No Chinese Cameos (4)
James Moriarty's public-facing profession, the one he could parade before society, was professor of mathematics at Oxford Christ Church College. But what he truly considered his calling—his real vocation and mission—was that of consulting criminal.
Above all, it was a role he'd embraced even before expanding his organization to its current scale, starting three years ago after leaving the Holmes family and parting ways with his beloved disciple, Sherlock. Borrowing a phrase that girl might fancy, it was crime consulting. The alias M that Moriarty himself flaunted was purely a nod to his memories of Sherlock. Of course, had it not been her invention, he never would have used it. It was a childish code name, dripping with naive innocence. Yet sometimes, that very quality proved useful. It was so blatantly evocative of Moriarty's initial that people overlooked the obvious truth. No incident could ever link M to Moriarty himself. No one must discover that the unassuming mathematician and professor, James Moriarty, was M—or that he'd unified the West End's criminal syndicates.
Of course, there were practical risks. Among criminals, at least, a heavyweight like Fu Manchu could invest enough to uncover James Moriarty's identity with some effort. Indeed, that Chinaman had once sent an invitation directly to him. But soon enough, not even such figures would remain. This job was a stepping stone to that end. As a professional, Moriarty had to focus. He was an adult, after all, and he knew work didn't always bring joy. So he received the fool before him in silence.
About a month ago, Fu Manchu's eldest son had come seeking M. Most who consulted M did so via letters routed through designated channels and contacts. But this man held some position, so Moriarty had offered counsel in person—voicing it himself, though the client couldn't see his face. It had been like a confessional, the kind Catholic priests might use, with a wall blocking any view of the other side.
The eldest son's dilemma back then had been tediously predictable—a classic fool's crime. Moriarty could already sense the man's growing impatience from even that brief encounter. A simple investigation had revealed the East End succession struggles. The son had sought M's advice on a new smuggling route to curry favor with Fu Manchu. The issue resolved itself quickly. But to prepare for the future, Moriarty had slyly planted a seed of unease in the man's mind. It wasn't hard; it was the sort of thought anyone in line for the throne might entertain. Moriarty had merely nudged it along. Giving a fool something to ponder was the mark of a good educator.
Thus, when Fu Manchu's eldest son returned a second time, Moriarty could consult face-to-face. It wasn't just because of Fu Manchu's invitation—the man already knew his face. Hiding it from someone doomed to die soon was simply inefficient.
"Mr. Robinson, we seem to be meeting rather frequently these days."
"Professor Moriarty."
Guided into the room and taking a seat across from Moriarty, Fu Manchu's eldest son scowled, his face brimming with dissatisfaction. He was over forty, unmistakably his father's son—resembling an aged king. Above all, he was purely Eastern in appearance, born to Fu Manchu and another immigrant back when the crime lord had left his homeland for England. Robinson. Chinese immigrants often registered anglicized names for convenience, and Fu Manchu was no exception. No one called him by his British name, but officially, with the authorities, he was William Robinson—and so were all his children. Moriarty couldn't recall the eldest son's given name, though he could dredge it up from his memory palace if pressed. He had no intention of wasting the effort on this fool.
"By the way, is it really all right for that to be here?"
Fu Manchu's eldest son glared at Moriarty's left side as he spoke. There stood Moran, dressed like an apprentice maid, baring her teeth at the scrutiny. A gesture from Moriarty silenced her at once. She shot him a glare instead, but the professor brushed it off with ease. It had only been a week since he'd brought her to his estate near Oxford, but the old head maid's stern training had taken hold. Even a wolf-girl who bowed to no weakling was powerless before the wisdom of age-earned authority—and for now, to survive, Moran had to pretend obedience. At least, that was her thinking.
"She's learning as my secretary. It won't interfere with business, so I hope you'll indulge us."
"Hmph. You have peculiar tastes, which is why you sent that provocation, I suppose. I received your little taunt loud and clear."
With that, he vented his frustration by tossing a letter onto the desk toward Moriarty. The envelope read From M, but as Mr. Robinson said, it was indeed a provocation. Moriarty was relieved the man had the wits to recognize it as such.
From M
Dear me, Mr. Robinson. Dear me!
"But you've come to me as a client, haven't you?"
"True enough—your tongue's as slippery as ever. Yes, quite."
Mr. Robinson let out a short sigh. A brief silence followed. But having already steeled his resolve, he spoke up—though a coward's tremor lingered in his voice, betraying his unease.
"The truth is... as a son, I wanted to dismiss your nonsense. But seeing my father ponder your question that day... I knew for certain. He's considering that rootless youngest brat over me for the succession."
Moriarty would have done the same in Fu Manchu's shoes. The man before him was a fool—easy to exploit—and utterly ordinary. The young runt was probably just as dim, but blood mattered. Preserving his legacy required an heir with the sorcerous lineage. It was rational enough. But like all aged kings, Fu Manchu had grown old and was dying. A foolish mistake. Moriarty, at least, was grateful for his own childless solitude—no heirs to burden him.
"So... what counsel do you seek from me, Mr. Robinson?"
"Don't you already know? You planted the idea in the first place."
"Oh, hardly. I merely inquired to secure a future client. We must be clear on that. Coming to me was your choice, Mr. Robinson."
Watching this, Moran swallowed involuntarily. She still thought him a weakling, but she had to admit he could be frightening at times. Fu Manchu's eldest son, who had once terrorized the East End, shuddered as he whispered:
"I want to dispose of my father."
"A natural thought. You're the eldest son, aren't you? England follows the same tradition as the East—primogeniture is the rightful claim. And fortunately, Mr. Robinson, now is the perfect moment for you."
"...Still, I wonder why you'd help me so readily."
Fools always mistook confirming the obvious for sharpness. Moriarty had his answer prepared.
"Frankly, helping you serves my interests. Suppose I 'cooperate' with Fu Manchu now. You know it's not true partnership—who would tolerate that? I want to aid you in reclaiming what's yours, in exchange for a share and equal footing, Mr. Robinson."
Satisfied, Mr. Robinson nodded, and they began plotting to reclaim what he stood to lose—Moriarty advising, the man listening. Surprisingly, the fool spotted the plan's key flaw after some thought.
"But... even if Father doesn't suspect the worst, he won't take kindly to me. A dinner with you is one thing, but will he really attend one I arrange...?"
"Ancient China had a lovely custom called 'retainer sacrifice,' I hear."
"What?"
"Something from a seminar by a colleague researching China. When an emperor or king died, they'd bury family and servants with him. Shall we honor that tradition?"
"Wh-what are you...?"
Moriarty smiled.
"You have no intention of sharing power, do you? Half-siblings are no obstacle. Invite one more—your sister, your only one, I believe? We'll include the lady."
"Th-that might allay suspicion, but will that wench obey me...?"
"Leave that to me."
"What?"
"I'll lure her."
Moriarty swept back his hair with confident assurance.
"Thus, at a gathering of myself, you, Dr. Fu Manchu, and you— we'll assassinate Dr. Fu Manchu and yourself, then purge the remaining East End remnants simultaneously. That's the plan, Miss Robinson."
"...And why reveal this so freely to me, Professor Moriarty?"
Su Robinson, Fu Manchu's only daughter, gazed at Moriarty with puzzled curiosity after calmly hearing him out.