“That remains to be seen, Mrs Norton. I will require you to renew an old acquaintance, as well as to perform in your former profession tomorrow evening. I trust that you can still sing. You will follow my instructions exactly or there will be consequences. Do you understand?”
She flinched a little at his words, or perhaps, his tone; her mind was not as quick as his, of course, but it was fast enough to grasp the implications of his words. She might have heard the rumors about Holmes’s death as they had spread like wildfire through the criminal underworld after Reichenbach. But there would be no need to abduct her husband to persuade her to confront the detective; she had crossed swords with him in the past and won. So she must realize that he was speaking of the new King of Bohemia.
But her tone sounded neither surprised nor apprehensive, despite what must be the state of her thoughts. “Yes, I can still sing. But why?”
He studied her from the shelter of the shadows and thought that he would have preferred tears, pleas, some open display of weakness that told him that she was in his power. Inwardly, he cursed Holmes for sowing the seeds of doubt, seeds that grew up despite the certainty of his own survival and the demise of the detective.
He had returned from Reichenbach to find his criminal empire in shreds and his closest henchman, Colonel Sebastian Moran, about to flee England as the false news of his own demise circulated. Now he would have to rebuild, and for that he needed tools like the woman who sat staring at him, unblinking despite the coach’s jostling. Yet, he would succeed and this time there would be no detective to attempt to stop him. He reached into his jacket pocket and produced a card, which he passed across the coach to his companion.
The coach creaked to a halt as he spoke again, “You will perform at that address tomorrow night at eight. Prepare yourself. Put on the dress and jewels that you will find in your room; this coach will arrive to take you to your destination at seven. You will receive instructions then. Speak to no one and make no attempt to escape in the meantime, Mrs Norton. Your disobedience would be most damaging to your husband.”
Her mouth twisted, as though she bit back a response or a refusal, but she said nothing and rose obediently when the coach door opened and she was handed out. She glanced back once, then away as she mounted the worn steps of the small hotel where the coach was stopped. As they drove away, the old man noted that she did not look back again.
Professor James Moriarty sat back on the coach cushions with a curl of his lip. It was by no means a smile, but it radiated a certain self-satisfied pleasure. At last, a plan was coming together. Once the opera singer obtained what he wanted from the King of Bohemia, he could access the funds that he needed from the King’s own treasury. Those would be sufficient to finance his recovery, to restore him as the Emperor of London’s underworld again.
As to what would happen after that to the opera singer and her husband or to the King of Bohemia himself, it was of little moment to him. They might continue to be of use to him, particularly Mrs Norton. He would enjoy making the woman who had outwitted Sherlock Holmes one of his tools. The coach rattled on through the fog as he lost himself in his thoughts.
It felt like only a few moments later that the coach stopped, its progress halted by some sort of traffic obstruction that he couldn’t see from where he sat. A sharp rap from his cane on the coach’s ceiling caused a panel to open behind the coachman’s seat. “Dray overturned, sir. Should I look for a way round or wait for ’em to clear it, sir?” He flinched a little as he spoke, as if fearing a blow, but stayed where he was, uncertainty on his features.
Professor Moriarty bit back a blistering oath. This was something outside his calculations, a variable where he had not expected one so soon after his recent success, and it filled him with a brief surge of uncertainty that surprised him. He regained his composure with an effort. Very well, then he would have to adapt. “Yes, find another route.” He checked his pocket watch. “I do not intend to be late for my next appointment.”
The man must have caught the edge of menace in his voice because the panel closed abruptly and the Professor was gratified to hear a shout and the crack of a whip from the box. The coach lurched forward and he had reason to be grateful for the new springs he had had installed as it rattled around him. The driver made good speed, urging the horse to a teeth-rattling trot where he could and the Professor lost himself in thoughts mathematical, pondering a theorem that had recently occurred to him.
He allowed himself an instant of icy rage, one not given voice aloud, at how much the late Holmes had inconvenienced him. His theories would make him the toast of mathematics scholars the world over once they understood his brilliance, and would have done so by now if he had not been distracted by minor obstacles.
Crime was useful in its way, sparing him a life of scholarly privation as it did, but it could not replace the beauty of mathematics. Still, his lips twisted a bit at the picture of himself in a garret. Crime was also more of a challenge than the labyrinth of academic pursuits at present. He permitted himself to speculate on whether or not the singer would succeed in liberating the King’s signet, before dismissing his concern. If she failed, he had other tools in place. Less amusing ones to be sure, and possibly less effective, but available if he chose to use them.
The carriage lurched to a halt, nearly throwing him across to the opposite bench. He glared up at the roof before throwing open the window. “What is it now?” His tone froze the air around the coach, but that wasn’t enough to stop the fleeing boys who had halted their progress with a cart they had rolled across the narrow street. One wore a jacket and cap that looked somewhat familiar. The Professor’s eyes narrowed; he had left a man to watch Mrs Norton as a matter of course, but he could not dismiss the notion that she might have given him the slip. Or the equal possibility that he might be mistaken about the running boy in the fog.
