James Moriarty (![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png)
awesome_binomial_theorems) wrote2012-12-03 10:28 pm
awesome_binomial_theorems) wrote2012-12-03 10:28 pm
The Adventure of the Burning Bishop, part 7.
After his trip to the White Fox Club, my friend seemed to go exceedingly quiet on the case. For the next three days, he barely mentioned it, and I did not bring the subject up, seeing that he was in a sore mood. On the fourth morning, he vanished from the flat before I could wake up, presumably to go down to the university.
- Major S. Moran.
“Professor Moriarty,” Joshua Abernathy said as he entered Moriarty’s office. Two of his bodyguards assumed positions outside, flanking the door, while four followed him within, expressions flat and unreadable. “I’ve been hearing a lot about you.”
Moriarty glanced up from his desk. The university had warned him, in the vaguest terms possible, that such a visit would be occurring. Moriarty knew better than to expect they would know why. But it would’ve been impossible not to recognise Abernathy anyway: The thick accent, the brown-and-grey hair not dissimilar to his son’s, the general neatness of his considerable presence all gave him away.
“Mister Abernathy. I have a fresh pot of tea brewing, if it suits you,” Moriarty said, setting aside a particularly poorly written essay from a first year student.
“Please,” Abernathy smiled, sitting down opposite Moriarty. A bodyguard stood to each side of him, while the other two hung back, arms hanging by their sides.
Moriarty poured the tea. “You’ve been talking to Scotland Yard.”
“By telegram, ever since I heard the news,” Abernathy said amicably. “I have contacts there. Your name has come up a few times now.”
“I don’t believe they’ve called me to consult on your son’s death.”
“Only the bishop’s. Nevertheless, you did knock out a guard at my mansion and sneak in to examine the body, did you not?” Abernathy smiled. “Forgive me if I’m being presumptuous, but there are very few tall Irish gentlemen in London, and even fewer who would distract a guard while their colleague moved into position to choke him. He contacted me as soon as he awoke.”
Moriarty smiled thinly, sliding a teacup over. “Your tea. Sugar?”
“Of course,” Abernathy smiled back. He plucked up a teaspoon, scooping up a lump of sugar to drop into his tea. A few grains fell onto the table. Abernathy’s jaw twitched. Reaching down, he scooped up the grains and threw them over his left shoulder.
Superstitious.
“I admit, I was curious about your son, and his connection to the bishop,” Moriarty said.
“And in the course of your investigation, I suppose you discovered my business arrangement,” Abernathy said. Moriarty raised his eyebrows. “Don’t look so surprised. Did you think I would bother to conceal it?”
“The criminality of it did make me think you might, aye.”
Abernathy barked out a laugh. “Of course, it’s quite illegal. But here I am, an extremely wealthy, powerful businessman, favoured by He Who Presides, with connections everywhere – and here you are, a boy from a colony of savages who has some passing skill with mathematics. You’re welcome to go to the police and tell them I confessed everything – but unless I confess it in front of them, they won’t believe you for a second.”
Moriarty’s smile grew a little strained. “Then I suppose you have nothing to fear from me, do you? Why are you here, then?”
“Someone means to kill me.”
“Two people, actually.”
“Oh, my, I feel twice as special now,” Abernathy said. “In two days’ time, at nine in the evening, I will be conducting a ceremony to mourn the passing of my son. I would thank you kindly if you were in attendance, all the other professors will be. Bring a guest! I’ll be providing food.”
“And?”
“And I will be dismissing my bodyguards,” Abernathy’s eyes danced, “it isn’t proper, after all, for them to intrude on such an occasion.”
Moriarty narrowed his eyes. Slowly, he picked up his tea, downing a gulp. “You mean to draw out your would-be killers.”
“Yes. And the police will be there and waiting, hidden in the crowd. If I present only one chance for them to possibly succeed, they will take it,” Abernathy said. “Elegant, isn’t it?”
“Risky. It might serve you better to turn yourself in.”
That barking laugh again. “I think not. You’d like that, though, wouldn’t you? Your small notion of justice served, me behind bars, a personal victory. I know how you think, and I can’t blame you – there’s a certain satisfaction to felling an equal.”
“We’re not equals.”
Abernathy scowled. “Excuse me?”
Moriarty lifted his teacup, inhaling the fumes of the tea before taking a thoughtful sip. “I said that we’re not equals. You’re wealthy, and I am one of the most intelligent men in the world, if you’ll forgive my bragging. I wouldn’t suggest playing this game with me, Mister Abernathy.”
