The Seven Fingers of the 
Devil's Left Hand
A Professor Moriarty Adventure
by Michael Kurland
Corruptio optinti pessima.
"The corruption of the best is the worst.'
—Latin proverb

The second Tuesday in January of 1889 did not begin auspiciously. The Ghost of Christmas Present had drawn his great cloak about him and retreated to the insubstantial warmth of a meager sea-coal fire in Bloomsbury. With him went any residual feelings of Christmas cheer that might have lingered over good old London Town if the weather had been less cold and dank, the fog less thick, or the prospects for the new year less dismal. Those with nothing showed no signs of hoping, and those with something showed no signs of caring. And thus it was that in the biggest, richest, most powerful city in the world, children continued dying daily of cold and hunger.
At eight that morning at 64 Russell Square, Professor James Moriarty, M.A., D.Ph., F.R.A.S. looked up from the journal he was reading as Mummer Tolliver entered his study. "Asinine!" snapped the professor.
The mummer, Moriarty's trusted assistant and midget-of-all-trades, looked cautiously around. "If you sez so," he agreed.
"Not you. This article in last summers issue of The English Quarterly. Moriarty thrust the magazine across the desk. "Read it yourself!"
Tolliver peered down at the page. "'Demi-Paradise,'" he read, "by Lord Turlick. That's Shakespeare, ain't it? The Demi-Paradise bit?"
"Shakespeare meant it in jest," Moriarty said. "Turlick doesn't."
"'Ow so?"
"In six pages of turgid prose he tells those of us who happen to be English how lucky we are."
"And what makes the gent think that?" asked the mummer.
"Apparently he has spent many years living in China and India," Moriarty said. "He claims that the lesser breeds without the law—"
The mummer held a finger up. "Kipling," he murmured.
"—have all been greatly advanced in their quest for civilization by the firm yet nurturing paternal hand of the English—he doesn't even say 'British'—overseers."
"Very perceptive of 'im," murmured the mummer.
"He attributes our good fortune to—" Moriarty pulled the magazine back and read, "—'the favor shown this sceptered isle and its people by the Hand of the Lord of All.'"
"Does 'e now?" asked the mummer. "Well, perhaps 'e should tell it to the wee ones what I just left."
"Children?" Moriarty asked, looking up.
"You've got it, Guv'nor," Tolliver said. "About two dozen of 'em from about six to sixteen, all genders."
Moriarty raised an eyebrow. "All genders?"
The mummer sniffed. "Well, you never know, do you?"
"And what are they to you?"
"They're the orphans from St. Simon's, ain't they?" explained the mummer. "And they're out of house and home, ain't they?"
"St. Simon's Home for the Indigent Young? They're out on the street?"
"Just about. No food, no bedding, no heat. Only the clothes on their backs, and not many of them. St. Simon's had to close its doors, you see. Ran out of funds with which to buy coal. The Regulations for the Benefit of the Poor sez you can't operate a poor home which is unheated, which would make sense if they had elsewhere to go. At the moment they're staying inside the church itself, which the Poor Law don't forbid, but the inside of an unheated church ain't much warmer than the outside of an unheated church. And they still don't have no food. Course there's less snow."
"And you're telling me this because . . . ?"
"Who else should I tell?" asked the mummer.
Moriarty considered. "I am not a benevolent institution," he said. "Still. . . children . ..." He touched a concealed button in his desk and a drawer on the side sprung open. "Take ten pounds and pass them on to the parson or the rector or whoever. Have him buy coal. And food. Better take twenty."
"It's going to be a long winter," said the mummer.
"Something will have to be done," Moriarty agreed. "Perhaps you could teach them all to pick pockets."
"It ain't that easy, picking pockets," the mummer said, extracting two five pound notes and ten one pound notes from the drawer. "You have to have the knack."
Moriarty got up and put on his jacket. "I have an appointment with Prince Tseng," he said. "Tell St. Simon's orphans, or whoever's responsible for them, that I shall see what I can do to help. In the meantime they can rejoice in the fact that, poor and miserable as they may be, they are at least English children, and therefore don't have the added misfortune of being from some heathen land without the law, which must be a great comfort to them," he added dryly.
