear making him gawp at Moriarty wordlessly for a moment, before he reached up to run a shaking hand through his unkempt hair. “I—I can start as soon as you need me to.”

“Glad to hear you’ve come around to the idea. Get dressed, Inspector. You have a long day ahead of you.”

Moriarty’s pursuer was more intelligent than he’d originally given him credit, because after employing Turner to tail him, he saw neither hide nor hair of anyone following him or acting suspiciously.

He would have assumed the soldier had given it up as a bad job now that Moriarty had an Inspector watching out for him, if not for the fact that the last three men he’d had appointments with had turned up murdered.

The first, a Mr. Jonathon March, a banker who had a case of sticky fingers and decided he’d wanted to start pocketing some of the money from his bank’s safe, had been found dead in his home. Nothing from his residence had been stolen, but a single bullet had pierced his chest, straight through his heart.

After March had neglected to show up for his appointment, Moriarty decided to pay him a visit, because people did not back out on their appointments with him without consequence. When he arrived, he saw a swarm of policemen at March’s residence and turned back, not wanting to get himself involved in a police matter in which he didn’t control all the players. In the evening paper, he read of the murder, and though such a thing could be discounted as a coincidence, after having just survived an attempt on his own life, it didn’t seem likely.

His assailant was clearly still on his tail and watching him close enough to know with whom Moriarty did business. Yet, why kill one of his clients? Beyond the minor inconvenience of it, Moriarty cared little for their lives, and the loss of money from March’s business was minimal.

He shrugged it off as a desperate attempt on the soldier’s behalf to rile him, and continued on as usual, instructing Turner to keep following him in case the soldier decided to show himself again.

Then, his next client was murdered three days later, and another two days after that. The papers started calling it the work of a deranged killer, though they were unable to find any connection between the murders. Each man was killed with a single shot through the heart, without any other assault or robbery of his person and an absolute lack of evidence as to who had done it.

It was starting to become . . . inconvenient. One murdered client didn’t bother Moriarty overmuch, but if the murders continued, it would be only a matter of time until a connection between the men led back to him, and word would get around that anyone who hired him wound up dead.

Not to mention that the police, even as incompetent as most of them were, would eventually find the connection, and while he had Turner in his pocket and didn’t doubt his ability to find weaknesses in the others to bend them to his will, it would take an amount of effort in which he did not wish to partake.

As ambitious as he was in things that interested him, he didn’t appreciate feeling as though someone else was forcing his hand, and as Turner was proving worse than useless as a tail, Moriarty decided to approach this from a different angle. It was about time he did something to draw the solider out.

First thing the next morning, he invited Turner in and gave him a rundown of their new goal, before walking him to his door to dismiss him. He waited until the Inspector was on his doorstep in plain view of the street before arranging his features into his a scowl; brows knitted together, dark eyes narrowed in cool dissatisfaction, mouth curled into a sneer, as he informed the Inspector in a clipped tone, “Since you’ve been unable to find the man who attacked me, I have no choice but to relieve you from your duty.”

Turner gave a nervous jerk of his head, Adam’s Apple once again bobbing as he swallowed reflexively in fear. The sheer terror on the man’s face amused Moriarty. Though this playacting was part of his plan, the Inspector looked genuinely terrified at Moriarty’s cold fury.

When Turner spoke, his voice was hesitant and wheedling. “I’m sorry, Mr. Moriarty. I’ve been following you day and night as requested. I just haven’t seen anyone that I’d consider suspicious, I—”

“I’m not interested in your excuses,” Moriarty interrupted. “I made myself quite clear when I told you what I expected.”

Turner’s pallour faded almost to Moriarty’s own near paper white tones. “Yes, but—”

“No.” Moriarty gave a jerk of his head, cutting off any more excuses before they could issue from the Turner’s lips. “I believe I told you what the price would be for your failure.”

Turner’s eyes widened. “Please, sir, don’t hurt my family . . .”

