Shadows of Succession
Her name, officially registered with the British government, was Susan Robinson. But to her family—including Fu Manchu—she was simply Su. The twenty-year-old young woman, elder sister to the late-born youngest son who alone had inherited their father's shamanic talents, couldn't help but feel flustered.
She knew that a few days earlier, her father had invited Professor James Moriarty to dinner, using the meal as cover for their first negotiations. Her initial impression of the man had been that of a blade honed to razor sharpness. Compared to the lawless wilds of the East End, his newly acquired slice of the West End felt almost civilized—but considering he'd seized it after just three years, perhaps that assessment was only natural. Still, it was an evaluation only Su—with her sharper-than-average instincts—could make. Ordinary folk, like her eldest brother who lacked both skill and brains, would likely fixate first on the professor's unexpectedly youthful age, or his strikingly handsome features that could astonish anyone.
Of course, even Su couldn't entirely ignore that he was an exceptionally good-looking man who seemed far removed from the world of crime. And that inexplicable wink he'd thrown her way as they parted? Utterly unexpected. But she soon understood why. Even with the West End in his grasp, could Moriarty truly stand against the might of the East End forces? Her father's outstretched hand had been less an offer of alliance than a near-compulsory demand for cooperation. On the surface, it might appear equal—but the raw disparity between their organizations left the professor little choice but to fall under her father's shadow.
Yet through this, Su realized something: Fu Manchu, long the ruler of the East End, was growing old. In her childhood, her father—known as the Tyrant—had been merciless, never the first to extend a hand to any foe, no matter how mighty. It was conquer or be conquered, nothing more; and Su had learned that lesson at his side. This move stemmed partly from cold calculation—the professor's forces might not be so easily crushed in open conflict—but it also proved her father was aging. Everyone in the family knew it. Surely the professor, having met him face-to-face, had sensed it too. The king of the East End was dying, and the time to name his successor had come.
Su knew that successor would be her own blood brother—still young, inferior to her in every way save the shamanic gift he'd inherited from their father. Her mother, a Russian immigrant and the old man's favorite concubine, had borne him amid his distrust of his sons. Among the unreliable brothers, only the youngest carried that power. And naturally, Father assumed Su herself would support him. Political marriage? She accepted it as par for the course. Among those of their station, regardless of gender, arranged unions for the family good were routine; true love was sought in affairs.
Father was undoubtedly feeling the pressure. Right after Moriarty left, he'd pulled her aside and informed her he would push for her marriage to the professor. Another sign of Fu Manchu's weakening grip and looming mortality—he couldn't afford leisure. Even without the professor's firm answer, Father had assumed it was settled, announcing the betrothal to her first. It wasn't incomprehensible. Old or not, he wasn't foolish; no matter his confidence, handing everything to the youngest without strife was wishful thinking. So, pull in Moriarty by any means—that must have been his plan.
As Jane Austen famously noted, no one leaves a wealthy bachelor alone. Single, handsome, with his own fortune and status, the professor was prime material. Perhaps that flirtatious behavior toward her that day had foreshadowed it. Su figured as much. How clever the man truly was, she didn't yet know. But he was undoubtedly extraordinary. Which made his sudden appearance all the more disconcerting—slipping into her favorite eatery while she dined alone, casually taking a seat at her table with a greeting.
By the time she noticed, he'd cleared the place of everyone else and was spilling a horrifying scheme involving her idiot eldest brother. She couldn't even guess what he wanted. Kill Father? The kind of foolish notion her brother might dream up. True, inviting him alone would make it unlikely to succeed. In that sense, the professor's judgment was sound: Father believed her loyal to the youngest and would accept an invitation if she joined. But why tell her?
"Obviously, because I want to work with you, Miss Robinson. You were my target from the start."
"...You think I'll join in killing my father?"
"The killing falls to your eldest brother. But he won't manage to take you down too—I'll supply the poison or antidote as needed. In exchange, you execute the traitor who dared assassinate your father."
"...And your gain? Why should I trust you, when you've already betrayed my brother? Wouldn't confessing everything to Father be my safest bet, Professor Moriarty?"
"You won't. You're clever. Ambitious."
Moriarty smiled and fell silent. Su hesitated, savoring the praise, pondering it. Her gray eyes lingered on him, probing cautiously for his intentions—but his expression revealed nothing.
Clearly beautiful, Moriarty thought, born to one of Father's cherished concubines, a womanizer like him. But beyond that beauty, he sensed ambition. Nothing unusual—siblings vying for inheritance happened everywhere, and Su Robinson fit the pattern. A pale shadow of Sherlock, perhaps unworthy of comparison, but from afar she even resembled her a bit. All in all, a fine short-term ally.
"If you confess everything to Dr. Fu Manchu, it does me no harm—you know that, surely?"
Someone like you couldn't miss it, his tone implied quiet certainty, faith in her grasp. He continued.
"But you'd be finished. With the succession to your little brother underway, this would give him perfect pretext for a grand purge. I can simply deny it—plenty of ways. Say your brother consulted me vaguely on murder without naming targets. After all, Dr. Fu Manchu approached me with negotiation over violence first. He won't march his gang into the West End over this, will he?"
Su said nothing, but nodded faintly, listening intently. Moriarty offered a gentle smile that could charm anyone and continued kindly.
"Of course, you'd gain a little—Father's praise, proof of loyalty, fitting rewards. But that's it. Why? Because you're a woman. In your world, isn't your role fixed: aiding your brother? I'd hate that. Why can't you inherit Fu Manchu's throne?"
"...That benefits me. But you?"
"Now we're talking, Miss Robinson. We both despise fools. I hate one lording over me. No noble lies— I just want temporary alliance. Truth is, if you take the East End, it'll weaken— that's why I chose you."
"...Weaken?"
"No pretending, Miss Robinson. If you prove capable, you could rebuild amid the chaos. But will the East End's folk follow you just because you're Fu Manchu's daughter? You know they won't—the very flaw keeping you from challenging, forcing you to prop up your brother."
"Ha, you do talk well. A true professor, Mr. Moriarty."
"It's my trade. But you can't deny it, can you? You seizing the East End benefits me most. Whoever inherits—Fu Manchu's sons or not—I'll need 'cooperation' with the East End eventually. So, I'm partnering with you. No eternal alliance nonsense—just short-term, or perhaps with a future foe."
In his words, Su sensed sincerity. Yet she still hesitated.
"Even so... why me..."
The question echoed her earlier one, but carried new weight. Moriarty, drawing on old memories, confessed with genuine warmth.
"Well, personal reasons too. Reminded me of my first disciple—a little miss. But the smartest child I knew."
"...Quite the lady."
"Full of talent, sharp as a tack. Much like you. Youngest daughter of a country squire—such families have fates set for their children. Teaching her broke my heart. If only she'd grown up differently, she could have chased her dreams. But what could I do? Even my favorite pupil had parents."
Su found herself drawn in despite herself—empathy stirring, captivated by the handsome professor's quiet reminiscence. Fabricated? No, her instincts said he spoke truth. So she leaned closer.
"And?"
"Fortunate or not—unfortunate for her, certainly—a small accident occurred. Her parents... both perished."
"Oh."
"Tragic, yes. I had to console her greatly. We parted early, but ironically, she's now preparing to pursue her dreams. Wicked thought, perhaps, but I believe it worked out for her. What do you think, Miss Robinson?"
Susan Robinson gazed at the professor's kind face, lost for words like one entranced. Unthinkingly, she nodded slightly.