"I'll be sure to mention it," said the mummer.

The residence of Prince Tseng Li-chang—the step-cousin-in-law to the Empress Dowager Tz'u-hsi currently living in exile in London for his unpopular political statements—was down a small alley off Upper Swandam Lane, directly across the way from the three-story brick factory where his artisans recreated the artworks of the T'ang, the Sung, the Yüan, and the Ming dynasties to satisfy the ever-growing market for Chinese antiques.
Moriarty left his hansom cab at the entrance to the alley, walked the short distance to the prince's dwelling, and knocked at the black, iron-grilled door. In moments he was escorted to the plain, almost sparse sitting room of Prince Tseng. "My friend," the elderly Chinese nobleman said, rising, "thank you for coming so promptly. Your presence brings honor to my house."
"The greatness of your house cannot be increased by my humble presence," Moriarty replied with a slight smile.
Prince Tseng also smiled. "We could wander all day through this garden of fragrant compliments," he said, "but for now let us sit and drink tea together and discuss matters of mutual interest."
They sat at a low table and a serving girl in a red silk chi-pao brought the tea and poured it into small blue and white porcelain cups. "Green tea from the town of Lung Ching," said the prince. "It promotes long life and well-being." "These cups . . . ," said Moriarty.
"Yüan," said the prince. "Of the type known as 'tzu,' for use in the Forbidden City. They are authentic, not fabrications of my own. The set has been in my family since, by your reckoning, the year 1363, and it was old then." He held up his cup and stared into the depths of the blue glaze. "My friend, you hold a treasure in your hands."
Moriarty examined the 700-year-old cup. "A treasure," he agreed. "Which reminds me. I have a favor I would ask of you." Prince Tseng spread his arms wide. "It is granted," he said. "I have been sent some rubbings from ancient bronze vessels found in the Wu'ang Valley," Moriarty told him. "They may be from the Shang period."
"Old, indeed," murmured Prince Tseng. "There are inscriptions on the vessels which appear to be medical in nature, but I have been unable to decipher some of the old form pictographs. I could not find them in any of the reference books to which I have access. If you
Tseng nodded deeply. "My son Charles," he said, "is on his way back from visiting his grandmother in Peking. He is a student of the old forms, and would be pleased to assist you." "I thank you," said Moriarty.
After an exchange of pleasantries just long enough to assure Moriarty that he had fulfilled the Chinese imperative for excessive politeness, and Prince Tseng that he had been sufficiently brusque, in accordance with English custom, Tseng approached the subject which had occasioned Moriarty's visit. "Have you familiarized yourself with what is known of this man Lord Turlick?" he asked.
Moriarty nodded. "Second son of the sixth Baron Turlick. Winchester, Oxford, and the Colonial Service. Became the seventh Baron when his father and brother went down in the Pomonia in '82. Served in India, Ceylon, and as deputy governor of Hong Kong, but seems to have developed little understanding of other peoples or cultures in the process. Thinks of anyone who is not British—English—as a 'native,' and thereby inferior. Has a noted collection of Chinese, Japanese, and Indian art, for which he has neither an understanding nor an appreciation beyond pride of possession. His grandfather started the collection and founded a museum in Cambridge to house it."
Tseng nodded. "Just so," he said. "It is in reference to his Chinese collection, or, more precisely, a few specific items of it, that I wish to consult you."
"Ah!" said Moriarty. "Pieces of exceptional value?"
Prince Tseng stroked his long, thin beard. "Seven small antique jades. Lord Turlick believes them to be chessmen," he said. "They are not. As historical artifacts their value to the Chinese people is beyond price. As pieces of art in the collection of a foreign barbarian who has no idea what he has—" He shrugged. "Who can say? At any rate, he will not sell them."
"Perhaps," suggested Moriarty, "you would like me to suggest ways in which these artifacts might be artfully removed from the baron's possession?"
