James Moriarty (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
awesome_binomial_theorems) wrote2012-11-21 09:17 pm
awesome_binomial_theorems) wrote2012-11-21 09:17 pm
The Adventure of the Burning Bishop, part 4.
Moriarty was barely through the door when I was upon him, so to speak, babbling what I had learned at Scotland Yard, so insensible was I with the excitement of discovery. Moriarty, for his part, seemed oddly subdued (and perhaps even a little testy) and waved me down into a chair while he poured himself a whiskey.
“I was investigating the bishop,” I explained, “and stumbled upon a case some sixteen years ago wherein a boy, being lodged at the bishop's hospital for sick children, which is on the same grounds as his home, was the victim of an accidental but violent murder by another boy.”
“That's hardly remarkable. Boys are raucous and vicious, even when sickly,” Moriarty said, “thus I presume that this story is merely a prelude to something more interesting.”
“It was when reading the case notes that I discovered something a little unusual about the Bishop of London's practices. You see, whenever a child passed away – by illness or, in this case, violence – he would secret them away within the hospital and estate, and do all the necessary procedures and funeral rites himself, with only a few select staff members – he would cremate the bodies, even, leaving only ashes. Ostensibly, this is to keep the hounds of the papers away from a sensitive affair.”
“A curious practice, though,” Moriarty noted.
“It was the cremation that truly caught my attention – it's possible the killer is mimicking the practice.”
Moriarty considered this, steepling his fingers. For a few minutes, he stared off into space, eyes flickering occasionally, as if he was performing a series of intricate calculations using values and formulae only he could see. Eventually, still distractedly, he gulped down some of his drink and shook his head.
“Possibly. Or maybe it is just a coincidence. I do not believe that the cremation, per se, is an ill doing on the part of the bishop, or maybe even a doing at all. It is a matter of being meticulous, instead.”
“I hate it when you're cryptic,” I said, but Moriarty seemed not to notice.
“Tell me, Moran, did you at any point when going through these case files discover who the matron of the hospital was twenty years ago?”
“A Mrs. Amelia Oakwood,” I said, frowning, “but the boy's murder was sixteen years ago, not twenty.”
“Forget the murdered boy. His killer was precisely who it appeared to be, the circumstances exactly as they are noted in the file,” Moriarty said. “Contact Lestrade. Ask him to find this Amelia Oakwood's address.”
Major S. Moran.
The block of flats that Amelia Oakwood lived in was a desolate affair, a dingy grey building wedged uncomfortably between a run down doss-house and a brothel. When the door opened, the building's landlady peered out at them, one hand inside her floral dress – Moriarty assumed there was a pistol there.
“What the fucking fuck do you want?”
Moriarty tried to put on his best charming smile. The landlady was utterly unimpressed. “Good afternoon, ma'am. We were hoping to visit Mrs. Oakwood and speak to her about a particular matter. We're old friends of hers.”
“Fuck,” the landlady said sharply. “You're a pretty fucking awful liar, ain't you? It's Miss Oakwood – poor woman's been divorced for fifteen years. Accusation of adultery – utter fucking nonsense of course, but nobody's going to tell her ex-husband that, even if he is a fucking wanking tosspot. That's how she ended up here – once you're an openly accused adulteress, fucking nobody'll fucking give you the fucking time of the fucking day.”
Moriarty squinted. He was very rapidly starting to lose track of this conversation.
“She's a nice lady,” the landlady said, suddenly soft and quiet. Then, with renewed fervour, she reached up and jabbed Moriarty's chest. “What are you really, then? One of her fucking so-fucking-called gentle-fucking-man callers? Wank. You're younger than most of 'em. Doddering old men, for the most part, potbellies like sows, limp dicks the size of malnourished slugs, and about as healthy. What are you, sixteen?”
“I'm twenty-two,” Moriarty protested weakly, unable to think of anything else to say.
“Queen save us from kinky young boys with a thing for older women and too large wallets,” the landlady snorted.
Moriarty spluttered. Mercifully, Moran stepped in to save him. “Ma'am,” he said with military briskness, “my name is Major Sebastian Moran, this is Professor James Moriarty. We're working with Scotland Yard and would like to ask Miss Oakwood a few questions.”
“Why didn't you say that? Do you have any tobacco on you?”
