SIR JAMES NARRATES...*

My patient’s distress was such that I did not dare suggest that she pose for a photographer but, using scissors and paste, I superimposed a high bald forehead on one of my previous photographs of her face. I did not see a resemblance to anyone in particular, but I did not think it proper to consult the press. I accordingly traveled one evening to Baker Street, where I related to Mr. Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson the story of this unfortunate young woman whom I had grown to admire over the years.

Violet More had been brought up by her mother, an educated woman from a good family. Violet knew nothing of her father, however — Mrs More would not speak of him, and it was assumed that he was dead. Violet was intelligent, with a gift for mathematics that won her the opportunity to pursue university studies, but I was dismayed when she confided her desire to become a nun just before her mental derangement put a stop to all her plans.

I showed my “before” and “after” versions of Violet’s picture to Holmes, who studied them with great interest.

“Can you arrange for me to meet her?” he asked.

Three days later, Holmes and Watson joined me outside the More residence. Holmes carried a package under his arm.

We were joined in the sitting-room by a veiled figure who greeted me with an outstretched hand. Her rounded shoulders proclaimed an obvious depression. I introduced Holmes and Watson to her, then sat beside her on the sofa.

Holmes spoke without preamble. “Miss More, what do you know of Professor James Moriarty?”

“How... how did you know?” stammered Violet.

“What I know is not the issue — I asked what you know of the Professor, Miss More.”

She took a moment to regain her composure, and then straightened her back with resolve. “I attended a series of his lectures on mathematics and astronomy last year,” she began. “They were masterpieces of logic and reason, and I was thrilled to be able to understand his theorems. I was the only woman at the lectures, but he took my questions seriously and, when the series was over, he invited me to join a tutorial with two of his best students. It was the most mentally stimulating experience of my life.”

“Then I invited the Professor and his students to my home for dinner. It was my mother’s idea, because she was so pleased with my enthusiasm for my mentor.” Her veiled head tilted toward the carpet. “It was on that night that it all went wrong.”

“When I introduced Professor Moriarty to my mother, she was unable to speak. She became pale and almost fainted. The housekeeper and I helped her to her room, where she remained the rest of the evening. The next day she told me that I could no longer study with him, that he was an unspeakably evil man who had brought grief and horror to untold numbers of innocent people. I beseeched her for more information, but she was adamant. I sent the Professor a letter of regret and gave up my tutorial.” She sighed. “What had been my greatest joy turned to disappointment, and my mother was the agent of my anguish.”

I looked toward Holmes and Watson and explained, “It was shortly after that when Violet again started to lose her hair...”

“Stop,” said Violet, interrupting me with an upraised hand. “Let me show you.” Unwrapping her veil, she defiantly turned her face to Holmes.

Even with the preparation of having seen the modified photographs, the resemblance was striking. Her forehead domed out in a white curve, an obvious replica of Professor Moriarty. Her deep-set eyes gleamed with distress. The two men sat immobile as they observed her.

“Now you know,” she said flatly, “just as I do. Professor Moriarty is my father. It’s now clear why mother would never speak of him. It all fits — my natural proclivity for mathematics, my mother’s horror on seeing the Professor in our home. Our family name of More has obviously been shortened

from Moriarty — assuming that he even gave his name to my mother in the first place,” she finished bitterly.

*Author’s Note: The following transcript of events was discovered in Sir James Saunders’ office many years later, beneath a stack of frayed magazines that he was evidently aging for his waiting room. The cover letter was to Watson’s literary agent, do The Strand, asking him to forward these “notes for Dr Watson’s consideration.” Though the packet was evidently never mailed, it was subsequently retained in the family as a curiosity.