"For something so simple I would not impose upon your friendship," said Tseng. "I had contemplated and made preparations for such a venture, but an added complication has developed. It was then that I thought of you."
Moriarty laced his fingers together over his chest. "Tell me," he said.
"They have disappeared," said Tseng, "from a room in the Turlick Antiquities Museum. The associate curator, a man named Bing, was found dead in the middle of the room, impaled on a long bamboo pikestaff which had been holding up a Ming dynasty war banner. The banner was ruined. The, ah, chessmen were missing. The room has only one exit, which was in view of the guard at the front desk the whole time. No one was seen to enter or leave the room, except for the unfortunate Mr. Bing."
Moriarty leaned back. "Really?" he asked. "How, ah, interesting."
Tseng took a deep breath and refilled his teacup. "Lord Turlick is perturbed," he said. "In his mind seven ancient chessmen have disappeared. If he knew what they actually were," Tseng shrugged, his arms raised in vast wonder at the unexplainable ways of the world, "who knows what he might think—or do."
"And what are they?" asked Moriarty.
Prince Tseng Li-chang stroked his wispy beard. "In the Dao-ist mythology of the Middle Kingdom," he told Moriarty, "there is described a demon known as The Impure One. He is ninety chi tall and has six eyes, which are constantly peering around to see if anyone is looking at him. He dislikes being looked at. From his nostrils come dragons, and from his mouth he spits sea monsters and other foul things. He has seven fingers on his left hand and nine on his right. These fingers move about on their own in the guise of human beings, spreading discord and promoting panic wherever they go."
"Charming," said Moriarty.
"The seven fingers on his left hand are Greed, Sloth, Filial Disrespect, Gossip, Disorder, Cruelty, and Impiety. The nine on his right hand are—well, you do not need to know, and that is fortunate for you."
"Really?" asked Moriarty.
"Just so," assured the prince.
"Ah!" said Moriarty. "Tell me about the missing statuary."
"Carved jade with inset brass decorations. At least fifteen hundred years old. It is not known what technique was used to create them. The pieces are four to six inches high and one and one half to two inches wide. They are carved representations of peasants, mandarins, and courtiers. Each is said to contain the vital energy of one of the fingers."
"And Lord Turlick thinks they are chess pieces?"
"So I understand. I assume he does not play chess." The prince gestured and a servant brought over a rosewood box. "These are duplicates I had made," he said, opening the box. "The brass fittings on the figures have had to be cemented in place and will eventually come loose. How the originals were done is not known. Nonetheless, this is what the figures look like."
Moriarty examined the figurines one at a time. "Remarkable objects," he said. "Tell me all you know about the disappearance of the originals."

"Gone," said Baron Turlick, waving his arms in exasperation. "Just gone. Totally. From this room. That case over there. And an employee murdered. With a guard in the hall. Impossible, you say?"
"I say no such thing," said Sherlock Holmes, the consulting detective, looking slowly around the room. The three windows along the left-hand wall were long and thin, perhaps eight inches wide, and highly placed. They cranked outward from the top and were open four or five inches. Bars on the outside assured that no access was possible. On the far wall was a display of Ming dynasty battle banners, four-foot square silk flags attached by silk cords to long bamboo pikestaves with pointed iron tips. One of the staves was lying on the floor along the wall, its banner shredded. The ancient solid door of thick oak through which they had come into the room was the only entrance.
"Scotland Yard is baffled," Turlick said.
Holmes turned to face him. "Of course they are."
Turlick, a thickset man with a shovel beard which was clipped straight across around mid-throat, scoured the echoing room with an angry glare. "Their best men. They assured me. Their very best. Baffled."
Holmes bent down and peered for a long moment at the large freshly-scrubbed stain on the hardwood floor, where the unfortunate Mr. Bing had met his end. "A pity they've cleaned the area up. The most suggestive clues have probably been removed. Still...." He whipped out a four-inch magnifying glass and knelt on the floor. "Tell me everything," he said to Turlick. "Particularly those facts you consider irrelevant or unimportant. Start from before the theft. How long had you owned the missing pieces, and where did you acquire them?"
