The Final Equation

by Amelia Littlewood

  What could it be that I was being told to see about him? What was it that he was trying to present to us? And what, exactly, was he hiding behind that illusion?

  I scrutinized his features as I had that day in the flat, only now, I was far better collected and less astonished. In the cold light of the courtroom, with the man on clear display, it was easier to observe him than it had been when I was afraid for the life of myself and that of my friend. Still, I could not put my finger on what exactly bothered me.

  As I was called up to the witness box, I continued to watch him. He was not even looking at me, as though I were beneath his notice.

  He was thin, gaunt almost, his shoulders slightly rounded forward. It had to be from the amount of hunching over academic papers and books that he did, I thought, for that was something that Mr. Holmes had taught me. He had told me all about how to guess a person’s profession from the way they carried themselves.

  His eyes were beady and he was tall, and he seemed to incline his head forward quite a bit. He wore a coat that seemed to hang, as if on a rack, from his thin frame, for it was cold out and he must have had no ability to stay warm by himself, what with how thin he was.

  The coat was not quite so fine as I should have thought. A criminal mastermind could surely afford something better than that. But perhaps he was wearing it in order to make it seem as though he was too poor to have done all that Mr. Holmes claimed he had. There was, however, a monogramed J.N. on the chest pocket, which gave it an air of having once been a finer article of clothing than it now was.

  My eyes drifted slowly down the buttons of the coat, almost idly, not truly thinking about it—and then it struck me.

  I nearly started up in my seat.

  “Miss Bennet? Is there something the matter?” The magistrate asked me.

  I had to speak to Mr. Holmes. How could he have missed this? But the moment that I had the thought, I knew that it must be true. The odd smell that I had noted when Moriarty had come to the flat, it was from healing salve used when one bandaged something—such as one’s chest. The salve eased the pain from the tight binding.

  The gaunt appearance—it served to make Moriarty look not like a man, but also not like a woman. All identifying features and forms of the sex were stripped away when the form was nearly skeletal. No one could say that he was too soft, or not broad-shouldered enough, when he was clearly skin and bones.

  The shoulders were stooped, yes, but not merely from academic work—from the bindings and from hunching to hide any evidence of a bosom. And the coat—

  The coat, which had the button-holes on the left-hand side.

  Women’s coats buttoned up the left-hand side. Men’s coats buttoned up the right-hand side.

  I could not help but stare at Mr. Newcomb. At Moriarty. At whoever this person truly was. Layers upon layers of deception. Was this person truly Moriarty? Did a James Newcomb exist at all? Was this woman his patsy or had she stolen his identity?

  “Miss Bennet, if you would, please tell the court what is giving you such distress!”

  I started, having completely forgotten that there were others in the room around me. I looked over at Mr. Holmes, wishing that there was some way that I could tell him what I had only just realized without sharing it with the entire court.

  Mr. Holmes looked at me quizzically, obviously trying to ascertain what was wrong.

  I did not know what to say. Would the court laugh at me if I suggested that the man who had risen to a position of respect in academia and had commandeered a criminal empire was actually a woman?

  I had no true proof, not like the proof that we had worked so hard to find to get Moriarty into this court. All I had were my observations, and the conviction that came with them. I had faith in what I observed, for observation was the method that Mr. Holmes had taught me.

  The clothes that Moriarty had worn: baggy, hanging off of him. They made little sense. Why would someone do that? But if someone wanted to hide anything about their body, hide that they were binding themselves…the smell of the salve, which I now recognized. The strangely androgynous features. The thin, reedy voice. How had none of us noticed?

  Even unto the last, we had been tricked. Fooled. It felt as though every time we pulled back a layer to Moriarty, there was another one waiting for us, hiding still more.

  “Miss Bennet?”

  I had to say something. But how could I? What could I say that would not sound completely insane? I could not go around making wild accusations.

  But it seemed as though I had no choice.

  I looked over at James Newcomb—Moriarty—whoever this person might be. I could see in his (her?) face that he (she?) knew that I knew. There was an odd gleam in her eye.

  He—she—Moriarty stood up. “I do believe that I know of what is troubling Miss Bennet.”

  I stared at Moriarty, who stared back at me.

  Then, she took off her coat. Revealing that underneath, she was wearing a baggy set of clothes as she had worn before, but then, she unbuttoned the shirt—

  And revealed her bindings.

  There was a great deal of uproar for a moment, as people seemed to believe that they were about to witness a great deal of indecency, but then, another uproar rose over the first as they realized what they were seeing.