He dismissed this as a distraction. Regardless of who planned it, this delay must be deliberate. Someone had an interest in delaying his progress or perhaps ensuring that he missed his afternoon appointment. As to who that might be, he could think of a dozen enemies, the list coming to him as easily as breathing.
The realization that he had so many foes to choose from brought the understanding that he was vulnerable. His men were fewer and scattered and his present position was unshielded. Someone knew this coach, possibly had blocked his way with the overturned dray as well. He swung the door open and gestured to his man perched on the box. “Come with me. We will find another conveyance. This one has become too … noticeable.” He gestured to the driver with his right hand, two fingers against the brim of his hat that might have been a dismissal or might have meant nothing at all.
He turned and walked away without waiting for an acknowledgement, his man at his heels. The square was not a familiar one and, for the first time in decades, he had a sense of being exposed, hunted. This was unacceptable. “I need a bolt-hole. Fetch the Colonel once you have escorted me to … ?” He ended with a question, his tone expectant. His companion murmured a response, too low for any passers-by to hear.
The Professor grimaced and gave a cold chuckle. “If that is the closest haven, then it must needs suffice. Lead on.” He gestured and the man led him through a warren of twisting streets to a nondescript warehouse. The cobbles milled with drivers loading and unloading their wagons from each establishment on the street.
The Professor eyed the few scattered gentlemen in the crowd, attired as much as he was himself, and caught himself before he could nod approvingly. He would not stand out here, not for anyone who was not looking specifically for him. His man had chosen well.
Still, he reflected, as they entered the building, his companion in the lead, it might be as wise to take a page from the book of his foes and don a disguise before he left this place. But there would be time to consider that once he dispatched messages for his lieutenants. Such a list of petty details accompanied vulnerability! He promised himself that he would not know thi
s feeling again, not once he had regained all that he had lost.
His mood was not improved when he found himself overseeing the kind of foolish, yet necessary tasks that he once might have delegated to his underlings. Only the lack of more competent tools to hand left some of his men alive, however temporarily.
After several incidents calculated to undermine his faith in his new organization, he determined that he must himself attend the reception for the King of Bohemia. It could not be entrusted to anyone else, not if he wanted to ensure that all would go as he planned. He scowled ferociously at one of his new lieutenants. “I will attend tomorrow’s reception myself. I shall also need evening clothes; send my valet to me tomorrow.”
He gestured dismissively and his men scattered to do his bidding. Professor Moriarty scowled at the barren room around him, wishing he’d returned to his comfortable apartments instead of going to the nearest safe hole. A bed had been found and assembled for him, at least, so he would not have to sleep rough in the bargain, but this was not the luxury he had grown accustomed to.
He closed his eyes and pictured the night to come, calculating the outcome of all the possible interactions between Irene Norton and the King. This was the kind of planning that had guaranteed his success in the past and, as he ran through the probable outcomes, he was certain that it would do so this time as well. That assurance was enough to ensure that he fell into an untroubled sleep before midnight.
When his men greeted him in the morning, they were in the company of his valet. The latter had brought both a portmanteau of his evening wear and breakfast, both of which contrived to make him composed and coldly confident once more. His men felt the shift in his mood, too, and responded to commands he had merely begun to formulate, almost predicting his every wish and request, until it was time to leave.
The Professor was soon dressed and as ready for the reception as if he had planned to attend it all along. He dispatched two of his men with instructions for Irene Adler, the name she would be performing under tonight. Let the King think her husband dead, the marriage dissolved, her still in love with him, whatever was necessary in order for her to get close to him again.
It would be enough. He pressed a napkin to his lips, wiping away the grease from the last of the cold meat and the pie that made up his supper. Colonel Moran was outside, dressed as a coachman and ready to drive him to the reception. His lieutenant could back up his plans in the event of a miscalculation, another piece falling into place. The signet would soon be his, and the forgeries that followed would set all his other plans in motion.
Once this step succeeded, he had only to defeat his foes, wipe them from the chessboard, and he would have his empire again. Visions of that success filled his head as he climbed into the coach, warming him against the slight chill of the night air. Yet even these jolly thoughts were not enough to completely distract a predator like him and he contemplated the details of all that he would need to do to solidify his success.
The mathematical precision of even his most shifting plans spread out before him until he felt the coach slow, then stop. A glance out the window told him that they had arrived at their destination and he straightened his cravat and adjusted his hat. Tonight, he had discarded the idea of a disguise, opting to attend as a version of himself. He was Professor James Moriarty, a mathematics professor from some local college or other, no one could ever remember which, a scholar with a passing interest in Bohemia and his fellow scholars there, not the “Napoleon of crime,” as Holmes had dubbed him, not tonight. No one would suspect otherwise, with the exception of Mrs Norton and he had sealed her lips effectively.
He moved up the stairs with the quiet, fragile dignity of one whose studies have made his eyesight unreliable and any time spent away from his books a burden. The footman at the door had little difficulty believing his story about a lost invitation, particularly when a sovereign for his continued cooperation accompanied the tale. Achieving the ballroom was a matter of moments and little trouble.