Lord Turlick's face puckered as though he were tasting something sour. "I have no time for such foolishness," he said. "I'll send in Hastings, my museum director, to speak with you. Let me know when you have solved this little mystery. And remember, I pay for results."
Holmes stood up, towering six inches over Turlick, and looked down at him. "My fees are fixed," he said coldly. "If you prefer, I will deal with your insurance company."
"Yes, yes," said Turlick hastily. "I mean no, no. Send me your bill, sir, and I shall honor it. I am distraught. The chessmen were the focus of my collection."
"And the death of Mr. Bing," Holmes said.
"Yes, yes," Turlick affirmed. "That, too." He went to the door and then stopped and turned back. "There are photographs," he said. "I'll have Hastings bring you a set to examine. They don't do them justice, of course. The depth of color in the jade, the richness of the brass. Quite something."
Turlick left the room and a short time later Hastings, the museum director, a short, dumpy man sporting thick side whiskers and thicker glasses, trotted into the room and introduced himself to Holmes. With him was a tall man with a prominent nose and the eyes of a hawk. "I have some photographs of the missing objects for you to examine," Hastings said. "This gentleman," he indicated his companion, "is Professor—"
"Moriarty!" Holmes snarled, rising from the floor, where he had been peering through his glass into the dust under one of the windows. "I did not expect to see you here. Although perhaps I should have, eh? Perhaps I should have!"
Hastings beamed. "You know each other," he said. "How nice."
Moriarty leaned on his cane. "Holmes," he said. "Glad to see you here hard at work. Nose to the, ah, floor, as it were. You have the case solved already, no doubt?"
"Your interest in my progress is touching," Holmes said dusting off his knees, his words clipped and precise. "Into collecting chess pieces, are you now, Professor?"
Hastings handed Holmes a folder of photographs. "I have heard favorable reports of your abilities, Mr. Holmes," he said. "I am pleased that the baron decided to call you in. The police are getting nowhere. Bing—the dead man—was a truly talented curator and a good friend."
"I'll do what I can," Holmes said. "Tell me, why is this man with you?" he said, thrusting his chin toward Moriarty.
"Professor Moriarty arrived about a half hour ago," Hastings said. "He came with a letter from Prince Tseng Li-chang, an expert on Chinese antiquities who has been quite useful to us in the past. These small, exquisite vases," he said, indicating a display case by the door, "were acquired with the prince's assistance. Sung dynasty. Unbelievably rare. He has also helped us evaluate some of the items that have long been in our collection, dating from the present baron's grandfather's time."
"Ah!" said Holmes. "And what," he asked, turning to Moriarty, "is your connection with this Prince Tseng?"
"He is an old and valued friend," Moriarty said. "He is quite worried about the missing artifacts, and he asked me to come down to Cambridge and help recover them. However, as you no doubt have the whole matter well in hand by now, I may just retire to one of the local inns for a spot of lunch instead."
"I have hardly begun," said Holmes. "And now I shall have the added distraction of having to determine the level of your involvement. Although I confess such a small crime is usually beneath your notice. I refer, of course, to the missing chess men, not to the death of the unfortunate Mr. Bing, which I assume was an unintended result of the theft."
"Look at the photographs, Holmes," Moriarty suggested. "Do you play chess?"
"Far too intellectual a pursuit for me, Professor," Holmes said with a grim smile, "although I am familiar with the pieces and the moves. Success at chess requires devious thinking and working at secret ends. I understand you're quite good at the game."
"It does teach one not to hold steadfast to a theory when it has been shown to be erroneous," Moriarty commented. "But I call your attention to the chess pieces in the photographs."
Holmes took the packet of photographs over to one of the windows, where the light was better, and examined them carefully. "They are not in any of the standard patterns that I am familiar with," he said. "Indeed, I cannot tell which piece is supposed to be which."
"They are not chessmen," Moriarty told him, "but figurines representing aspects of an ancient, ah, deity."