Moriarty wordlessly (and hastily) handed over his supply. The landlady pulled an ancient, ragged pipe from her dress and started filling it. Minutes passed. She lit it, and took several long puffs on it.
“Shame, really. Amelia's pretty spry for a woman of her age, she would probably have enjoyed a younger man,” the landlady paused. Then, thoughtfully: “Especially if your fucking dick is in propor - ...”
“We really are in a hurry,” Moran said quickly, cutting off Moriarty's helpless spluttering and stammering. “May we?”
“Sure. Second floor, first door on the right. Not seen her for a few days, but she keeps herself to herself, you know what I mean,” the landlady said mildly, stepping aside. “But no fucking funny business or I'll fucking shoot your fucking brains fucking out onto the fuck-fucking floor.”
Moriarty nodded meekly. Moran ushered him in, steering him up the stairs before the landlady could say anything else.
Gingerly, half expecting another barrage of swearing, innuendo, and crass single entendres, Moriarty knocked on the door. “Miss Oakwood? … Ma'am?”
No response.
He knocked again. “Miss Oakwood?”
No response.
Moran tapped his shoulder gently. “I'll try.”
Moriarty stepped aside. Carefully, Moran lifted a foot and kicked the door open with a sharp crack of hinges and locks breaking. There was a shout of 'fuck' from downstairs. Moriarty gave Moran an alarmed look.
Still no response. Frowning, Moriarty padded into the flat.
Facing the open window, in a mothbitten armchair, was a woman who Moriarty imagined had once looked elegantly severe, but now predominantly looked ragged, worn down, and several days dead. A red mark on her forehead had crusted over. Her eyes – what was left of them – stared blankly ahead.
“The killer got to her,” Moran said.
“No, no,” Moriarty frowned, “this isn't his work. This was a hired killing.”
“Sniper, by the looks of it, shooting from the building opposite,” Moran said, peering through the open window. “But who would've hired a sniper to shoot an elderly former hospital matron?”
“Only one person involved in this case that we know of has the funds and the inclination to do so,” Moriarty said. “Abernathy Senior, ordering a hit to protect a secret. The secret that fuelled this murder.”
“The hospital.”
“The hospital. I would warrant that Samuel Abernathy's mysterious woman was a patient there, at one point,” Moriarty said, “perhaps our killer too. I have a theory forming, but I don't have enough evidence for it yet. Everything is still foggy.”
A long silence passed.
“I'm not telling the landlady,” Moran said quickly.
“You are the worst person I've ever met, Moran.”
“I was investigating the bishop,” I explained, “and stumbled upon a case some sixteen years ago wherein a boy, being lodged at the bishop's hospital for sick children, which is on the same grounds as his home, was the victim of an accidental but violent murder by another boy.”
“That's hardly remarkable. Boys are raucous and vicious, even when sickly,” Moriarty said, “thus I presume that this story is merely a prelude to something more interesting.”
“It was when reading the case notes that I discovered something a little unusual about the Bishop of London's practices. You see, whenever a child passed away – by illness or, in this case, violence – he would secret them away within the hospital and estate, and do all the necessary procedures and funeral rites himself, with only a few select staff members – he would cremate the bodies, even, leaving only ashes. Ostensibly, this is to keep the hounds of the papers away from a sensitive affair.”
“A curious practice, though,” Moriarty noted.
“It was the cremation that truly caught my attention – it's possible the killer is mimicking the practice.”
Moriarty considered this, steepling his fingers. For a few minutes, he stared off into space, eyes flickering occasionally, as if he was performing a series of intricate calculations using values and formulae only he could see. Eventually, still distractedly, he gulped down some of his drink and shook his head.
“Possibly. Or maybe it is just a coincidence. I do not believe that the cremation, per se, is an ill doing on the part of the bishop, or maybe even a doing at all. It is a matter of being meticulous, instead.”
“I hate it when you're cryptic,” I said, but Moriarty seemed not to notice.
“Tell me, Moran, did you at any point when going through these case files discover who the matron of the hospital was twenty years ago?”
“A Mrs. Amelia Oakwood,” I said, frowning, “but the boy's murder was sixteen years ago, not twenty.”
“Forget the murdered boy. His killer was precisely who it appeared to be, the circumstances exactly as they are noted in the file,” Moriarty said. “Contact Lestrade. Ask him to find this Amelia Oakwood's address.”
Major S. Moran.