Moriarty watched the man dispassionately, tilting his head to one side and then the other slowly, stretching his neck out. “Then catch my assailant, Inspector.” He reached into his pocket, withdrawing a small leather-bound appointment book and handing it to the other man. “In here you’ll find the addresses of my clients and the dates of our appointments. Catch this man before he can kill another one of them. You have twenty-four hours.”

He watched Turner take the book and then continue standing there, gripping it so hard that his blunt nails left small indents in the leather.

“Well? Off you go,” Moriarty prompted, jerking Turner into action again.

He gave a start and then nodded, pocketing the book. “I won’t let you down again,” he promised, fitting his hat on and all but fleeing from the house.

“See that you don’t.” Moriarty smirked, watching him hurry off, before stepping back and shutting the door after him with a decisive click. Everything was going to plan so far. He’d just hoped the soldier had been lurking out of sight to witness that performance.

Most people’s motives, Moriarty found, were easy to suss out—greed, malice, simple stupidity—they all drove men to act in ways that were tiresomely predictable, and this soldier of his was no different, he assumed. Greedy, yes, as he’d likely been hired to do this job and was therefore motivated by money. Malicious? Perhaps. The pattern of the bullets made for a quick death, and the use of a rifle meant he preferred to work from a distance, though Moriarty assumed that to be from his military training more than from any preference to not get his hands dirty.

As for stupidity? There’d been a surprising lack of it, thus far. The man had been careful not to get himself caught by police, nor noticed by Turner, and he’d been patient enough not to fire off another shot at Moriarty too soon after his failed first time.

Truth be told, he was the sort of man who Moriarty wouldn’t mind having in his employ himself. Though Moriarty relished in his own intimidation tactics, usually needing little more than a few discrete, well-placed threats and a narrowing of his eyes, even he could admit that sometimes more drastic measures had to be taken. Having a trained muscle that was proficient with a gun had its advantages.

It really would be a pity for his assailant to be shot as Moriarty’s plan came to fruition, but sometimes these things couldn’t always be planned for. He was perfectly willing to pull the trigger if he deemed the man unreasonable after having a proper chat, but first he had to lure him in. Getting rid of Turner had only been the first step. Now to put the rest of the plan in motion

The soldier hadn’t shot a single person in public thus far, preferring to take them down in their homes. As his first long range attempt had failed, Moriarty could only assume this time it would be something a little more close and personal.

So, to give the man time, Moriarty left his home quickly as if he had business with which to attend, immediately setting off for Regent Street. In his purported haste he neglected to turn the lock on his front door. If this soldier were to break into his home to await his return, he’d much rather there be as little destruction upon his property as possible. He didn’t fancy another boarded up window.

Once on Regent Street, he allowed himself to get lost in the flow of pedestrians clamouring in and out of shops. His upper lip curled in distaste at the mass of swirling humanity around him; the cacophony of voices, the clomping of horses’ hooves as carriages passed by, and a squeaking out-of-tune piano-organ ground by a boy looking for change. The boy gained nothing but a withering look from Moriarty as the professor passed by him.

A glance to his pocket watch told him it was barely nine in the morning; if this soldier were any sort of criminal at all, he’d surely wait until nightfall to make his move. He had hours upon hours to waste before then.

While it had been his plan to lose himself in the press of bodies along Regent Street, making it impossible to murder him without someone seeing, he quickly found being among that many people intolerable.

Surely, risking a bullet to the chest would be preferable to being amongst that much constant braying humanity, and after barely an hour he’d returned to Conduit Street once more, heading for Saunders, Otley & Co., a circulating library not too far from his home.

In addition to frivolous dramas and works of poetry, the library also had a large collection of practical and scientific texts. The professor whiled away the rest of the morning and much of the afternoon reading up on the management and keeping of bees, while pondering just how many stings it would take to overload a man’s body, forcing it to shut down. It would be a waste for the bee to die as well, however inefficient insects that they were. He made a mental note to research the keeping of wasps instead.

When it was approaching dusk, he ate at a local pub before checking his pocket watch once again and meeting Turner outside. At precisely their agreed meeting time, Turner made his way through the crowd, a subdued expression making his cornflower blue eyes appear dull.

