The Adventure of the Burning Bishop, part 5.

[awesome_binomial_theorems]

I awoke that morning to find Moriarty already gone, his finest clothes missing, and the only message a note left on the table, with a smiley face drawn on it and a scribbled ‘Gone to pursue Abernathy Junior’s mysterious woman’. I was surprised at his supposed cheer – what few leads we had on the bishop had ground to a halt with the death of Amelia Oakwood, and Moriarty’s mood had been dark when we came home.

I thought about what he said: Thus far, Moriarty had failed to fill me in on any of his theories, but after we discovered Oakwood’s body, he seemed sure that the hit (for it had been a hit, by a sniper of some competence) had been ordered by Abernathy Senior. When I pressed him on the matter, though, and what connection the bishop and the Abernathy family may have, he had been unwilling to speak of it, saying only that he needed time.

With Moriarty gone, I settle in for what I hope will be a relaxing day.

- Major S. Moran.

The doorman of the White Fox Club eyed Moriarty beadily as he approached. Moriarty smiled brightly, tilting his head.

“Professor James Moriarty,” he said cheerfully. “On official business for Her Majesty.” The doorman looked dubious. Moriarty arched an eyebrow. “By all means, take the message to the proprietor – no doubt he’ll have read a newspaper lately. Make sure to remind him that the Queen does not take kindly to her servants being ill-treated.”

The doorman grunted. With a sullen call for one of his fellows to replace him, he loped off into the club. Ten minutes later, he returned, with a small and distinguished looking elderly gentleman hurrying along behind him.

The gentleman clasped his hands together. “Professor Moriarty, it’s a pleasure to meet you. My name is Raymond James – I’m terribly sorry for how these louts treated you.”

Moriarty smiled thinly. He was sure that if he hadn’t thrown out a mention of the Queen, there would’ve been insults and snide remarks in place of deference.

“I trust the palace has provided you with documents confirming that you’re here on royal business?” Raymond asked.

Moriarty’s smile grew a bit strained. If Raymond pushed too hard, Moriarty would be compelled to admit that he wasn’t on any kind of official business at all. “I never bother to carry documents. Still, if it pleases you, you can contact the palace yourself. After the murder of the Queen’s nephew and the Bishop of London, they will no doubt be ecstatic to hear that you’re following official procedure so stringently.”

Raymond paused. He appeared, to Moriarty, to be weighing up his options, trying to decide which path would pose a greater risk of invoking the wrath of the royals or worse, disturbing the smooth running of his club. Eventually, he smiled placatingly, raising his hands: “Please come in – I know how your sort are inclined towards high emotion, and I shouldn’t want to vex you. We’ll keep this hush.”

“By all means,” Moriarty said dryly, stepping past Raymond. “Tell me, Mister James, how many women are here currently?”

“… Women? Oh my, er, Professor, we are not that kind of - …”

“Clients,” Moriarty said irritably. “Clients who are also women.”

“Oh!” Raymond seemed relieved. “Well, we have a strict policy. This is a gentleman’s club, but men may bring their wives, if they so wish. Not many do, to be honest – the Stonelakes, Bells and Nortons are the only ones who I think ever have.”

“Are any of them here right now?”

“The Stonelakes and Bells,” Raymond says. “The Bells are more recent additions, they started coming regularly about two months ago. The Stonelakes have been coming for – oh, five years now. Both are in the breakfast room right now.”

“Excellent. I’ll take a corner table.”

“- As you wish, Professor.”

The breakfast room was everything that Moriarty supposed a breakfast room should aspire to be: Light, airy, the walls a pleasingly subtle shade of irony, with vast windows to let in the morning sunlight. He supposed in an hour or two, when the sun had passed along its why, it would seem grey and dingy. Settled in his seat, he let himself scan the room.

There. One of the two married couples – a woman in her early twenties, her dark hair long, rubbing uncomfortably at her neck as if she was used to wearing it shorter. As she shifted slightly, opening her mouth to take a gulp of her water, Moriarty could see a slight grimace. He shifted his gaze to her husband: Shorter than Moriarty, but burly, with the mannerisms of a soldier. There was a fading bruise on his jawline.

There you are.

“Ah, waiter!” Moriarty lifted a hand as the waiter passed. “Please, get a bottle of – well, your cheapest wine will do, and give it to that couple over there.” He pointed.

“The Bells, sir?”

“Quite so. Include with it a message that I am a great fan of their work, and would love to discuss paraffin suppliers with them.”

“And who should I say it is from, sir?”

“Samuel Abernathy,” Moriarty said cheerfully.

Sipping his water, he watched as the waiter approached the table, setting the bottle on it. As he explained, Moriarty could see the man’s face go white, and the woman steeple her fingers over her mouth. Grinning at them, he waved. Wrenching her gaze from him, the woman thanked the waiter, patting his arm.