The block of flats that Amelia Oakwood lived in was a desolate affair, a dingy grey building wedged uncomfortably between a run down doss-house and a brothel. When the door opened, the building's landlady peered out at them, one hand inside her floral dress – Moriarty assumed there was a pistol there.
“What the fucking fuck do you want?”
Moriarty tried to put on his best charming smile. The landlady was utterly unimpressed. “Good afternoon, ma'am. We were hoping to visit Mrs. Oakwood and speak to her about a particular matter. We're old friends of hers.”
“Fuck,” the landlady said sharply. “You're a pretty fucking awful liar, ain't you? It's Miss Oakwood – poor woman's been divorced for fifteen years. Accusation of adultery – utter fucking nonsense of course, but nobody's going to tell her ex-husband that, even if he is a fucking wanking tosspot. That's how she ended up here – once you're an openly accused adulteress, fucking nobody'll fucking give you the fucking time of the fucking day.”
Moriarty squinted. He was very rapidly starting to lose track of this conversation.
“She's a nice lady,” the landlady said, suddenly soft and quiet. Then, with renewed fervour, she reached up and jabbed Moriarty's chest. “What are you really, then? One of her fucking so-fucking-called gentle-fucking-man callers? Wank. You're younger than most of 'em. Doddering old men, for the most part, potbellies like sows, limp dicks the size of malnourished slugs, and about as healthy. What are you, sixteen?”
“I'm twenty-two,” Moriarty protested weakly, unable to think of anything else to say.
“Queen save us from kinky young boys with a thing for older women and too large wallets,” the landlady snorted.
Moriarty spluttered. Mercifully, Moran stepped in to save him. “Ma'am,” he said with military briskness, “my name is Major Sebastian Moran, this is Professor James Moriarty. We're working with Scotland Yard and would like to ask Miss Oakwood a few questions.”
“Why didn't you say that? Do you have any tobacco on you?”
Moriarty wordlessly (and hastily) handed over his supply. The landlady pulled an ancient, ragged pipe from her dress and started filling it. Minutes passed. She lit it, and took several long puffs on it.
“Shame, really. Amelia's pretty spry for a woman of her age, she would probably have enjoyed a younger man,” the landlady paused. Then, thoughtfully: “Especially if your fucking dick is in propor - ...”
“We really are in a hurry,” Moran said quickly, cutting off Moriarty's helpless spluttering and stammering. “May we?”
“Sure. Second floor, first door on the right. Not seen her for a few days, but she keeps herself to herself, you know what I mean,” the landlady said mildly, stepping aside. “But no fucking funny business or I'll fucking shoot your fucking brains fucking out onto the fuck-fucking floor.”
Moriarty nodded meekly. Moran ushered him in, steering him up the stairs before the landlady could say anything else.
Gingerly, half expecting another barrage of swearing, innuendo, and crass single entendres, Moriarty knocked on the door. “Miss Oakwood? … Ma'am?”
No response.
He knocked again. “Miss Oakwood?”
No response.
Moran tapped his shoulder gently. “I'll try.”
Moriarty stepped aside. Carefully, Moran lifted a foot and kicked the door open with a sharp crack of hinges and locks breaking. There was a shout of 'fuck' from downstairs. Moriarty gave Moran an alarmed look.
Still no response. Frowning, Moriarty padded into the flat.
Facing the open window, in a mothbitten armchair, was a woman who Moriarty imagined had once looked elegantly severe, but now predominantly looked ragged, worn down, and several days dead. A red mark on her forehead had crusted over. Her eyes – what was left of them – stared blankly ahead.
“The killer got to her,” Moran said.
“No, no,” Moriarty frowned, “this isn't his work. This was a hired killing.”
“Sniper, by the looks of it, shooting from the building opposite,” Moran said, peering through the open window. “But who would've hired a sniper to shoot an elderly former hospital matron?”
“Only one person involved in this case that we know of has the funds and the inclination to do so,” Moriarty said. “Abernathy Senior, ordering a hit to protect a secret. The secret that fuelled this murder.”
“The hospital.”
“The hospital. I would warrant that Samuel Abernathy's mysterious woman was a patient there, at one point,” Moriarty said, “perhaps our killer too. I have a theory forming, but I don't have enough evidence for it yet. Everything is still foggy.”
A long silence passed.
“I'm not telling the landlady,” Moran said quickly.
“You are the worst person I've ever met, Moran.”