The Dance of the Moth

The telegram was typical of him; terse and succinct, with no excessive verbiage, no terms of salutation. The delivery lad took her tip and touched his cap before darting away in the twilight, leaving her to re-read the scant three lines, commit them to memory, and carry the paper over to the gas lamp over the counter. She touched a corner of the paper to it and let it burn away as she stepped back to the door, dropping the ashes into the gutter and grinding them up with a boot heel.

She was frightened. Oh she'd always known Holmes had enemies. No one in his profession succeeded without creating a few, but she'd never worried before about whether or not he would triumph over them. Now though, this mathematics professor loomed in her mind, and as she began to close the bookstore she thought back to what she knew of the man, of what Holmes had confided in her of him.

"He is a trap door spider, waiting for his prey instead of seeking it. A shark in command of an army of remoras, capable of striking at any point on the globe. The mind that can keep track of all commerce of crime is formidable, Genevieve, and very nearly equal to my own capacities."

"A maths professor? I doubt he's ever been in a brawl, or handled any b-blade more dangerous than a cigar cutter."

"You underestimate him. No, I tell you this man—James Moriarity—is more than dangerous, my dear. He is deadly, and would think no more about snuffing out your life than I would my pipe."

She'd nodded, and taken Holmes' word for it, but hadn't given the matter much thought since that exchange nearly five months ago. Since then she'd seen little enough of Holmes, and supposed that he was occupied with his own affairs.

Affairs.

Genevieve sighed. There had been a notice in the Arts section of the paper that Miss Irene Adler was currently starring in some operetta at the Lyceum, and she assumed that Holmes had renewed his connection to the American songbird although she had no certainty of it. Miss Adler was beautiful; all of London remarked on it, and there were few men who wouldn't want to pass the time with her, Genevieve knew.

And it wasn't as if she herself and Holmes had any claim on each other, not formally. They met every fortnight or so, as discreetly as possible, and during those times Genevieve never knew quite what to expect. Some nights she felt she was merely standing in for Doctor Watson as a sounding board while Holmes rambled on late into the night on some theory or hypothesis about crime. Some nights he needed access to the bookstore and to some of the more occult and exotic tomes she kept for him there.

And some nights, yes, well some nights they simply had no time for words. Those were the nights when Genevieve felt more than just an exasperated fondness for the dark-eyed genius who was apt to show up dressed at a priest or a costermonger before bustling her off to some little hotel on the outskirts of the city to make love until the early hours of the morning. He'd taught her a great deal about those intimate joys, and Genevieve felt that whatever his faults and peculiarities, Holmes carried a sweet and private bond to her.

Then she'd seen the notice in the paper about Miss Adler missing her performances two weeks ago, followed a few days later by a police report of a well-dressed woman's corpse being fished out of the Thames. Genevieve knew the two events occurring so closely together was no coincidence, and while she longed to send Holmes a note, she knew better than to do so. Instead, she began to read the papers religiously, including the ones from the continent.

There had been bombings and deaths world-wide, and then in a small notice at the bottom of one of the French papers, mention of a peace summit to be held in Switzerland. Among the listed names, that of the mathematics professor made her gasp. She searched the English papers for any similar notice, but only found a vague story that mentioned no-one by name other than the Prime Minister.

Genevieve made it a point to stop in at Baker Street, ostensibly to hand-deliver a parcel of books ordered by Mr. Holmes. In the course of chatting with Mrs. Hudson over tea, she learned the good woman was enjoying an extended period of peace 'now that Mr. Holmes was off in Paris or some such place.' She'd visited as long as was polite, but once Genevieve left Baker Street, she returned to the bookstore and began to pack.

It was fear that drove her to do it. Fear and something else within her chest, a something she didn't dare examine too closely. Paris was close to Switzerland, and Genevieve had no doubt that whatever Holmes was involved in would require her eventually. Now she had a message, three sentences that played over in her thoughts in Holmes' low and imperative voice.

White queen withdraws. Sacrifice to mate. CCS-221.

Typical gesture, she thought. Holmes gave the impression that he thought highly of himself, but those who knew him best understood that he had absolutely no qualms about leaping into danger for the sake of those he held dear. Genevieve appreciated his gallantry even as she despaired of his common sense, and understood precisely what he was telling her in his brief missive.

She understood, and was fully prepared to ignore his directive.

Certainly it was flattering to be considered the most valuable piece on the board, but Genevieve had no intention of going into hiding, or departing for any of the destinations she and Holmes had once discussed as hypothetical points of interest.

Genevieve pulled out her trunk and began to pluck blouses and skirts from the dresser drawers, folding them swiftly and dropping them into the depths of the chest. She collected her few pieces of good jewelry and accessories, adding them while she mentally composed what she would say to her uncle and the bank officials in charge of her accounts. Certainly the latter would keep tabs on the former, and her uncle would be delighted to have the shop to himself for a month or two. He'd been urging her to take a holiday for years now, a gesture that was meant kindly, but carried under it a desire to be rid of her for a while.

She understood; living under a spinster's charity was hard on the man's dignity, and although they loved each other as only family could, Genevieve and her uncle both appreciated time apart. This unexpected trip would be a gift to her uncle, one that he wouldn't question too closely.

The one last loose end was to stop at Charing Cross Station, and Genevieve tried to brace herself for whatever might be there. Knowing Holmes, it could be . . . anything, which in his case covered a lot of territory, some of it quite exotic. The thought made Genevieve shiver a bit, and she added another shawl to her trunk.

