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 in...
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