He surveyed the crowd inside with a glance, nodding to several acquaintances and preparing himself to the appearance of the event’s hosts at his elbow. A noble government functionary and his lady wife, vaguely familiar with some of his better connections, were as resigned to his presence at this event as he was to their polite chatter. Only their enthusiasm for the mysterious opera singer who had requested to perform for the King and the presence of the King himself were evident and certainly far more fulsome than their interest in a mere scholar of mathematics.
They amused him a little, but he was glad to see their backs once he had been safely escorted to the card room, far from the dancing and any young ladies he might opportune or any important guest he might bore; so he interpreted his host’s actions. It was useful to be underestimated from time to time. He buried himself in commonplace conversations and pleasantries until an announcement from the door sent them all to the ballroom. The most important guest had arrived.
The new King of Bohemia was large, loud and florid. His attire and that of his guards sent a shock of barbaric splendor of furs and scarlet through the otherwise temperate attire of the other attendees. The Professor watched him critically as he swept down the stairs, a nod for each bow and a smile for each lady. His fingers flashed with rings, but at this distance none of them appeared to be the one that Mrs Norton was taxed with retrieving.
As if his thought had summoned her, the singer appeared on the heels of the King’s entourage, the extravagance of her emeraldgreen gown subdued plumage in comparison to his party’s brighter hues. She was pale, but her head was high, her expression resolute. The Professor gave her a thin smile that she could not see and vanished back into the throng, out of sight. He could watch her easily enough, but saw no point in providing a distraction by letting her see him.
Instead, he turned his attention to the other attendees and had a moment of what he might have recognized as shock, had he been familiar with such a sensation. A solid gentleman, tall and fat, without medals or uniform to signify his station, caught his eye. The man’s nose was hawk-like, his eyes hooded but gleaming with dark intelligence. Yet it was not that which had caught the Professor’s eye. There was something familiar about that countenance, but he was certain that he had not seen the other before.
It shook him, this recognition that was not one. The other man glanced at him, then elsewhere, as if indifferent to his presence, but somehow, the Professor still felt the urge to deflect his interest. He shifted away, seeking the shelter of the refreshment table in the next room. There, he found a moment’s respite, an eddy in the crowds where he could overhear the gossip around him. Opinions were split on whether or not the reappearance of the opera singer or the King was the most exciting thing occurring at this particular reception.
It did not entirely please him, Irene Adler-Norton’s notoriety in these circles. His plan hinged on her being able to approach the King and rekindle his affections enough to distract him. She was his best chance to steal the signet easily, as long as she was not the focus of undue attention. Moving another piece on his chessboard would take more time, delay his plans. His bankers would be expecting an influx of funds from the Continent soon, funds that would be freed by what he could do with the King’s ring and his forged signature. There must be no delays; of that, he was determined.
He obtained a cup of tea and moved carefully toward the wall where he could observe the crowd. Across the room, the King started at the sight of the opera singer, while she cast her eyes down demurely. The Professor was too far away to hear what they said to each other, but then it was of little moment. What they did next would be of far greater significance.
There! The King gave her a lingering glance and reached for her hand, then pressed it to his lips. They stood in that posture for a breath too long, then parted as she moved toward the pianoforte. A few words to the accompanist and a hush settled over the assembly. Mrs Irene Norton parted her red lips and the voice of an angel poured out.
Her audience hung on each note, the King’s gloved finger in mid-stroke of his substantial mustache. For a wild fanciful moment, the Professor contemplated picking his pocket or slipping the ring off his hand. But it might be simpler to remove his finger, if it came to that. He filed that idea away in the portion of his planning that involved last resorts, then dismissed it for the moment. Unable to resist obtaining a closer view, he inched nearer to the singer.
Mrs Norton sang several arias from popular operas, then a song in what appeared to be Bohemian, judging from the reaction of the King and his men. If nothing else, the Professor thought cynically, he had ensured Mrs Norton’s successful return to the operatic stage. Perhaps she would be grateful, though he suspected that she would not.
Not that such concerns mattered. She commanded the King’s attention with every tilt of her head and he hovered near her as if he could not pull away. If she felt uncomfortable with so much regard, it was not obvious to any who watched them. Rather, she seemed shyly to accept his adulation while responding no more than propriety might allow. This reserve unnerved the King, clearly accustomed to a more enthusiastic response and it captivated him. This much, the Professor could observe with little effort, but much impatience.
Someone jostled his elbow, causing him to spill his tea, and he whirled with a snarl, a smothered exclamation clamped behind his teeth. The young fool who had bumped into him looked simultaneously pained and annoyed, as if he had been incommoded by the Professor’s presence in that part of the room. But he summoned both a servant and a passable apology then insisted on procuring another cup of tea to replace what he had spilled.
The Professor wanted nothing of the kind, but it was harder than he expected to lose the persistent young gentleman, who remained solicitously at his side. His vacuous and continuous conversation occupied several critical minutes, and it was some time before the Professor turned his attention back to the King and Mrs Norton.
The Mammoth Book of the Adventures of Professor Moriarty Page 7
