James Moriarty (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
awesome_binomial_theorems) wrote2012-11-14 10:56 pm
awesome_binomial_theorems) wrote2012-11-14 10:56 pm
The Adventure of the Burning Bishop, part 3.
I hate James Moriarty and all he stands for, sometimes.
My friend elected to send me to Scotland Yard, to trawl through the files with Lestrade. The man is a curious fellow, and I’ve been instructed not to let on that Abernathy was murdered. I’ve never been much of a liar (unlike Moriarty, who seems to take to falsification, disguise and deception like a swan to water) and so as Lestrade asks why my friend is so suddenly interested in the case, I am forced to simply speak as little as possible in the hopes that he does not catch on to my poorly attempted deception.
“It took me a while to find them, but here’s every case file we have with the Bishop of London involved,” Lestrade said. “A lot of ‘em, but they’re mostly attempted robberies.”
I grunted, peering at the pile of files with trepidation. Still, I’d been informed that the task set to me was of the utmost importance, so I began to work my way through them, sorely wishing I had some whiskey to help me on my way.
- Major S. Moran.
Moriarty drummed his fingers on the desk. Questioning people had never been a skill of his, and he had usually left that to Lestrade. The man had a certain bulldoggish capacity for forcing the truth out of people, which Moriarty supposed was his one admirable quality that, perhaps, may have saved him from being the biggest incompetent amongst the ranks of Scotland Yard’s inspectors.
Jacobson had been kind enough to draw up a list of six or seven boys in Abernathy’s social group. Mostly troublemakers, mostly New Worlders, mostly extremely wealthy sons of businessmen – it appeared that Abernathy was not enamoured with the idea of people all that different from him.
This was going to be fun.
The first boy, Hamish Lee, was grinning perhaps the most irritating grin Moriarty had ever seen when he entered. Looking at the boy, Moriarty could see that he was one of Abernathy’s sporting friends, but had suffered an injury two or three months prior (the way he moved, slightly resting to one side and scraping his heel, was a clear indicator) and had since put on considerable weight, especially around the face and stomach.
Moriarty peered at him for a moment. The left leg of his trouser was frayed and his shoes scuffed where his inability to lift it too high had scraped it against the ground. He blinked a little, rubbing irritably at his eyes. They were red-rimmed.
“Professor,” he drawled. Moriarty immediately hated him a little. “What’s this about? If my grades are falling, the university knows who to contact for another donation.” Moriarty kept his face carefully neutral.
“Hamish,” Moriarty said. The boy’s heavy brows knitted at the centre in a frown – it was poor form to refer to him by his first name. “Tell me, how long have you been visiting prostitutes?”
“Excuse me?”
“Buors, ladybirds, troopers, dollymops, toffers,” Moriarty said cheerfully, “not a more high-class, er, lady of the night than that, I’d imagine. The first clue was your frayed trouser leg and scuffed shoe, you should get those repaired – after all, boys are like vultures, they’ll pick at any imperfection. You already know that, they probably seized on it when you started putting on, er, weight.” He gestured vaguely at Hamish’s face.
Hamish’s frown grew deeper. “What are you talking about, Professor?”
“Your trousers, and occasional lack thereof. Someone with your not inconsiderable quantities of money can no doubt afford the services of a tailor and a shoemaker, unless you’ve been spending money on something else. I can’t help but note the slight scent of perfume, and the redness around the eyes.”
Hamish grinned toothily. “I was up late last night. With a girl. Who I didn’t pay for.”
“Did this girl have conjunctivitis? I can tell that you’re not just tired. Not that I’m suggesting any of these dozens, hundreds, however many prostitutes you hired the services of had conjunctivitis, I’m saying that you have the clap,” Moriarty said. “And haven’t gotten it treated, by the looks of it.”
Hamish’s mouth was set into a thin line. Then, very slowly, one thick lip curled into a sneer. “My father will bury you if you try to accuse me in public.”
