The Opium Addicts of the East End (1)
Warren Professor, one of the mathematics professors at Oxford Christ Church College, sat in silence inside a first-class carriage bound from Oxford to London, accompanied by an acquaintance. Though they both belonged to the same college, "acquaintance" was a far more fitting term than "friend." There was a significant age gap between them, and more importantly, their relationship had always been strained. Warren's journey to London with Professor James Moriarty to mark the weekend was entirely due to a personal, utterly private matter that demanded the utmost secrecy.
Unlike Warren, who shot him occasional dissatisfied glances, Moriarty gazed calmly out the window, a faint smile playing on his lips. Warren was certain Moriarty had noticed his stares, yet the young professor ignored them with utter composure. Yes, it was outright dismissal.
Arrogant brat, relying solely on his talent. That was Warren's view of Moriarty—a sentiment shared by everyone in his own faction at the school, so it wasn't particularly unique. Unlike Warren, who had merely clung to his position with age, Moriarty was young and a rising star. It grated on him that this upstart, barely three years into his professorship, was wielding growing influence at the university. And at just twenty-one, stepping straight onto the lectern without even a doctorate? No society or workplace was free of seniority hazing, and Warren stood firmly against this insolent youth.
Yet here he was, riding a train to London with Moriarty—a sight that might fool an outsider into thinking they were on friendly terms—all for that deeply personal errand. The thought he'd been trying to suppress resurfaced, and Warren found himself paling despite his efforts to hide it. Of course, Moriarty had already clocked his unease, deepening his faint smile into a mocking grin. Warren was oblivious to it.
In that instant, the memory surged back—that death, his sin—clenching around him like a vise, a faint guilt clouding his vision. But the guilt soon twisted into fear of others' eyes upon him. Snapping back to reality, Warren darted glances around like a cornered rat, relieved that no one paid him any mind. He tried desperately to focus on other thoughts until they arrived. Perhaps it was his profession, dealing in numbers, that made his mind drift there unbidden. But no, it stemmed from envy toward his young, arrogant companion.
First-class to London... fifteen shillings per person...
Warren hailed from a minor noble family and held a socially respected post as a university professor, so he often traveled first-class. His unease wasn't the wide-eyed novelty of a first-timer. Yet academia, for all its prestige, paid poorly in inverse proportion to its fame. After years of service, Warren's annual salary from the college fell just shy of seven hundred pounds—a middle-class sum compared to a laborer's wage, but in his eyes, woefully inadequate for a professor's stature. People always inflated their own worth, after all.
So when Moriarty casually bought two first-class tickets to London—including Warren's share, as if it were nothing—Warren had been stunned. Wealthy students might splurge on weekend jaunts to the capital, but even Warren usually opted for third-class, occasionally second to salve his pride.
Rumors of his investments paying off handsomely must be true.
Despite being only three years in, the insolent youth made weekend trips to London without fail—something Warren, in his own youth, would never have dreamed of, dutifully staying on campus to volunteer and assist. Moriarty even slipped off to London during the week. Warren couldn't help calculating the fare.
It might have been a flex, buying first-class to show off, but Warren's life experience told him Moriarty was the type to always travel thus. Round trip, thirty shillings—about one pound and a half every weekend. That's eighty pounds a year on tickets alone...
Even his clothes, unremarkable at a glance, were all high-end on closer inspection. The school rumors painted him as an obscure Irish bumpkin turned nouveau riche through savvy investments and gambling—rumors Warren himself had helped spread. He dismissed petty truths; nothing about Moriarty pleased him. When one thing rankled, everything did, so Warren's resentment felt justified.
All the more reason he cursed himself for accepting Moriarty's "help." It felt like succumbing to a serpent's temptation—at least, that's how it had seemed back then. Desperation had gripped him hardest, the need to preserve his intact life. But regrets were useless now. The sin was his, undeniably.
And as guilt gnawed at him anew, the man slithered back in, and before Warren knew it, here they were, off to London together for the weekend.
"Is this... really the place?"
"Of course, Professor Warren. This is where people seek out M. I come here often myself."
Moriarty had led him to what appeared, from the outside, a dingy pub. Though in a sizable building, Warren hesitated to step forward. Near the West End, it wasn't some notorious East End den a gentleman should shun. Still, the grubby street, the predatory stares from passersby like hunters eyeing prey, and the idle young loafers out front, chatting idly and sharing smokes—it repelled a sheltered old professor like a greenhouse flower.
But Moriarty shoved him from behind, as if declaring he had no choice, and Warren had no option but to enter.
"Hey? Professor! Early today, eh? Got something to tell you."
"Later, Porok. First, Professor Warren here has urgent business."
"Oh, a colleague? Heh heh heh. What'll it be for drinks?"
"Mariani for me, champagne for myself. Oh—and something stronger for Professor Warren."
The place teemed with a motley crowd, like a microcosm of society. Rough street laborers and urchins, ordinary shop clerks, and occasionally types like Moriarty or Warren himself, who looked like society's leaders. They gathered as if awaiting some event, even in broad daylight—chatting at tables, swigging drinks. Gambling flared everywhere amid suspicious smoke and tobacco haze. Instinct screamed for Warren to flee.
But before the serpent Moriarty, he was powerless, as if paralyzed. Ushered upstairs by a server, they found the balcony overlooking the floor deserted, save for them. They sat across a massive table.
"Uh... um... what is this place? And what do you have to do with...?"
"You seem tense. Have a drink first. Mariani wine—you know it's all the rage these days."
"R-right..."
Warren lifted the glass the server brought with trembling hands and sipped. He knew brandy or wine soothed nerves, and it seemed to calm him somewhat. Even Moriarty's cackling, urchin-like vulgarity faded from notice for a moment.
"I've been making a bit from this lately. Even dipping into exports modestly—Italy supplies our ingredients, after all, so I'm keen on good relations."
"Ah... that... the business you're investing in?"
Moriarty eyed him a moment, then smiled.
"Yes... well, something like that. Simple venture. I stumbled on it by chance—it only hit Italian markets this year, so it wasn't widely known. Cocaine wine? People are clueless about drugs. Off-the-shelf stuff's eight percent cocaine, but the Italian pharmacist wanted stronger. Unofficial imports honor that with higher doses. Drinkers say the effects hit faster. I don't touch it myself, though. Need a thrill sometimes, but not at the cost of ruin. Stronger batches exist—for sending people off properly."
"Ah... I see..."
"Still, money's meant to be spent on the right things, isn't it, Professor Warren? I've come to appreciate that lately. Used to not care much, but finer wines, collecting decent art—small pleasures. You're no stranger to spending, are you?"
"Y-yes... quite. Money... money's always the issue."
"Then why feel this flimsy guilt now, after handling your wife on my advice precisely because of money? I just can't fathom it."
A moment of silence fell.