"Then why—"
"It is so," Hastings interrupted. "I've told the baron. Mr. Bing told him repeatedly. We attempted to get him to change the sign in the case. But he would have none of it. His father said they were chessmen, he told me, and his grandfather said they were chessmen, and so chessmen they are."
"Interesting," said Moriarty. "Are other items in the museum labeled according to the vagaries of the baron's forebears?"
Hastings nodded. "Quite a few."
"As a proper antiquarian and scholar," Moriarty suggested, "that must bother you."
"A bit," Hastings admitted. "But, after all, Lord Turlick pays the piper—as well as my stipend—so it's inevitable that he calls the tune."
"Incredible!" said Holmes. "If Lord Turlick decided to call that," he said, indicating a large Han dynasty vase on a nearby pedestal, "an umbrella stand, then an umbrella stand it would become?"
"He's a very self-assured man, is his lordship. It doesn't bother me too much, but it drove Mr. Bing wild."
"A stickler for the truth, was Mr. Bing?" Holmes asked.
"I'll show you," Hastings said. He looked around and pointed to an ornate white earthenware jar about a foot high with a wide lid. "Read the descriptive card," he said.
Holmes stepped over to it and read the card affixed by a wire hook to the rim. '"T'ang funerary vessel,'" he read. "'Circa 800 A.D.'"
"Turn the card over," Hastings instructed.
Holmes liberated the card from its wire fastener and flipped it. "A pencil notation," he said. "A very precise hand. It says: 'Shen Tsung rice pot - c. 1080 A.D.'"
"Mr. Bing re-marked many of the cards," Hastings said. "At first he told Lord Turlick each time he ascertained that an item had been mislabeled, but he soon ceased bothering. It did no good."
Lord Turlick's grandfather, and all that?" Moriarty asked.
"That's right. The items Mr. Bing thought were outright forgeries are marked 'Ha!' very lightly in pencil on the back."
"Ha?" Moriarty asked.
"Ha!" Hastings affirmed.
"Are there many 'has?"
"Not many," Hastings said, "but some of the more important pieces are, let us say, doubtful."
"Tell me about the murder and the theft," Holmes said. "How were they discovered?"
"It was the scream," Hastings said. He gulped audibly several times, then continued. "That horrible scream. I was in my office across the hall when I heard it."
"Describe just what happened, if you please," Holmes said. "Leave out no detail, no matter how seemingly unimportant."
Hastings gulped again. "If I must," he said. "It is not pleasant to think about." He took a deep breath. "It was eight-thirty in the morning and we were just preparing to open when I heard the scream. I ran from my office and met Merrill—one of the guards—in the hall. He was running from the front entrance."
"Are you sure he had actually been at the entrance?" Holmes asked.
Hastings paused to think. "Yes," he said after a few seconds. "He was still a ways down the hall when I first saw him."
"How long did the screaming keep up?" Moriarty asked.
"It had stopped by the time I reached the hall," Hastings told him. "So it couldn't have gone on for more than four or five seconds."
"And then?" Holmes asked.
"At first we didn't know where the scream had come from. Then I saw that the door to this exhibit room was closed. I tried the handle. It was locked."
Holmes rubbed the side of his nose. "Is it usually?"
"Bing always unlocked it first thing in the morning. Why he locked it again, I don't know. It is never locked during the day."
"And then?" Holmes asked.
Hastings said, "I retrieved my key from the office desk and opened the door." He paused and gulped again.
"Yes?" Holmes encouraged.
"Mr. Bing was... was...  "He waved a hand at the scrubbed spot on the floor. "The war banner had been pulled from its spot on the wall and the pikestaff was poking out of his chest."
"How far?" Moriarty asked.
"Excuse me?"
"Had the pike penetrated all the way through the body?"
"Clean through. They're eight feet long, and at least three feet of shaft was protruding from his back." Hastings looked as though he were going to be sick. "I've never seen anything like it."
Moriarty went over to examine the pike, now lying on the ground by the wall. "There's a wire wrapped around the top," he said, "with a projecting loop."
"That's how the banners are hung," Hastings explained. "There's a metal hanger fastened to the wall near the ceiling, and the loop fits into it."
