The Opium Fiends of the East End (3)
Moriarty closed his eyes for a moment, sorting through his thoughts. To anyone watching, it might have looked like nothing more than a blink, but in that brief instant, he had everything in order. Fools could never keep up with his mind. He was always confident in that.
London was a boring city filled with insignificant wretches, a fact even Moriarty couldn't deny—though he granted it one virtue: its sheer immensity. Three years ago, after parting ways with Sherlock, he had returned to Oxford and begun his true work in London in earnest. He had charged ahead relentlessly for those three years, yet the path forward still seemed shrouded in mist. And that very uncertainty thrilled him to no end. Of course, he felt a touch of impatience now and then—and savored that too. At the very least, before his darling disciple Sherlock came hunting him as a detective, he had to elegantly reshape this vast city, the heart of Europe and jewel of the British Empire.
Separate from Moriarty's grand ambitions, it was undeniable that in those mere three short years, he and his subordinates had achieved growth that would terrify London's petty criminals. A few months back, the organization following the enigmatic M had fully seized control of the West End underworld. Moriarty was now, in name and deed, one of London's true crime lords.
But it wasn't enough. The city still crawled with insignificant scum acting as if they were special. From an aesthetic standpoint, he had to purify them. Just as he had with the West End—drowning some in the Thames, dumping others in the streets as warnings—that was the only way to cleanse the city's sins. Yet he knew it would be difficult for now.
London's heart divided into three main districts. The West End, won through bloody struggle by Moriarty himself; the City of London at the very center; and finally, the East End sprawling to the east of the City. He had started in the West End because it was the only feasible path. The City of London, bastion of corrupt businessmen and financiers, had few vulnerabilities and demanded vast funds to conquer outright. The East End, ruled by Fu Manchu—who had just sent him that letter—was the opposite: back then, Moriarty had found no crack to exploit.
Anyone in London despised the East End. A gathering place for the scum of the scum. Criminals, vagrants, paupers, whores, socialists, immigrants—it was the Sodom and Gomorrah within the city. London's self-proclaimed gentlemen saw it as a blight, a stain of sin they hated with pious fury. To Moriarty, of course, it was all nonsense. London was already a boring, sin-soaked cesspool teeming with the worthless. Abandoned children begged or pickpocketed their way through life on every corner, factory workers' castoffs clinging to survival, while understaffed Scotland Yard plods could scarcely respond to the crimes.
That said, Moriarty had to concede that Fu Manchu stood out among the city's rabble. The Chinese man, said to have fled to London during the First Opium War, was a sorcerer who peddled dubious poisons and ruled Chinatown in the East End. One reason Moriarty hadn't started there three years ago was that the opium fiends had already imposed their own order on the underworld. Joining Fu Manchu's ranks might have changed that—but Moriarty had no intention of serving under lesser minds.
So why had Fu Manchu requested a meeting? Moriarty was using the M alias, but the invitation was directed at him personally—a simple deduction. No great surprise. A little digging would reveal that he was M. Many in his own crew already knew. Once the organization grew larger, everyone except key placements would meet with "mysterious accidents."
"When does he want to meet?"
"He didn't say."
"Then let's go now, Porlock. You have time, right?"
"...Right now? Without any preparations, Professor?"
"I've got you for that. That's why I hired you."
At Moriarty's curt reply, Porlock grumbled but followed him out. Moriarty's men had already summoned a carriage, so they headed straight for the East End.
Fred Porlock, whom Moriarty rather valued—a subordinate who managed the pub that served as M's base for contract killings—was also a magician. Far more reliable than the pistol tucked in Moriarty's pocket, at any rate.
"...Even I can't protect you if a horde of blind-eyed sorcerers swarms us. Don't blame me then, Professor."
"That won't happen. Just do your job and guard me properly on the way, Porlock."
"Yes, yes. If you say so, Professor."
The ride to the East End took a while, giving them time for idle chat. Mostly about their "business," of course.
"By the way, when we dealt with that friend of the Professor's earlier, I was worried you'd handle it inside the pub."
"Doing it in the pub would've made body disposal a hassle. Can't always dump it on Sweeney."
"You killed that colonel inside the pub last month, and now you say that?"
"Colonel?"
Moriarty blinked, caught off guard, and Porlock shook his head in disbelief. He sighed at how the man had genuinely forgotten.
"Colonel Sebastian Moran, Professor!"
"Ah... Yes, there was some such fellow. Utterly insignificant."
"Half the guys who saw it still can't sleep at night. Even if you're putting on a show for the underlings, try a more gentlemanly method next time."
At Porlock's half-hearted complaint, Moriarty finally recalled the retired colonel caught cheating at cards in the pub. Later he'd learned the man was a famed big-game hunter in India—but that was all. Greedy, destined for crime, yet worthless. So Moriarty had handled him personally. They'd gambled limbs during the game; when the colonel stubbornly clung to his scams, Moriarty turned the tables, lightening his load piece by piece.
Porlock was still muttering beside him, but Moriarty ignored it. He knew the man wasn't truly his equal.
"No, really... It was hell sawing off his limbs while he was still alive, and you—the one who ordered it—forget? You're terrifying."
"...So that's how he died?"
"We only had one leg left to go, but he croaked before we finished. You really don't remember."
"Natural causes, then."
"Pardon?"
"Soldiers lose limbs by the dozen in war. If that's all it took to kill him, is that my fault, Porlock? The colonel lacked soldierly spirit, it seems."
"Haha, good one. Oh, right—forgot. That mad Jew sent another thank-you letter for you."
Colonel Sebastian Moran's corpse was rotting somewhere by now. Officially, though, he lived on. Moriarty held his identity papers; with a bribe or two, he could resurrect a new one anytime.
No mirror in the carriage, so Moriarty didn't know his expression as he spoke to Porlock—but he overlooked the man's clumsy subject change, rummaging for the letter. He took it silently and skimmed the contents. Mr. Marx always sent similar thanks: effusively grateful to his anonymous patron at first, then casually demanding more funds for the International and himself as if entitled.
"Give him more money, as he wants. Anonymously, of course."
"This old lunatic never knows contentment. You sure we should keep funding him? I still don't get why you'd bother with someone like that."
Moriarty smiled at Porlock's grumbling as he handed back the letter.
"We need people like him to change society, Porlock."
"This money-grubbing Jew?"
"Precisely, his writings move people. Whether that's good or bad doesn't matter. What counts is the chaos it breeds—making business easier for types like us."
Porlock couldn't hide his confusion, but Moriarty didn't mind. Useful as a magician, yet too dim for higher roles—pitiable, really. Still, he added a professorial lecture.
"Think of it this way: the fall of mighty organizations and empires begins with internal division."
"...I'm too thick to get it, honestly."
"Speaking of which, we need to scale up soon. Problem is finding reliable limbs—someone to serve as my right hand."
"Right hand?"
"A brain to handle things, and my personal secretary too."
"Don't you handle all the brains? No one could outdo you—everyone agrees."
"I do the thinking, yes—but I need someone to organize, relay, and oversee it, Porlock."
Of course, no such paragon would appear overnight. Moriarty pondered briefly but said no more.
The carriage pressed on past the East End, bound for the Chinese opium fiends. Even he couldn't foresee first encountering a certain wolf-girl en route. Some things lay beyond intuition—pure chance.