Maxim Jakubowski - The Mammoth Book of the Adventures of Professor Moriarty

He moved up the stairs with the quiet, fragile dignity of one whose studies have made his eyesight unreliable and any time spent away from his books a burden. The footman at the door had little difficulty believing his story about a lost invitation, particularly when a sovereign for his continued cooperation accompanied the tale. Achieving the ballroom was a matter of moments and little trouble.

He surveyed the crowd inside with a glance, nodding to several acquaintances and preparing himself to the appearance of the event’s hosts at his elbow. A noble government functionary and his lady wife, vaguely familiar with some of his better connections, were as resigned to his presence at this event as he was to their polite chatter. Only their enthusiasm for the mysterious opera singer who had requested to perform for the King and the presence of the King himself were evident and certainly far more fulsome than their interest in a mere scholar of mathematics.

They amused him a little, but he was glad to see their backs once he had been safely escorted to the card room, far from the dancing and any young ladies he might opportune or any important guest he might bore; so he interpreted his host’s actions. It was useful to be underestimated from time to time. He buried himself in commonplace conversations and pleasantries until an announcement from the door sent them all to the ballroom. The most important guest had arrived.

The new King of Bohemia was large, loud and florid. His attire and that of his guards sent a shock of barbaric splendor of furs and scarlet through the otherwise temperate attire of the other attendees. The Professor watched him critically as he swept down the stairs, a nod for each bow and a smile for each lady. His fingers flashed with rings, but at this distance none of them appeared to be the one that Mrs Norton was taxed with retrieving.

As if his thought had summoned her, the singer appeared on the heels of the King’s entourage, the extravagance of her emeraldgreen gown subdued plumage in comparison to his party’s brighter hues. She was pale, but her head was high, her expression resolute. The Professor gave her a thin smile that she could not see and vanished back into the throng, out of sight. He could watch her easily enough, but saw no point in providing a distraction by letting her see him.

Instead, he turned his attention to the other attendees and had a moment of what he might have recognized as shock, had he been familiar with such a sensation. A solid gentleman, tall and fat, without medals or uniform to signify his station, caught his eye. The man’s nose was hawk-like, his eyes hooded but gleaming with dark intelligence. Yet it was not that which had caught the Professor’s eye. There was something familiar about that countenance, but he was certain that he had not seen the other before.

It shook him, this recognition that was not one. The other man glanced at him, then elsewhere, as if indifferent to his presence, but somehow, the Professor still felt the urge to deflect his interest. He shifted away, seeking the shelter of the refreshment table in the next room. There, he found a moment’s respite, an eddy in the crowds where he could overhear the gossip around him. Opinions were split on whether or not the reappearance of the opera singer or the King was the most exciting thing occurring at this particular reception.

It did not entirely please him, Irene Adler-Norton’s notoriety in these circles. His plan hinged on her being able to approach the King and rekindle his affections enough to distract him. She was his best chance to steal the signet easily, as long as she was not the focus of undue attention. Moving another piece on his chessboard would take more time, delay his plans. His bankers would be expecting an influx of funds from the Continent soon, funds that would be freed by what he could do with the King’s ring and his forged signature. There must be no delays; of that, he was determined.

He obtained a cup of tea and moved carefully toward the wall where he could observe the crowd. Across the room, the King started at the sight of the opera singer, while she cast her eyes down demurely. The Professor was too far away to hear what they said to each other, but then it was of little moment. What they did next would be of far greater significance.

There! The King gave her a lingering glance and reached for her hand, then pressed it to his lips. They stood in that posture for a breath too long, then parted as she moved toward the pianoforte. A few words to the accompanist and a hush settled over the assembly. Mrs Irene Norton parted her red lips and the voice of an angel poured out.

Her audience hung on each note, the King’s gloved finger in mid-stroke of his substantial mustache. For a wild fanciful moment, the Professor contemplated picking his pocket or slipping the ring off his hand. But it might be simpler to remove his finger, if it came to that. He filed that idea away in the portion of his planning that involved last resorts, then dismissed it for the moment. Unable to resist obtaining a closer view, he inched nearer to the singer.

Mrs Norton sang several arias from popular operas, then a song in what appeared to be Bohemian, judging from the reaction of the King and his men. If nothing else, the Professor thought cynically, he had ensured Mrs Norton’s successful return to the operatic stage. Perhaps she would be grateful, though he suspected that she would not.

Not that such concerns mattered. She commanded the King’s attention with every tilt of her head and he hovered near her as if he could not pull away. If she felt uncomfortable with so much regard, it was not obvious to any who watched them. Rather, she seemed shyly to accept his adulation while responding no more than propriety might allow. This reserve unnerved the King, clearly accustomed to a more enthusiastic response and it captivated him. This much, the Professor could observe with little effort, but much impatience.

Someone jostled his elbow, causing him to spill his tea, and he whirled with a snarl, a smothered exclamation clamped behind his teeth. The young fool who had bumped into him looked simultaneously pained and annoyed, as if he had been incommoded by the Professor’s presence in that part of the room. But he summoned both a servant and a passable apology then insisted on procuring another cup of tea to replace what he had spilled.

The Professor wanted nothing of the kind, but it was harder than he expected to lose the persistent young gentleman, who remained solicitously at his side. His vacuous and continuous conversation occupied several critical minutes, and it was some time before the Professor turned his attention back to the King and Mrs Norton.

They had vanished, at least from immediate view. He glanced around the ballroom, checking the visible alcoves and exits for his quarry. They were not in sight, though the King’s men were still visible in the throng. He parted from his new companion with no small effort and circled the room. In truth, the singer was doing no more than he had commanded. If it were necessary for her to lure the King into a more private setting, it should matter little to him as long as she was successful. Still, he would have felt greater reassurance that his plan was intact if he had seen them leave together.

He gestured, a small, subtle movement with his left hand, and one of the waiters paused by his side with a polite bow. “Do you require refreshment, sir?”

“Information, if you please. Where is he now? Did he leave alone?”

The man fiddled with the glasses on his tray, as if trying to find the right one. He didn’t ask which “he” the Professor meant, instead indicating a distant staircase with a slight tilt of his head. “We— I don’t believe he was alone, sir.” He handed the Professor a glass and turned away at his nod of dismissal. The Professor made note to ask Colonel Moran where he had found this paragon and how they might call for his services again. They would make good use of him in the future, of that he was sure.