It was flawlessly convincing. The resume, the press clippings about acting gigs – everything was spot on. Still, John couldn't stop thinking about "Moriarty," not "Richard Brook." His instincts were telling him something. Could he trust them?
The stuttering performance in Kitty Riley's brownstone had to be just that. Moriarty had appealed to his sympathies, but that hadn't been right. It shouldn't have been necessary.
Footsteps echoed near the paneled door behind him, a Clarendon pace, brisk but unhurried. It was the first loud sound John had heard in the near-silent Diogenes Club. He knew who it was, but only spoke when Mycroft's hand settled on the doorknob.
"She has really done her homework – Miss Riley." He turned to the side, peripheral vision taking in the waspish-looking man who still stood at the door, briefcase and umbrella at the ready. "There's things that only someone close to Sherlock could know."
"Ah." Mycroft began to close the door, unruffled. Was that an act too? If so, it was far less convincing than the papers John held. Clearly, Mycroft knew something he didn't want to share, but it was equally obvious that Mycroft was holding back. As John spoke again, he hoped what few answers he might get wouldn't prove entirely bereft.