Holmes walked over to the spot on the wall where the torn banner had been hanging. Then he pulled a stool over and climbed up on it to inspect the fixture. "The hanger's been pulled loose," he said. "Someone must have yanked the pike from the wall with considerable force."
"And then impaled poor Bing on it," Hastings said with a shudder. "How horrible! But there was no one else in the room."
"Who has a key to that door?" Holmes asked.
"There are three keys," Hastings told him. "I have one, Bing had one, and the baron has one."
"Was anything else out of place when you entered the room?" Moriarty asked.
"The stool Mr. Holmes is using was overturned in the corner."
"Which corner?" Moriarty asked.
"Where the wall with the windows meets the wall with the battle flags," Hastings said, pointing.
"Ha!" Holmes said, jumping off the stool and going over to examine the corner. "And these windows. I see that they're open a few inches at the top."
"Yes, for ventilation."
"Were they open on the day of the murder?"
"They were," Hastings told him. "They are usually kept open, even in winter, except in inclement weather. As you can see, they are far too small for anyone to gain access through them."
"Yes," Holmes agreed, "but not too small—" He snapped his fingers. "What is on the ground below them?"
Hastings looked puzzled. "A thick hedge of furze," he said. " Ulex europaeus. But it would be damned uncomfortable to land in if someone had managed to get out through the window."
"Come!" Holmes declared. "Let us examine this furze." He sailed out of the room with Hastings following in his wake, leaving Moriarty to examine the displays of classic style cheongsam, silk shoes, lacquered hats, and shawls in the room at his leisure.
It was not long before Holmes returned to the museum room, his eyes flashing with excitement, his arms full of jade figurines. "When you eliminate the impossible . . . ," he declared.
"Congratulations," Moriarty said dryly. "I see you've recovered the missing objects."
"A person couldn't slip through the window," Holmes said, "but small jade statuettes would fit easily. And the thick hedge of furze below would protect them from being damaged in the fall. He set them down carefully on a display case. "As, indeed, it did."
"I never thought . . . ," Hastings said, coming up behind them. "The windows are so high.."
"Aha!" said Holmes. "The thief made creative use of the pike—or, more precisely, the little wire loop on the end of it. He knew that if he threw the statuettes through the window, he risked damaging them, or the window itself. But, if he wrapped them, one by one, in the wire loop, thrusting them out the window and shaking them loose to fall into the hedge below, they would come to no harm."
"Brilliant, Holmes," Moriarty acknowledged. "But who killed Mr. Bing, and how did he get out of the room—or into it, for that matter?"
Holmes whipped out his magnifying glass and dropped to his knees. "Silence, please!" he said. "Stand by the door and do not disturb me for a few minutes."
Hastings and Moriarty complied, standing together by the door and watching Holmes as he crawled around the room. At one point Holmes lit a match and peered into a large vase sitting against the wall. At another he pulled out his tape measure and notebook and wrote down the dimensions of something on the floor invisible to the other two. After perhaps twenty minutes Holmes stood up and brushed himself off. "I have reconstructed the crime," he said.
"Really?" Moriarty asked.
"The murder was committed by a midget, no more than four feet tall. Perhaps, dare I suggest it, an Andaman Islander. He concealed himself here the night before—under that display case, I imagine—and dropped the figurines out the window during the course of the night. The next morning Bing had the misfortune of discovering him and trying to prevent him from leaving."
"Astounding!" Hastings said.
"How did he get away?" Moriarty asked.
"He concealed himself under the display case once again and waited. After Hastings and the guard found the body, they ran to get help, at which point the little culprit escaped through the open door."
"Yes, we did run out to get help," Hastings affirmed.
"A very pretty reconstruction," Moriarty said. "On what evidence do you base this story?"
"Come look," Holmes said, beckoning them further into the room, "but don't disturb anything." He led them over to the spot under one of the display cases where he had used his tape measure. "Look!"
"I see nothing," Hastings said.
"You mean those scuff marks?" Moriarty asked.
"Indeed," Holmes affirmed. "Look at their shape."