Both Bells rose from their seat, crossing the room to Moriarty. Wordlessly, the man drew out a chair for the woman, waiting for her to settle into it. She did so, folding her hands over each other.

“Mister Abernathy.”

“Come now,” Moriarty said brightly, “I think you’re quite intimately aware that I’m not Samuel Abernathy.”

The woman laughed, a clear sound like a bell. Next to her, the man settled uneasily. “And I’m not Emma Bell. What of it?”

“What of it is that you’ve murdered two people,” Moriarty said. “A bishop and a young man.”

Emma’s mouth set into a thin line. “That’s a bold claim. I suppose you have evidence.”

“Enough evidence to set Scotland Yard on the right track,” Moriarty said, “and enough to know why you’re doing this.”

“Oh?” Emma flashed a smile that was all teeth.

“Your mouth, Mrs. Bell,” Moriarty said, gesturing, “there’s scarring on the inside – painful scarring, pox scars, even. You suffered from smallpox as a child. Your husband here I observe has a slight disfigurement of the wrist – most likely the remnants of an inflammation of the joints as a child.”

“Your point being?”

“My point being that I suppose you would’ve gone to a hospital for such illnesses – a charitable one, perhaps, run by a bishop. My suspicions weren’t roused, I admit, until I heard about the bishop’s habit of secreting away the bodies of those who died under his care – but once I knew that, everything else began to fit into place.

“The New World’s appetite for war is ravenous. Even a businessman like Abernathy couldn’t hope to find enough factory workers to build his arms, enough soldiers to fill his companies. But what if he could bolster his ranks somehow? Take a dozen slaves every year from a dozen different sources around the world – and what source would be better than a man above suspicion with a steady access to children who nobody will ask after if they disappear.

“Human trafficking. It’s grotesque, I’ll grant, but elegant. You were a factory worker, were you not, Mrs. Bell? And you, Mr. Bell, a soldier. How did you escape his service?”

Emma pursed her lips. Very slowly: “Afghanistan. The war against the tribesmen there, and their gods. Richard was already serving there – I was pulled from the factories to make up the ranks. Abernathy doesn’t believe women can fight, obviously, but if enough of his men are in danger, he’ll happily use us as cannon fodder.

“We were passing over the hills when we encountered Chaugnar Faun, one of their gods. A minor Old One – but he was unlike anything I’d ever seen before. Twenty foot tall, made of some kind of metal, like an octopus crossed with an elephant crossed with a man. So many of us died that day. I can barely remember it – just gunfire, and explosions, and Chaugnar Faun tearing through us, and the constant, endless singing.

“We injured him, and he retreated. But only the two of us were left. We knew we could flee, make a new life for ourselves. Everybody would assume we died there with our comrades. So we did. We fled. Away, and back to London, only to find that we’d lost something. Whether in the factories, or on the battlefield, or in that final battle with Chaugnar Faun, we’d lost what made us people instead of workers. We couldn’t adapt. We couldn’t live. We just drifted, purposeless.

“And then we saw him.”

“The Bishop of London.”

“We were begging. Just looking for enough coin to buy a meal. He threw three florins into our bowl, and told us that the Queen would watch over us. He didn’t even recognise us. That’s when we found our purpose – the bishop and Abernathy had to die, so that nobody else would suffer like we did.

“But Abernathy rarely appears in public, and he rarely goes anywhere without a half dozen bodyguards. We needed to draw him out. So we killed the bishop, and in the same night we killed his son. Burned them to death, so that to anybody except Abernathy, they would seem like accidents. Abernathy would see the connection, and he would come, and we would kill him.”

Moriarty frowned. “Oh, he is coming. He’s already killed someone who might give away his secret – and I can’t imagine he’ll have much concern about killing you, either. You’re cornered on two sides.”

“Unless we kill him first.”

“Which you won’t,” Moriarty said sharply. “You said it yourself, he never goes anywhere without plenty of bodyguards, and now he’s expecting you. He knows you’ll try to kill him – of course he knows. Your entire plan relies on him knowing that,” he grumbled to himself, running a hand over his face. “I’ll make you a deal.”

Emma arched an eyebrow. “A deal?”

“Turn yourself in for Samuel Abernathy’s murder. I’ll level whatever clout I have to softening your sentence,” Moriarty said, “and I’ll see that Abernathy stands trial for what he’s done.”

“And if we refuse?” Emma asked.

“I don’t care about the bishop. But Samuel Abernathy had committed no crime against you – someone has to pay for his murder,” Moriarty said. “If you refuse, then I’ll make sure Scotland Yard catches you. Think about it. My card.”

He tossed his card onto the table.

Professor James Ariel Cormac Moriarty.
Glorianan Chair of Mathematics
At Queen’s University, London.

~and~

Consulting Detective for Scotland Yard.

“Good day to you both.”