“Hello, Mr. Moriarty,” he inclined his head in greeting. Despite his many shortcomings, at least he was punctual. That was a trait Moriarty valued highly. Men who kept him waiting tended not to live long.

“Mr. Turner,” Moriarty answered, voice cool. “I take it you’ve brought the cuffs I requested?”

Turner nodded, reaching into the pocket of his overcoat to pull out a set of silver handcuffs. He produced a small revolver as well, which he dutifully handed over to Moriarty.

After a cursory glance, Moriarty slipped both items into the pocket of his own coat and then shrugged the garment off, handing it over to Turner along with his top hat. Turner followed suit and soon Moriarty pulled on the other man’s coat, looking down in brief distaste at the poor quality of the fabric compared to that which he was used to. He nodded for Turner to lead the way while he kept back at a discrete distance.

The plan was simple enough; Moriarty was banking on his assailant waiting for him in his home, and though Turner lacked Moriarty’s tall, slim stature, in the poor light, Moriarty assumed the soldier would mistake Turner for him. Once the solider made a move, Turner would disarm and cuff him. He had explicit instructions not to fire upon the soldier unless absolutely necessary, but it would be foolhardy to not at least have brought a gun in preparation.

Moriarty watched Turner’s back as they walked in silence toward his home; the professor taking care to keep well back and into the shadows. Turner walked up to his front door, opening it as if he were the owner of the place and stepped inside.

Moments later, Moriarty saw the light in his library shine through the curtains; Turner obviously had lit the gas lamp once he was inside. All was silent and he resolved to give the Inspector a few minutes before approaching the house himself to see how he was getting on. As soon as the thought had entered his mind, the unmistakable crack of a gunshot pierced the air.

Moriarty’s head snapped up in attention. He hurried toward the house, hoping that Turner had been wise enough to follow his instructions. Had he killed the soldier before Moriarty himself could get his hands on him, there would be consequences.

As Moriarty’s hand reached for the doorknob, he saw it turn before he could grasp it and the door was pulled open from the inside. The gestured revealed a man a bit shorter than himself but nearly twice as wide, compact with solid muscle. The man’s sandy blond hair was cut in a short military style and smoothed down with wax, and he had a bushy moustache the same colour; it twitched as his lips pulled up into a smile. The gesture of amusement didn’t reach the man’s hard green eyes.

“Professor,” he addressed Moriarty, stepping back so Moriarty could enter. “You’ve proven difficult to hunt down.”

The smell of gunpowder was pungent in the air. Behind the soldier laid Turner, a spreading red stain across the front of his vest, soaking into his white cotton shirt. He drew in a shallow breath, moaning as he exhaled.

Moriarty’s eyes slid from Turner’s body on the floor back to the solider and he stepped inside. The man was still holding his military issue Webley revolver, though Moriarty just tilted his chin up in defiance, unafraid.

“And you’ve proven a nuisance,” he answered dispassionately, stepping over Turner. “How disappointed you must be that you’ve still not taken me down. I’ll bet your employer is most displeased.”

The soldier laughed, raising his gun at Moriarty. “What makes you think I won’t shoot you right now and be done with it?”

Moriarty watched the silver muzzle of the revolver point directly at his chest, though if he felt any sliver of fear it didn’t show on his face. He just slowly tilted his head from one side to the other, stretching his neck out in his usual serpentine movement. “You could,” he agreed, “But then you’d never hear my business proposition, and you’d be the poorer for it.”

He watched the soldier cock his weapon, finger sliding to the trigger, though the man then hesitated a beat and Moriarty took advantage of the hesitation, adding, “I’m not sure what your employer has told you about me, but just by this brief meeting, I can gather a few things about you. Judging by your posture and the type of weapon you carry, you are a military man. Your skin is far too tan for someone who has spent much time recently in London, which means you’ve been abroad. Perhaps in Kabul, the Battle of Sherpur? Yet your decision to dabble in crime is a curious one. Maybe you’ve been recently discharged and found yourself unsuitable for a life which doesn’t include wielding a gun.”

