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asgardeventide
Tyger! Tyger! burning bright --
Feb. 4th, 2012 12:29 amIf he had to regret one thing, Colonel Sebastian Moran knew what it was: that Scotland Yard had taken him alive.
He was not suicidal, not in the slightest. His regret sprang not from a lack of a will to live but of a distaste for being confined. It was why, on the rare ocassions where he might have cause to stroll through the zoo, he felt sympathy-- even pity-- for the animals contained there. None moved him more than the magnificent tiger. at least his prey knew only death, not the living hell of imprisonment.
still, it had been a good hunt. A master of disguise and an expert hunter. They had made quite the pair, stalking and dodging one another. Roger Adair ruined it. He ruined quite a lot, actually.
Watson and Holmes had their theory: the unimpeachable member of the Bagatelle Club, horrified by the prospect of his partner cheating, threatened to expose a man who survived on his profits from cards. The Adair family and police would accept it as well. No one wanted to suppose that Adair was just as guilty of cheating (as well as other acts proper society would deem deplorable) or that he had gotten greedy and threatened Moran with blackmail for a larger cut of their ill-gotten gains. His family's status and wealth, he claimed, would save him from scandal. It could not, though, protect him from a sniper through an open window.
Not unlike the tigers forced into captivity, Moran paced in his cell, prowled in front of the bars restlessly. Trial. That would be soon. They had his gun; only a guilty verdict could be had. then, they would hang him. Then, at least, this insufferable idleness would cease.
He was not suicidal, not in the slightest. His regret sprang not from a lack of a will to live but of a distaste for being confined. It was why, on the rare ocassions where he might have cause to stroll through the zoo, he felt sympathy-- even pity-- for the animals contained there. None moved him more than the magnificent tiger. at least his prey knew only death, not the living hell of imprisonment.
still, it had been a good hunt. A master of disguise and an expert hunter. They had made quite the pair, stalking and dodging one another. Roger Adair ruined it. He ruined quite a lot, actually.
Watson and Holmes had their theory: the unimpeachable member of the Bagatelle Club, horrified by the prospect of his partner cheating, threatened to expose a man who survived on his profits from cards. The Adair family and police would accept it as well. No one wanted to suppose that Adair was just as guilty of cheating (as well as other acts proper society would deem deplorable) or that he had gotten greedy and threatened Moran with blackmail for a larger cut of their ill-gotten gains. His family's status and wealth, he claimed, would save him from scandal. It could not, though, protect him from a sniper through an open window.
Not unlike the tigers forced into captivity, Moran paced in his cell, prowled in front of the bars restlessly. Trial. That would be soon. They had his gun; only a guilty verdict could be had. then, they would hang him. Then, at least, this insufferable idleness would cease.