Moriarty took his pince-nez glasses from his pocket and polished the lenses with a bit of flannel before affixing them firmly on his nose. Then he peered down. "A footprint," he said.
"And its size?"
"Small," Moriarty affirmed.
"Five and a half inches," Holmes said. "The foot of a man no more than four feet tall."
"Perhaps a child?" Hastings suggested.
"No child could thrust an eight foot long pike clean through a man. No, you're looking for a well-muscled midget. This is where he hid." Holmes pointed to a spot near one of the rear legs. "And there, I fancy, is a fragment of groundnut shell, undoubtedly the remains of the culprit's meager repast that evening."
"Why didn't this midget retrieve the figurines from the hedge after he'd worked so hard to get them?" Moriarty asked.
"I expect that the murder was unplanned and that the little chap's instinct was to quickly get as far away from the scene as possible. He has likely informed his employer of the whereabouts of the figurines by now. Perhaps a watch should be kept on the hedge to see if anyone attempts to retrieve them."
"Incredible, Holmes," said Hastings. "I shall notify the police immediately. Perhaps they can catch the man."
"Very facile, Holmes," Moriarty said.
Holmes grinned a tight-faced grin. "The trained eye, Professor. The trained eye. Few crimes can escape the trained eye."
"Quite so," said Professor Moriarty.

Prince Tseng bowed. "Once again I am in your debt, Professor," he said. "Are they not beautiful?"
"Indeed," Moriarty agreed, looking down at the seven figurines laid out on the table. "They are yet another reminder that your people were already scientifically and artistically advanced while mine were still painting themselves blue and roaming through the forests."
"How did you recover them?"
Moriarty began by recounting the events at the museum involving Sherlock Holmes, including Holmes' conclusions and his discovery of the figurines in the furze.
"And you somehow spirited them away after Sherlock Holmes had recovered them?" the prince asked.
"Not at all," Moriarty replied. "Holmes recovered the duplicates you provided me with. I had distributed them about the furze with some such object in mind before I entered the museum. By the time the duplicates were being placed in the display case, the originals were tucked safely in the inner pockets of my coat."
"So a dwarf didn't throw the pieces out the window?"
"There was no dwarf," Moriarty said. "Only a footprint."
"Made by?"
"One of the small shoes on display. The ones the women wore when they used to bind their feet. I borrowed it while Holmes and Hastings ran downstairs to find the figurines in the furze and made several marks. I must say that I was disappointed that Holmes only managed to find one of them."
"A ruse," Prince Tseng said. "Where were the real artifacts?"
"Bing had taken them," Moriarty said. "I imagine he was fed up with Lord Turlick's willful ignorance, and decided to keep the pieces for himself. Or perhaps he had a buyer. He removed a banner from the wall, along with the staff supporting it, then inserted the figurines into the bamboo shaft of the pike along with some cotton batting to hold them tightly in place. Their absence most likely wouldn't have been noticed until a number of visitors had passed through the room. He had a fair chance of getting away with it."
"Then who killed him?"
"He killed himself. When he pulled the banner from the wall, he loosened the hanger which holds the staff in place. He must have climbed up on the stool to repair it, while holding the pike against his chest. And then he slipped and upset the stool. He fell onto the tip of the pike and had time for one dreadful scream before he was completely impaled and dead on the floor."
Prince Tseng shook his head. "Poor man," he said.
"Well, you have the seven fingers," Moriarty said. "And Lord Turlick will remain happy in his ignorance, and Holmes is pleased that he bested me. It is a rare outcome which pleases everyone involved."
"I will find a suitable reward for you," Prince Tseng told Moriarty.
"I cannot accept anything for having done a favor for a friend," Moriarty protested.
"Surely there is something?"
"Well," Moriarty considered. "There are some orphans at St. Simon's church who could use some assistance."
"They will be clothed in the finest damask silk," Prince Tseng declared.
"I think a ton of coal, warm gruel, and some woolen overcoats would suffice."
"The finest coal!" said the prince. "The finest gruel!"
"I feel amply rewarded," Moriarty told him. ♦