As Moriarty spoke, the cruel, self-satisfied smile slid from the soldier’s face, to be replaced with a look that was first weary, then begrudgingly bordering on awe. “You’ve deciphered all that from just looking at me?”

Moriarty inclined his head in agreement. “I have. Yet I find one thing about your methods very curious.”

Despite the look of awe on the soldier’s face, his revolver didn’t waver from Moriarty’s chest. “And what’s that?”

“If you’ve been hired to kill me, what purpose did the murder of my clients serve?”

The soldier’s smile returned, and he let out a hearty laugh as though Moriarty had just told a particularly funny joke. “That, Professor, was just for my own amusement. You’ve proven more difficult to get to than I’d planned, and instead of trifling with the Inspector tailing you, it was far more entertaining to follow home the men you had meetings with and dispatch of them. I knew you’d eventually grow tired of the damage it was doing to your business and try to lure me out.”

He let out another small chuckle, shaking his head, “It was quite a nice touch with the Inspector wearing your overcoat as well. Perhaps a lesser man might’ve fallen for the gag, but I recognised his gait the moment he walked up to your house.”

As if on cue, another moan of pain issued from Turner on the floor. Without taking his eyes off Moriarty, the soldier turned his revolver on the Inspector, delivering a fatal shot.

The heartlessness of the action impressed Moriarty, as did the soldier’s cleverness. Though he clearly wasn’t as good at reading people as the professor himself, he was a great deal smarter than most men Moriarty employed. Moriarty could use someone skilled with a gun, since Turner was now no longer drawing breath.

“I have to commend you on your work,” Moriarty told him. “You’re far from the first man hired to take my life, but out of them all, you’ve got the closest.”

“Closest?” The solider echoed with a raise of his brows. “My good sir, between the two of us I’m the only one with a weapon in hand and I’ve just ended another man’s life. Whatever makes you think that I won’t be successful in ending yours?”

It was a fair point and a lesser man might’ve conceded defeat and started to beg for his life, but Moriarty was not a lesser man. He only watched the solider intently, reaching up to remove the top hat he’d not had the chance to divest himself of earlier, what with the commotion he’d met upon entering his home. His overcoat was shed next and he took his time, drawing out the silence between them. He enjoyed the way the soldier’s attention never left him as he waited for Moriarty’s reply.

Whether the man realised it or not, he was already in Moriarty’s thrall, and when Moriarty felt the tension in the room increase to such a level that the solider was about to speak again, Moriarty opened his mouth to reply. “I suppose you would be successful in your objective, if that’s what you so choose, but you’ve just killed someone of use to me, and as such, a job opening has become available.

Whatever the solider had been expecting him to say, that clearly was far from the mark. He gaped at Moriarty, brows rising again this time nearly to his hairline. Slowly, he lowered his gun to his side. “Are you telling me you’re looking to hire me?”

“I am,” Moriarty confirmed.

“What makes you think I’d betray my boss to work for you?” he scoffed, though he didn’t raise the gun again.

This time, Moriarty didn’t even pretend to draw out the silence before answering. He already knew he’d won. The solider having lowered his gun was as good as a yes already. “It’s steady work, and whatever you’re currently being paid, I’ll double it.”

The solider stood motionless for a breath, thinking it over before slipping his gun back into its holster.

Moriarty added, “You can start by disposing of the Inspector’s body. Then pay a little visit to your boss and bring him to me. Do we have a deal?”

He put out his hand to shake on it, like the start of all gentlemanly agreements. The soldier’s brows knitted as he looked down at that hand, as though shaking it would be akin to making a pact with the devil.

“I’ll even triple your pay, if you manage to impress me,” Moriarty added, and the man’s hand met his in a firm grip.

After they shook, Moriarty spoke once more. “Another thing. If you’re going to work for me, I’ll need to know your name.”

The man nodded, reaching up to stroke his moustache before standing up straighter, heels clicking together. It was the move of someone used to standing at attention in front of a superior officer. “Of course. It’s Colonel Sebastian Moran, sir. At your service.”