Abernathy’s scowl faded to a grin. His brow eased, and he drew in a light breath. With a flick of his hand, he gestured his bodyguards.
They were on Moriarty in a flash, one grabbing one arm, and one another, his chair clattering as they dragged him from it and pulled him forward, forcing him to his knees. Abernathy sipped his tea.
“I’ve been polite, professor. Now I’m making a point.”
One of the bodyguards reached into his jacket, pulling a small wooden cudgel from it. Holding Moriarty’s head still with one large hand, he lifted the cudgel and swung it into his left temple. Moriarty’s vision momentarily exploded in a left-to-right tide of red and white.
“Again,” Abernathy said.
The cudgel hit the side of his head again. For a moment, Moriarty was sure he was going to black out. He could feel a cut somewhere on his head.
“Money is what lets me do this. When you stagger out of here, everybody will pretend that nothing happened, that I was never here. If you go to Scotland Yard, they will refuse to investigate,” Abernathy said. “If I had you dragged out into the street and beaten, people would walk around us without looking. Wealth is power, in that way.”
Moriarty didn’t respond.
Abernathy huffed. “Again.”
Moriarty was sure he did black out this time, his senses stuttering and shorting out as the cudgel struck. Seconds later, they flickered back to life in a hum of colour, and Abernathy was crouching in front of him.
“Scotland Yard tells me you have a younger brother living in London. Touched in the head, they say,” Abernathy said. “I’ll tell you what – if you cross me, professor, it won’t be you I have beaten in the street. How does that sound?”
Moriarty glared at him furiously. Abernathy reached into his inside pocket. Something red flashed against the grey silk lining – like wet leather in the shape of a feather.
“Is that a feather?” Moriarty asked, and was slightly ashamed to hear himself slurring a little.
“Of He Who Presides,” Abernathy said, sounding confused.
Superstitious.
“That’s an old tradition. Wards off – wards off ghosts, right? Meant to,” Moriarty blinked, trying to gather his thoughts into something coherent.
Superstitious. Ghosts. Superstitious. Ghosts. Ghosts. Ghosts. Bishop. Son.
“I’m an old-fashioned man.”
“You’re an idiot,” Moriarty said.
Abernathy scowled. For a moment, he seemed to consider ordering another cudgel strike, before deciding against it. Instead, he swung his hand, backhanding Moriarty about the right side of his jaw. Moriarty winced. There’d be a bruise there later – the only consolation was that Abernathy’s hand probably hurt more.
Abernathy reached back into his inside pocket – there was the feather again – and pulled out a small card. “Your invitation. Don’t be late.”
- Major S. Moran.
“Professor Moriarty,” Joshua Abernathy said as he entered Moriarty’s office. Two of his bodyguards assumed positions outside, flanking the door, while four followed him within, expressions flat and unreadable. “I’ve been hearing a lot about you.”
Moriarty glanced up from his desk. The university had warned him, in the vaguest terms possible, that such a visit would be occurring. Moriarty knew better than to expect they would know why. But it would’ve been impossible not to recognise Abernathy anyway: The thick accent, the brown-and-grey hair not dissimilar to his son’s, the general neatness of his considerable presence all gave him away.
“Mister Abernathy. I have a fresh pot of tea brewing, if it suits you,” Moriarty said, setting aside a particularly poorly written essay from a first year student.
“Please,” Abernathy smiled, sitting down opposite Moriarty. A bodyguard stood to each side of him, while the other two hung back, arms hanging by their sides.
Moriarty poured the tea. “You’ve been talking to Scotland Yard.”
“By telegram, ever since I heard the news,” Abernathy said amicably. “I have contacts there. Your name has come up a few times now.”
“I don’t believe they’ve called me to consult on your son’s death.”
“Only the bishop’s. Nevertheless, you did knock out a guard at my mansion and sneak in to examine the body, did you not?” Abernathy smiled. “Forgive me if I’m being presumptuous, but there are very few tall Irish gentlemen in London, and even fewer who would distract a guard while their colleague moved into position to choke him. He contacted me as soon as he awoke.”
Moriarty smiled thinly, sliding a teacup over. “Your tea. Sugar?”
“Of course,” Abernathy smiled back. He plucked up a teaspoon, scooping up a lump of sugar to drop into his tea. A few grains fell onto the table. Abernathy’s jaw twitched. Reaching down, he scooped up the grains and threw them over his left shoulder.
Superstitious.
“I admit, I was curious about your son, and his connection to the bishop,” Moriarty said.
“And in the course of your investigation, I suppose you discovered my business arrangement,” Abernathy said. Moriarty raised his eyebrows. “Don’t look so surprised. Did you think I would bother to conceal it?”
