Opium Fiends of the East End (2)
Silence carried all sorts of noises back and forth. Moriarty savored his opponent's clamor with calm composure.
First came panic, then denial. "N-no... I... I would never do such a thing...!" Even intoxicated by drugs and liquor, the man denied his guilt. Wasn't it utterly ridiculous? Just moments ago, he'd seemed on the verge of crumbling under the weight of remorse, yet now he rejected his own sins outright.
But Moriarty understood. After all, he'd gone to such lengths precisely to relish reactions like this.
Still, one couldn't live by work alone. Sometimes, you had to find small amusements amid the grind to maintain steady, sustainable performance. Lately, for Moriarty, that amusement came from mocking those he itched to eliminate.
It was a pitiful state of affairs, but this city still lacked a detective beautiful enough to unravel his riddles.
Savoring the still-flustered Warren Professor's expression, he drained his champagne glass and refilled it. Fortunately, his life brimmed with various entertainments. Crafting riddles was paramount, but scarcely less thrilling was the act of destruction. Given his profession and nature, the two were inextricably linked anyway.
Warren Professor, too stunned to even wipe the cold sweat suddenly beading on his brow, denied it outright—only for a foolish question to bubble up in his mind. "H-how... how did you know? No, no... I didn't kill her, I didn't...!"
Of course, had he been even slightly calmer, had he mustered a modicum of thought, he might have realized how idiotic his words were. After all, it was Moriarty who'd introduced him to the entity known as M.
Even now, Warren couldn't fathom why he'd trusted Moriarty or sought out M. But it wasn't entirely his fault. James Moriarty had seduced him like a serpent, and one couldn't blame a man for succumbing to such temptation.
Above all, he'd been desperate back then. Short on funds, drowning in debt, needing money he didn't have—and even forced to eye his wife's dowry. But he couldn't touch that. Had she known of his debts, she'd have separated from him rather than bail him out.
Warren wasn't wicked enough to confidently claim everyone was evil, so though the thought might have flickered across his mind, he'd never truly considered harming his wife. Yet it was Moriarty who'd planted that seed, and in the end, following Moriarty's advice, Warren had sought out M.
Whether it was truly M, he couldn't say—they'd only communicated via suspicious letters. But upon wiring the staggering sum of 100 pounds, M promptly provided instructions for disposing of his wife, even supplying the tools. And so, officially, Mrs. Warren Professor had passed away months ago from a sudden illness.
It wasn't unusual. Life and death permeated the daily lives of the English, arriving abruptly—people born or dying without warning. Many such mysterious deaths might mirror Warren's case, but Scotland Yard couldn't investigate every one.
To drive the nail home into the panicked professor, Moriarty slammed his glass down with a clink and bellowed, "Ma femme est morte, je suis libre!"
"Eek!"
"Just a joke. Don't people at parties recite poetry or songs to show off their intellect? I thought I'd imitate them. It's by a poet named Baudelaire—the title alone was striking: The Assassin's Wine. Look it up sometime; it's practically dedicated to you, Professor Warren."
"A-alright..."
Warren, who prided himself on his learning, grasped the meaning well enough. But never had the young man's demeanor, every inflection of his speech, felt so alien as in this moment. The insolent pup he'd dismissed as worthless, schemed to sideline in academic politics—now loomed like the dean who could reshape his life.
No, it was merely a metaphor. In Warren's limited experience, nothing else fit.
With the professor before him, Moriarty pressed on. "Still, the more I see, the more disappointed I am. How did I know? Obviously, because I'm M. It's a childish alias anyone could see through—Moriarty's M. Too obvious to suspect, ironically."
"...What?"
But Warren had no chance to react—Moriarty barreled ahead, denying him the opportunity. "This is a special service for you, Professor. I don't usually reveal myself to clients. But since you're leaving soon, I'll make an exception."
"L-leaving?"
"To join your wife in heaven, naturally. Or hell, perhaps—but that's for the Lord above to sort out. I just send them up. Anyway, weren't you planning to end it all soon, wracked by guilt? Don't deny it, Professor. I've seen enough of your kind to know."
"Wh-what...!"
"There are people like that—after committing the crime, even with no risk of discovery, their conscience gnaws until they destroy themselves. Pathetic sorts. But I like them. It's like watching a flame blaze spectacularly at the end. You're the same, Professor."
Run, his survival instinct screamed.
But he couldn't. Moriarty's smiling gaze held him fast, as if by magic—mouth agape, body paralyzed.
"Well, that's just the likelihood. Not everyone does—some lack even the guts for suicide. So my job is to make it certain."
With that, Moriarty rummaged in his inner pocket, producing a notebook and a small glass vial, which he set before Warren. The professor's eyes widened involuntarily at the sight. His breath quickened, chest tightening as if he couldn't draw air.
Undeterred, Moriarty continued. "You've used it on your wife already, so no explanation needed, right? I trust you have the brains for it, Professor. Head straight home to your London residence, cool off a bit, tell the maid you're unwell and taking a nap—down this beforehand and sleep. Toss the vial out the window like last time."
"...Why... why are you doing this to me?"
Not even a plea for mercy escaped him. Instinct told him those cold eyes saw him already as a corpse—chilling enough to still his will to live.
Moriarty shrugged lightly at the question. "Should've been nicer to the young fellow, huh? I hate idiots picking fights with me. I can be generous to those I respect—but not you, Professor. Yes, that's the expression I wanted. Killing you would've been simpler bribing a few coachmen, but I wanted to watch it all up close."
He flipped open the notebook and read aloud. "Let's see... Your daughter's just engaged—to Colonel Austin's second son. She can marry after the funeral; love will conquer her grief. Your son's fourteen, at Eton. Quite the pride and joy. So for their safety and future, you'll sacrifice as a father, won't you? Good thing your wife's dowry's still substantial."
"Pl-please... sp-spare... me."
"You're a demanding client, Professor. I don't usually plot murders for a mere 100 pounds. How could I survive on pocket change like that—not some street urchin? This was pro bono, really. That 100 will cover your funeral—don't worry."
Moriarty snapped his fingers then, as if summoning someone. No one came. Warren, seated right across, heard it clearly, but Moriarty's feeble snap wouldn't carry to the floor below amid the din.
Grumbling, he shouted louder. "Porok! Porok! I've been calling—where are you?!"
Only then did the clamor downstairs hush briefly. The man in his thirties who'd escorted Warren hurried up to the second floor, bowing obsequiously.
"Oh, Professor—when did you call?"
"You should come when I snap. I told you last time."
"And I told you—build some stamina? You're so frail, even a girl's snap would outdo yours. Get a bell next time."
"Shut it and have the boys escort Professor Warren home. Make sure he gets there safely—his final journey."
"Yes, sir. Professor Warren? Heh heh heh, shall we? Let's go quietly—no fuss. Why provoke the professor? Scary guy, ain't he?"
Already half-drunk on drugs and booze, Warren offered no resistance. He wished it were a nightmare or cruel prank. But the oddly mismatched banter between Moriarty and Porok at the end lent it grim reality. Had Porok appeared instantly at the snap, he might've clung to hopes of elaborate theater.
Moriarty lingered on Warren's dazed expression as Porok dragged him away, then drained his glass once more.
Moments later, Porok returned after seeing the professor off with the underlings.
"Anyway, can I report now?"
"Yes—what's the sudden fuss? Someone looking for me?"
"Well... Fu Manchu specifically named you—wants to meet."
"...Those East End opium fiends?"