Moran is boring again. While he takes himself to Income Tax and chooses to simply pay it, Jim rolls his eyes over Charlie. It's early. He can afford to be distracted, just for a moment. Who knows? Maybe he'll come away with some useful information too.
Mies' dice takes her to Marylebone. She knows better than to buy it and has no desire to skip around the board. All very dull, this round. Yeah, Jim's up for a chat.
"So? Put us out of our misery, Milverton." Charlie looks up. He's a little lost, actually. Hasn't quite heard the question, all tied up in the game like a big child. Idiot. He'll figure out soon enough; the best of play is happening right now. "Well, before you got here, naturally enough the chat came round to… what you intend to do now."
Mies nods, sitting low behind the rim of her coffee cup. "You're burned in London, after all."
"Yes, thanks for that," Jim grumbles at her. Obscured where Charlie can't see her, she gives a pretty little flick of the eyes, All Yours, Dear. "Had you even thought about it?"
Oh yes. Charlie rolls the dice, thinking about it all over again. He's done a lot of thinking. But he thinks himself into corner after corner after dead-end after corner to bring him back again to Square One. But it wouldn't do to admit to that. He slides his token carelessly to meet Jim at Pall Mall and breezes bravely, "I thought I'd hang about for a bit, actually. Years, I've avoided Magnussen. I'd be very interested to know how he got hold of my personal information."
Moran looks at Mies, and Mies looks back. As Charlie tries to join in and read the glances, Jim all of a sudden cuts in, "You're on my property."
"Just a second-" he tries.
"No. You're on my property. Now, you can pay up the rent like a good lad, or you can do me a favour."
"Charlie, think carefully about this," Moran says, tapping his arm, and Mies mutters something about all the cheating help he's getting.
"Wait, think about what? About what I said about Magnussen or about-?"
Jim snaps his fingers, hard, grabbing attention. "Oi! You're not negotiating with them, you're negotiating with me. Now you can give me my hundred-and-forty quid, paid prompt and in full. Or you can put that Top Hat of yours to work."
"What do you mean?"
"You know who hangs out on Pall Mall. It's those Diogenes boys. Mycroft and his lot. They've got their little clubhouse right there. All I need is a start on one of them. All I need is the possibility of blackmail. After that I can work the lead myself. But I need that Hat of yours to buy it for me. And you don't have to pay me a penny."
Moran's hand claps down on his shoulder, "Charlie, think, mate. It's not just about what he's telling you. What's the rest?"
Jim stabs a finger at the man who usually stands so steadfast at his right hand, "I'll remember this, Judas."
Genuinely aggravated. So it's real. This time it isn't a trap. Charlie thinks, hard. It's not just about he's being told… Then it's about what he isn't being told.
You can pay rent, or you can do the job for me… Or. That's what's missing. Another 'or', another option. He can pay, or work, or… "Well, James," he says, with a danger he enjoys hearing on his own voice, "What if I would like to buy the man from Diogenes?"
Moran's hand turns fist, bumping his shoulder proudly, "Then you pay double rent for working on his patch."
A balled-up KitKat foil bounces off the side of his head and Mies cries, "Just give him the rules. Just give them to him. We'll give him study time."
"Yes, I'd like to begin my purchase of a high-ranking Secret Service official, please." Charlie carefully counts out his money. Very carefully. Takes his time. Some might say, he milks it. When he begins passing it to Jim note-by-note, most would say pushing it. But Jim's not looking at him. He's looking at Moran. Accepting his rent, note by note, he keeps looking. Eye to eye, totally steady, hardening himself against this man. Outside this room, he's a brother-in-arms, a right-hand, a staunch, upstanding angel to stand vengeful at his shoulder. Not in here.
It's this board. It gets between people.
But, as the man in charge, it's up to Jim to play along. He reaches for the file, looks up Pall Mall and fishes out an index card. Details about a Diogenes member and what he'll be useful for once he's bought. Even-versus-odd rolls, taken every turn, decide how quickly he gains control.
It is very painful to let that card be taken from his hand. Charlie looks it over, charmed by the idea. Then he says, "I'm going to name him Mycroft."
"No!"
"Touch a nerve, did I?"
Moran will not help. Jim looks at Mies instead, but she's still sunk low in the sofa. Flicks her eyes at him again. "I was told to stay out of it. You call him whatever you want, Charlie. We always name our Friends, don't we, boys?"
"Thought you were staying out of it?"
There's a tiny moment where Jim knows what he's done, before they lift up in chorus, "Ooh."
"Shut up. Where's the dice?"
Moran grins, enjoying himself, "Here's to Marylebone, right? Not trying to jinx you or anything. Bet you'd love a four, wouldn't you? Four. I never really roll fours that often. I know it's a one-in-six chance but-"
Charlie, getting the feel of things, "No, me either. Funny that, isn't it? A random number between one and six and it's so very bloody hard to roll a four. No matter how much you might want to." Rather than just throw the dice, Jim fires it into the wake of the biscuit wrapper, bouncing it off Moran's temple to land in the centre of the board.
Five.
"Oh," Charlie groans, grinning, "poor you!" Mies bites in her lips. Charlie can see her in the corner of his eye, but he's not paying attention. He doesn't even notice that Jim is smiling. It's not grim. It's not a cover-up. It's not a silly pretence. He goes on laughing. Goes on taunting.
Jim quietly sees himself through the purchase of Bow Street. He would happily pass the dice back to Moran and move just as quietly on. But Mies stretches out her leg, right across the table and kicks Charlie hard in the kneecap. "You're still not thinking, you daft bastard. Bow Street. Kick your brain into gear and do try and look past the fact that the Opera House is there-"
Jim laughs, "Although, there is a House Rule, if Dani lands at Bow Street she hears an aria and misses a turn."
"He's trying to humiliate me in order to distract you. I won't give you all the answers wrapped up like darling Sebastian, but I'll tell you that much."
Bow Street. He's ashamed to say, when he tries to think about it, he does get stuck at the Opera House. He gets a bar of Habanera clear as though Carmen were in the room. It blocks him. There's nothing else on Bow Street, or nowhere he's ever stopped. Just a few nice places to eat, and a Victorian police station they're trying to turn into a boutique hotel. Sleep in a former cell? He'd never have set foot near it except that one of the new owners has a sister who had an affair and she...
Victorian police station.
Bow Street. The first police in London started out at Bow Street.
"You've got the Met," he breathes.
"No Scotland Yard on the Monopoly board," Jim shrugs. "Had to put them somewhere."
Mies sits up, finally, lopsidedly smiling, "You want to buy a trevor, and you will, you'll have to go through him. Jim, Jim, listen to this and tell me what you think of it; Chief Inspector Moriarty of the Yard…"
"Oh! Oh, yes, Danielle. Oh, say it again."
"Chief. Inspector. Moriarty-" His hand trails the cadence of her words in the air like gentle music, lips working silently along with her, "of the Ya-ard."
He picks up one of the repurposed tiddlywinks and flips it to her. "You're forgiven. Have a peeler."