“Oh, certainly. But not before he cuts off your allowance and drags you back to his side in the New World, I think,” Moriarty said. “I suppose you wouldn’t enjoy that, would you? I mean, if you wanted to be near to him with all his delightful expectations and rules for your behaviour and commands to preserve the family name you’d be at the Miskatonic.”
Hamish scowled, his hands tightening into fists. Moriarty grinned, settling back in his chair to fill his pipe. “Don’t worry! I really don’t care about your extracurricular activities, I’m interested in your friend. Ex-friend, I suppose. Mister Samuel Abernathy – you did know each other, didn’t you?”
“We were friends,” Hamish said guardedly. “Not really when he died. Things went sour after I had to drop doing sports. Leg injury. His fault, actually, but he didn’t see it that way, said it was all on me. Didn’t stop him from asking me to box. I think he got a kick out of it – I could barely walk, let alone dance around a ring, he could just batter me in place.”
“A charming fellow,” Moriarty chirped, “I don’t suppose you killed him, did you? Don’t answer that, I know you didn’t, there was no way you would’ve emerged for the better in that struggle. Still! At least there won’t be any residual loyalty to keep you from answering my question.”
“And that would be?”
“Abernathy was seeing a young woman – without a chaperone. Very improper, as you’re no doubt intimately aware,” Moriarty said. “So far, I’ve had little luck finding out her identity, but I think you may be able to help. After all, Abernathy could safely discuss his vices with you, it isn’t as if you’re going to be telling anyone.”
Hamish shuffled in his seat uncomfortably. Moriarty waited, filling his pipe up quietly. Eventually, Hamish sighed and spoke.
“There may have been a girl. I never met her personally, Abernathy encountered her at some exclusive club or another. Someone else’s wife, I think. He was absolutely smitten with her. Kept talking about how she was going to leave her husband and run away with him.”
“You seem sceptical.”
Hamish snorted. “I’d believe it when I see it. Abernathy was rich, but it was dirty money. People put up with arms dealers and private mercenary companies, but nobody likes them.”
“I don’t suppose you know the name of the club?”
“Sure. The White Foxtails Club.”
PRFSR MORIARTY
GLORIANAN UNIVERSITY, LONDON.
FOUND SOMETHING
INVESTIGATING
SEE YOU AT 221B
MJR MORAN
My friend elected to send me to Scotland Yard, to trawl through the files with Lestrade. The man is a curious fellow, and I’ve been instructed not to let on that Abernathy was murdered. I’ve never been much of a liar (unlike Moriarty, who seems to take to falsification, disguise and deception like a swan to water) and so as Lestrade asks why my friend is so suddenly interested in the case, I am forced to simply speak as little as possible in the hopes that he does not catch on to my poorly attempted deception.
“It took me a while to find them, but here’s every case file we have with the Bishop of London involved,” Lestrade said. “A lot of ‘em, but they’re mostly attempted robberies.”
I grunted, peering at the pile of files with trepidation. Still, I’d been informed that the task set to me was of the utmost importance, so I began to work my way through them, sorely wishing I had some whiskey to help me on my way.
- Major S. Moran.
Moriarty drummed his fingers on the desk. Questioning people had never been a skill of his, and he had usually left that to Lestrade. The man had a certain bulldoggish capacity for forcing the truth out of people, which Moriarty supposed was his one admirable quality that, perhaps, may have saved him from being the biggest incompetent amongst the ranks of Scotland Yard’s inspectors.
Jacobson had been kind enough to draw up a list of six or seven boys in Abernathy’s social group. Mostly troublemakers, mostly New Worlders, mostly extremely wealthy sons of businessmen – it appeared that Abernathy was not enamoured with the idea of people all that different from him.
This was going to be fun.
The first boy, Hamish Lee, was grinning perhaps the most irritating grin Moriarty had ever seen when he entered. Looking at the boy, Moriarty could see that he was one of Abernathy’s sporting friends, but had suffered an injury two or three months prior (the way he moved, slightly resting to one side and scraping his heel, was a clear indicator) and had since put on considerable weight, especially around the face and stomach.