“The criminality of it did make me think you might, aye.”
Abernathy barked out a laugh. “Of course, it’s quite illegal. But here I am, an extremely wealthy, powerful businessman, favoured by He Who Presides, with connections everywhere – and here you are, a boy from a colony of savages who has some passing skill with mathematics. You’re welcome to go to the police and tell them I confessed everything – but unless I confess it in front of them, they won’t believe you for a second.”
Moriarty’s smile grew a little strained. “Then I suppose you have nothing to fear from me, do you? Why are you here, then?”
“Someone means to kill me.”
“Two people, actually.”
“Oh, my, I feel twice as special now,” Abernathy said. “In two days’ time, at nine in the evening, I will be conducting a ceremony to mourn the passing of my son. I would thank you kindly if you were in attendance, all the other professors will be. Bring a guest! I’ll be providing food.”
“And?”
“And I will be dismissing my bodyguards,” Abernathy’s eyes danced, “it isn’t proper, after all, for them to intrude on such an occasion.”
Moriarty narrowed his eyes. Slowly, he picked up his tea, downing a gulp. “You mean to draw out your would-be killers.”
“Yes. And the police will be there and waiting, hidden in the crowd. If I present only one chance for them to possibly succeed, they will take it,” Abernathy said. “Elegant, isn’t it?”
“Risky. It might serve you better to turn yourself in.”
That barking laugh again. “I think not. You’d like that, though, wouldn’t you? Your small notion of justice served, me behind bars, a personal victory. I know how you think, and I can’t blame you – there’s a certain satisfaction to felling an equal.”
“We’re not equals.”
Abernathy scowled. “Excuse me?”
Moriarty lifted his teacup, inhaling the fumes of the tea before taking a thoughtful sip. “I said that we’re not equals. You’re wealthy, and I am one of the most intelligent men in the world, if you’ll forgive my bragging. I wouldn’t suggest playing this game with me, Mister Abernathy.”
Abernathy’s scowl faded to a grin. His brow eased, and he drew in a light breath. With a flick of his hand, he gestured his bodyguards.
They were on Moriarty in a flash, one grabbing one arm, and one another, his chair clattering as they dragged him from it and pulled him forward, forcing him to his knees. Abernathy sipped his tea.
“I’ve been polite, professor. Now I’m making a point.”
One of the bodyguards reached into his jacket, pulling a small wooden cudgel from it. Holding Moriarty’s head still with one large hand, he lifted the cudgel and swung it into his left temple. Moriarty’s vision momentarily exploded in a left-to-right tide of red and white.
“Again,” Abernathy said.
The cudgel hit the side of his head again. For a moment, Moriarty was sure he was going to black out. He could feel a cut somewhere on his head.
“Money is what lets me do this. When you stagger out of here, everybody will pretend that nothing happened, that I was never here. If you go to Scotland Yard, they will refuse to investigate,” Abernathy said. “If I had you dragged out into the street and beaten, people would walk around us without looking. Wealth is power, in that way.”
Moriarty didn’t respond.
Abernathy huffed. “Again.”
Moriarty was sure he did black out this time, his senses stuttering and shorting out as the cudgel struck. Seconds later, they flickered back to life in a hum of colour, and Abernathy was crouching in front of him.
“Scotland Yard tells me you have a younger brother living in London. Touched in the head, they say,” Abernathy said. “I’ll tell you what – if you cross me, professor, it won’t be you I have beaten in the street. How does that sound?”
Moriarty glared at him furiously. Abernathy reached into his inside pocket. Something red flashed against the grey silk lining – like wet leather in the shape of a feather.
“Is that a feather?” Moriarty asked, and was slightly ashamed to hear himself slurring a little.
“Of He Who Presides,” Abernathy said, sounding confused.
Superstitious.
“That’s an old tradition. Wards off – wards off ghosts, right? Meant to,” Moriarty blinked, trying to gather his thoughts into something coherent.
Superstitious. Ghosts. Superstitious. Ghosts. Ghosts. Ghosts. Bishop. Son.
“I’m an old-fashioned man.”
“You’re an idiot,” Moriarty said.
Abernathy scowled. For a moment, he seemed to consider ordering another cudgel strike, before deciding against it. Instead, he swung his hand, backhanding Moriarty about the right side of his jaw. Moriarty winced. There’d be a bruise there later – the only consolation was that Abernathy’s hand probably hurt more.
Abernathy reached back into his inside pocket – there was the feather again – and pulled out a small card. “Your invitation. Don’t be late.”