James Moriarty (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
awesome_binomial_theorems) wrote2012-11-28 08:58 pm
awesome_binomial_theorems) wrote2012-11-28 08:58 pm
The Adventure of the Burning Bishop, part 6.
Professor Charles Jacobson hated the docks. No part of London, other than the rookeries, churned with so much wrack and ruin. Everything that held society together broke down here – sailors swore and fought, thieves flitted amongst the crowds, the dockside taverns and brothels swallowed people up and spat them staggering and dazed out onto the street.
He stood out like a sore thumb – soft and round in a mass of muscle and ribs; smart and well-dressed amidst rags and bloodied uniforms; upright and clear-eyed among hunched, leering degeneracy. He could feel people’s eyes on him as he strode down the docks to where a ship from France waited – small, shimmering, its gangplank settled down.
There was a man striding down it. Tall, broad, his brown hair streaked with grey, with a well-trimmed beard and sharp grey eyes. He was wearing leather gloves with his long, winter coat. An aide hurried behind him, clutching a clipboard, and around him, six suited mountains stomped their way along the plank, warding the sailors and the thieves off with coldly furious glares.
“Professor Charles Jacobson, I presume?” The man asked. His voice was thick with a New World accent.
Jacobson inclined his head. “Correct. Mister Joshua Abernathy?”
A quirk of the lips. “Correct. Business brought me near to your shores, luckily.”
“Allow me to extend my deepest condolences for your son, Mister Abernathy. I know this must be a difficult time for you.”
Abernathy stared at him for a moment, before settling one gloved hand on his shoulder. “I have other sons, professor,” he squeezed Jacobson’s shoulder, and stepped past him, drawing in a deep breath. “I loathe this country. I swear, every time I come here, I find more sickness and moral degradation festering in the damp and the fog.”
“… Indeed.”
“I don’t know how you stand it, professor,” Abernathy murmured. “But enough about me.”
“Yes. Of course,” Jacobson said quickly. “I expect you’ll be wanting to collect your son’s body.”
“Is it going anywhere?”
Jacobson blanched. “I – no, Mister Abernathy, I suppose not.”
“Then it can wait. I’ve been hearing such interesting things over the telegram, from my friends in your Scotland Yard,” Abernathy said softly. “No doubt the university will be eager to help me, if I wanted an appointment with one of your professors.”
“And which professor would you want an appointment with?”
Abernathy’s gaze was bright as he turned it on Jacobson. “Professor James Moriarty, of course.”
He stood out like a sore thumb – soft and round in a mass of muscle and ribs; smart and well-dressed amidst rags and bloodied uniforms; upright and clear-eyed among hunched, leering degeneracy. He could feel people’s eyes on him as he strode down the docks to where a ship from France waited – small, shimmering, its gangplank settled down.
There was a man striding down it. Tall, broad, his brown hair streaked with grey, with a well-trimmed beard and sharp grey eyes. He was wearing leather gloves with his long, winter coat. An aide hurried behind him, clutching a clipboard, and around him, six suited mountains stomped their way along the plank, warding the sailors and the thieves off with coldly furious glares.
“Professor Charles Jacobson, I presume?” The man asked. His voice was thick with a New World accent.
Jacobson inclined his head. “Correct. Mister Joshua Abernathy?”
A quirk of the lips. “Correct. Business brought me near to your shores, luckily.”
“Allow me to extend my deepest condolences for your son, Mister Abernathy. I know this must be a difficult time for you.”
Abernathy stared at him for a moment, before settling one gloved hand on his shoulder. “I have other sons, professor,” he squeezed Jacobson’s shoulder, and stepped past him, drawing in a deep breath. “I loathe this country. I swear, every time I come here, I find more sickness and moral degradation festering in the damp and the fog.”
“… Indeed.”
“I don’t know how you stand it, professor,” Abernathy murmured. “But enough about me.”
“Yes. Of course,” Jacobson said quickly. “I expect you’ll be wanting to collect your son’s body.”
“Is it going anywhere?”
Jacobson blanched. “I – no, Mister Abernathy, I suppose not.”
“Then it can wait. I’ve been hearing such interesting things over the telegram, from my friends in your Scotland Yard,” Abernathy said softly. “No doubt the university will be eager to help me, if I wanted an appointment with one of your professors.”
“And which professor would you want an appointment with?”
Abernathy’s gaze was bright as he turned it on Jacobson. “Professor James Moriarty, of course.”