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The professor’s biggest problem, Irene thought, was that he just wasn’t a performer.
Oh, he was the perfect audience. You could find no one more appreciative of an excellent production, and you could always count on him to become totally immersed in a performance. She was convinced that he had only ever sought her services because he had been so moved by her final run as Angelina in La Cenerentola.
Which was rather fortunate, as she was currently playing the part of “Thwarted Errand Girl Drinking Tea at Her Dressing Down,” and had every incentive for him to believe her. She stiffly raised her cup to her lips, the very picture of abashed pride, and mimed sipping the almond-scented Darjeeling, the finest blend of tea leaves, cream, two sugars, and cyanide that the Savoy could offer.
In a way, Irene was almost pleased; it wasn't just any member of the professor’s organization who merited a whole exit interview, as it were. Normally, he terminated his employees at a safe distance. It was good to know she was still one of the best, even if certain meddling consulting detectives kept sticking their noses in places where they were likely to get blown off.
Still, she didn't have to feign her nervousness when Moran tapped his glass, and the entire dining room evacuated in neat and orderly fashion.
“I'm afraid your services will no longer be required,” said Moriarty.
She stood up and began to walk away, slowly, with just a hint of unsteadiness. She gave a cough and reached in her pocket, snapping the glass phial inside and releasing its contents. She winced as she cut her finger on a razor-sharp shard, but hid it in a stumble. Another cough, and she withdrew her now-damp handkerchief and inhaled deeply. The cut from her finger left a bright stain. She'd have to remember that trick.
The stench of sickly honey was overpowering, and she let the nearest table break her fall. Even as the darkness rushed in, she made sure to throw her arm out artistically, still clutching the bloody handkerchief. She had standards, after all.
~*~*~*~
A horrible scent, even by London's low standards, filled her nostrils.
“Miss?” she heard an anxious voice ask.
She blinked her eyes open. A gray-haired doctor hovered over her, cradling her head and shoving a vial of smelling salts under her nose. She groaned and pushed it away.
“I received the professor's message,” said the doctor. “I have reported your death to the authorities and informed them that immediate cremation was the only way to keep your affliction from spreading. I trust I have performed my duties to his satisfaction?”
“Perfectly,” said Irene, rubbing her forehead. “Do you still have the message?”
He handed her the note, a few sparing lines in a bold hand, with a decisive slant and deliberate flourishes, on plain but expensive paper.
It was one of her better forgeries. Thank goodness she had sent it to the right place.
“In the future, be sure to burn all his communications unless specified otherwise,” said Irene, removing the cover of a nearby lamp and setting the note alight.
“I – of course, my apologies,” stammered the doctor.
“It's for your own safety, of course,” she said, dropping the nearly-consumed piece of paper into his empty wastebasket.
There was a knock on the office door. “Sir, the cab is waiting,” said a muffled voice from outside. The doctor started, then hurried to his closet. He drew out a long hooded cloak at least twenty years out of style and proffered it to her.
“Excellent,” said Irene. She handed him her purse, and he brightened noticeably. “Any further instructions will be made known to you. Thank you, doctor, it's been a pleasure working with you.” She offered him her hand and a dazzling smile, then swept out of the office in her new cloak.
She waited until the cab had gone several blocks before instructing the driver to a nearby pawnshop instead. She had funds stashed in several places over the city, but she didn't know which of those Moriarty had discovered. “Like a flash, my fate will change,” she said, and began to hum the rest of ‘Non più mesta’ under her breath as she tallied the value of the doctor's liberated pocket-watch and an entire set of silverware from the Savoy.
~*~*~*~
The Alps were beautiful at night. Stars glittered in a black velvet sky, and moonlight glowed on the snow and gilded the river in silver.
It was damned freezing.
Worse than Camden in January. Worse than Warsaw in January. Really, was it completely necessary to have dramatic confrontations in such uncomfortable conditions? Her spyglass was in serious danger of freezing to her face.
Far above, up the river, a tiny figure waited on the balcony overlooking the falls. Another tiny figure joined him.
“Oh, schiesse,” she said. “Hans!”
Less than five minutes later, they shoved out into the water in a borrowed fishing boat – just in time, as it turned out.
Her hired muscle hauled a sodden and shuddering bundle out of the water, then carried him back to the hostel when they reached the shore.
Holmes woke up several hours later, still ensconced in bandages, blankets, and bedwarmers.
“I knew you weren't dead,” he croaked.
“Of course you did,” she said.
The late James Moriarty was many things: a patron of the fine arts, a revolutionary, a genius, a madman, a criminal. But he was not an actor. He was a director, a conductor, prepared to command the very tides of war to fulfill his vision.
Of course, in his vision, there was no room for the hero – or the prima donna who refused to relinquish her part. Vision or no, you couldn't just expect the leading roles to go away. No matter how convincing a waif, La Cenerentola always transformed back into Angelina.
She smiled in delight and patted Sherlock Holmes' head. “So sorry about dinner,” she said. “You know how things just come up sometimes.”