Moriarty peered at him for a moment. The left leg of his trouser was frayed and his shoes scuffed where his inability to lift it too high had scraped it against the ground. He blinked a little, rubbing irritably at his eyes. They were red-rimmed.
“Professor,” he drawled. Moriarty immediately hated him a little. “What’s this about? If my grades are falling, the university knows who to contact for another donation.” Moriarty kept his face carefully neutral.
“Hamish,” Moriarty said. The boy’s heavy brows knitted at the centre in a frown – it was poor form to refer to him by his first name. “Tell me, how long have you been visiting prostitutes?”
“Excuse me?”
“Buors, ladybirds, troopers, dollymops, toffers,” Moriarty said cheerfully, “not a more high-class, er, lady of the night than that, I’d imagine. The first clue was your frayed trouser leg and scuffed shoe, you should get those repaired – after all, boys are like vultures, they’ll pick at any imperfection. You already know that, they probably seized on it when you started putting on, er, weight.” He gestured vaguely at Hamish’s face.
Hamish’s frown grew deeper. “What are you talking about, Professor?”
“Your trousers, and occasional lack thereof. Someone with your not inconsiderable quantities of money can no doubt afford the services of a tailor and a shoemaker, unless you’ve been spending money on something else. I can’t help but note the slight scent of perfume, and the redness around the eyes.”
Hamish grinned toothily. “I was up late last night. With a girl. Who I didn’t pay for.”
“Did this girl have conjunctivitis? I can tell that you’re not just tired. Not that I’m suggesting any of these dozens, hundreds, however many prostitutes you hired the services of had conjunctivitis, I’m saying that you have the clap,” Moriarty said. “And haven’t gotten it treated, by the looks of it.”
Hamish’s mouth was set into a thin line. Then, very slowly, one thick lip curled into a sneer. “My father will bury you if you try to accuse me in public.”
“Oh, certainly. But not before he cuts off your allowance and drags you back to his side in the New World, I think,” Moriarty said. “I suppose you wouldn’t enjoy that, would you? I mean, if you wanted to be near to him with all his delightful expectations and rules for your behaviour and commands to preserve the family name you’d be at the Miskatonic.”
Hamish scowled, his hands tightening into fists. Moriarty grinned, settling back in his chair to fill his pipe. “Don’t worry! I really don’t care about your extracurricular activities, I’m interested in your friend. Ex-friend, I suppose. Mister Samuel Abernathy – you did know each other, didn’t you?”
“We were friends,” Hamish said guardedly. “Not really when he died. Things went sour after I had to drop doing sports. Leg injury. His fault, actually, but he didn’t see it that way, said it was all on me. Didn’t stop him from asking me to box. I think he got a kick out of it – I could barely walk, let alone dance around a ring, he could just batter me in place.”
“A charming fellow,” Moriarty chirped, “I don’t suppose you killed him, did you? Don’t answer that, I know you didn’t, there was no way you would’ve emerged for the better in that struggle. Still! At least there won’t be any residual loyalty to keep you from answering my question.”
“And that would be?”
“Abernathy was seeing a young woman – without a chaperone. Very improper, as you’re no doubt intimately aware,” Moriarty said. “So far, I’ve had little luck finding out her identity, but I think you may be able to help. After all, Abernathy could safely discuss his vices with you, it isn’t as if you’re going to be telling anyone.”
Hamish shuffled in his seat uncomfortably. Moriarty waited, filling his pipe up quietly. Eventually, Hamish sighed and spoke.
“There may have been a girl. I never met her personally, Abernathy encountered her at some exclusive club or another. Someone else’s wife, I think. He was absolutely smitten with her. Kept talking about how she was going to leave her husband and run away with him.”
“You seem sceptical.”
Hamish snorted. “I’d believe it when I see it. Abernathy was rich, but it was dirty money. People put up with arms dealers and private mercenary companies, but nobody likes them.”
“I don’t suppose you know the name of the club?”
“Sure. The White Foxtails Club.”
PRFSR MORIARTY
GLORIANAN UNIVERSITY, LONDON.
FOUND SOMETHING
INVESTIGATING
SEE YOU AT 221B
MJR MORAN