Locker 221 at Charing Cross was one of the smaller ones, waist-level, just off the end of a long row. Genevieve noted that it was slightly dented and that the lock was familiar to her; Holmes had taught her to pick that very type. Shaking her head at his prescient cunning, Genevieve made her way to it, pulling a pin from her lapel.

It took several tries, but eventually Genevieve felt the tumblers shift and tugged the door open. She peered inside, and seeing nothing, slipped a hand in, gently feeling around in the locker space, finally touching a packet that seemed to have been pasted to the top of the inside. Genevieve pried it off, tucked it away and left the bank of lockers, taking care to walk slowly, and checking in the reflection of nearby windows to see if she was being followed. Nothing undue appeared to her, and after purchasing a ticket to Dover, she settled into an empty second-class carriage to read.

The packet was sealed with green-grey wax, no crest on it. From the scent on the paper, Holmes had been smoking his pipe when he'd put it together, and Genevieve smiled at the thought. She opened the flap and pulled the folded paper within out.

Along with it came a small key. Curious, she studied it, realizing with surprise that it was sterling silver, with a tag dangling from the eye. A vault key. Genevieve impatiently tucked it back into the packet, unfolded the paper and began to read.

Genevieve,

If you are reading this, then it is very likely that I have died or will die shortly. You have always understood that my occupation is not without its hazards, and despite Watson's support and skill, I am not superhuman. Do not waste time mourning; suffice to know that I strove to see justice done, and that to die for that cause has been worth it.

I am loathe to pass, however, without expressing to you some indication of my own personal feelings regard for you and for our intimate association of this past year. Throughout my life I have been accused of being self-centered and anti-social by a great many people; judged to be immune to the tender considerations of emotional bonds. It's true that I have kept myself from developing attachments—emotions hamper logic, and to be a detective, one must work without sentiment clouding judgment.

And yet there are a handful of people to whom I find myself both indebted to, and overtly fond of. Watson of course is one: there are few men the world over of his caliber and compassion. Too, I hold my brother in high, if exasperated regard, if only for his capacity to keep me to my sharpest edge. And while there have been a few others who have managed to circumvent my defenses over the years foremost now there is you, Genevieve.

I have never been a man given to flowery words or one comfortable with declarations of passion, so simply allow me to state that my days and nights with you have always brought me great joy, and that had our circumstances been different, I would have pursued our relationship more fully and formally. I suppose this assertion comes too late to provide you with much consolation, but rest assured that it is sincere and deeply felt.

There are events and decisions in the course of my life I might have changed if given the chance, but my intimate union with you is one that I have never regretted and will cherish always.

Along with this note, you will find a small key: present it to the bank manager Charles Wilmington in Threadneedle Street and you will have no trouble accessing my vault there. The contents are yours, along with the Stradivarius.

Thank you, Genevieve, for everything.

S. H.

She stared at the note, the words going out of focus as the train rattled on, and after a while, Genevieve felt the hard pressure of a sob rising up in her throat. She swallowed it down again, determined not to give in to the shock and despair, but it was difficult. Carefully she refolded the letter and tucked it away deep into her reticule, then forced herself to gaze out the window towards the passing scenery.

Ridiculous. The very idea that Holmes was dead seemed utter nonsense. The man had more lives than a cat, and an uncanny knack for survival despite falls, fire and floods. If even half the stories he'd told her were true, then this letter was simply a precaution, a pre-emptive plan prematurely delivered.

A mistake.

It had to be.

For a long time she sat there, lost in thought, and Genevieve nearly missed the porter's soft announcement that they'd arrived at the ferry docks. When he opened the door for her, however, she was ready, and tipped him nicely for carrying her trunk into the offices. There, it was a simple matter to book passage to Calais. She had enough time to stop in at the money exchange offices along the wharf as well, turning her pounds into francs before boarding the Nightingale, one of the slower vessels.

Later that evening as the ship surged across the channel, Genevieve stretched out in her bunk and closed her wet eyes. She'd forced herself to eat, and now was applying the same discipline to resting. It was logical, really—there was nothing further she could do at the moment, and it might be the last chance for sleep.

She did sleep, fitfully, and when she did, Genevieve found herself caught up in anxious dreams with nebulous monsters lurking in the corners of her mind. By the time the Nightingale put into Calais the next morning, Genevieve had begun to form a plan, jotting a few ideas on an old receipt as she stood at the rail.

Calais was chilly, with a low fog hanging on the edge of the horizon. Small white gulls drifted through the mist, and Genevieve watched them circle, looking for handouts as the crew began to lower the gangplank to the wharf. She had an excellent command of French, and knew of two booksellers in the city, if only by correspondence—that was where to start. Drawing in a deep breath, Genevieve bolstered her courage and descended the gangplank, flanking a group of businessmen closely enough to hear them discussing the merits of certain hotels. The agreed-upon favorite seemed to be the Hotel Meurice, and with that in mind, Genevieve arranged for a coach to take her and her trunk there.

The quiet little concierge of Le Meurice was most accommodating. He not only secured her a lovely room with a connected bath, but also—for a reasonable tip—brought her several newspapers, and a cart with tea, English style. Genevieve managed a light breakfast before writing notes to her associates, announcing her intention to call on them in the afternoon. LaValle took the notes for delivery, and Genevieve took a bath, washing off the salt of the Channel and trying to relax.

Scanning the papers gave her a lot of superfluous information about the current events and uneasy political climes of the continent. Both the Strasbourg and Cromwell & Griffin bombings were still very much topics of interest, and Genevieve shuddered. She had nearly finished Le Monde when a small article in the Society pages mentioned that the Prime Minister of England was due to arrive in Paris within two days and would be attending the premiere of Don Giovanni. Genevieve tucked this piece of information away thoughtfully, and dressed.