  “Order!” the magistrate yelled. Quite a number of people were yelling. I looked over at Mr. Holmes, who was staring at Moriarty with a cold look upon his face. It was a look of profound disappointment, but I knew that it was not directed at Moriarty, or whatever this woman’s true name was, but at himself, for not having seen it sooner.

  He was going to be down on himself for quite some time because of this, I could tell already. Mr. Holmes had quite a high opinion of his deductive powers, an opinion that was rightfully earned, but he could make mistakes. Rarely, but he could. And when he did, he was all the harsher on himself as a result. He was, after all, a perfectionist in his work.

  The court was utter chaos. Some people, such as the magistrate, were trying to calm other people down, which only made it worse because they were shouting at others to stop shouting, and all was pandemonium.

  I looked over again at Mr. Holmes, unsure of what to do. It was in that moment—the both of us lost and confused, everyone yelling, someone saying that there must be a change in the possible sentencing since we were trying a woman and not a man—it was in that moment that Moriarty vanished.

  Chapter Seven:

  The Spider Flees

  Mr. Holmes was displeased, to say the least.

  I asked Mr. Darcy to deal with the magistrate and anyone else who wished to speak to Mr. Holmes. I then accompanied my friend back to Baker Street so that we might attempt to plot our next move—if there was any next move to be made after such a coup.

  “I ought to have realized sooner,” I told him, feeling my stomach twist with the shame of my own lack of realization. “There was, from the first, something about her which spoke to me of deception. That we were being shown only that which she wanted us to see. I ought to have realized that there was more to her than she was allowing to meet our eyes.”

  “No, do not trouble yourself with guilt. I am the one who ought to take the blame.” Mr. Holmes paced the floor in quite a state. “How were you able to tell?”

  I explained to him my observations. “But it was the coat that truly gave it away to me and allowed the other pieces to fall into place,” I concluded.

  “All excellent observations. But the coat, that is odd. One would think that a mind as sharp as Moriarty’s would have known that it would give her away. Unless…”

  There was a knock at the door of the flat, and Mrs. Hudson entered. “Pardon me, but Mr. Holmes, this letter has just now been dropped off for you by a boy. He wouldn’t say who it was from.”

  Mr. Holmes and I looked at one another, and then he took the letter from Mrs. Hudson. The both of us could easily guess who this letter was from. I
f it was from Mr. Darcy then he would have said so to the boy, and told him to inform us of as much. No, there was only one person who could have sent this letter and been so taunting and mysterious about it.

  Mrs. Hudson, sensing the tense atmosphere, quickly left the room. Mr. Holmes tore open the letter and read it once, quickly, his gaze flying over the page. He then handed it to me with a noise of frustrated disgust and resumed his pacing.

  The letter read as follows:

  Dear Mr. Holmes (and, of course, Miss Bennet),

  By the time this letter has reached you, I shall have fled the courtroom. I am counting upon you, Miss Bennet, to notice the matter of the buttons. This coat was gifted to me long ago by one of the few associates who knew me for who I truly was before I began to hide myself in order to secure my position at the university.

  Mr. Holmes is an observant man, as his continued and persistent work against me has proven. But there are times when I prefer to depend upon a woman and fashion is one of those times. If, however, neither of you are so observant as I have been led to believe, I shall simply have to reveal myself when I am put upon the dock.

  Why this dramatic reveal, you ask? Well, to be quite frank, it is amusing. I shall quite look forward to everyone’s faces. But it serves another purpose. Simply having my men storm the gates would be far too obvious and I am certain that Mr. Holmes will have the guards on the lookout for any attempts of mine to escape from jail.

  Staging an uproar is the best way to go about disappearing. It’s amazing, isn’t it, how people can be arguing about you and yet not look at you even once?

  Try not to feel too terribly about not having guessed it, Mr. Holmes. It is not the first time that you have underestimated a woman, is it? Oh, yes. I do know about that nasty business with the former Miss Adler. The king and I are acquainted. As you know, I am acquainted with quite a lot of people.

  It seems that all of my hopes are dashed, however. And I was ever so close to the realization of my plan. You do want to know what that is, do you not? Very well.

  It is quite tiresome to not be able to tell anyone of what you are planning. Out of necessity, not even those closest to me in my enterprises know of the entire scope. The long and short of it is, who profits the most when governments are in upheaval? Why, the criminals. People cannot trust their governments. They cannot depend upon them. And I am always of the opinion that a little chaos is good for the soul. The monarchy is so outdated, don’t you agree?

  I read that part over again, then looked up at Mr. Holmes. “Is she suggesting what I think she is?”

  “That her ultimate plan was to start a war and profit from it? Yes, Miss Bennet, that is the conclusion that I had come to, as well.” Mr. Holmes’ tone was sharp and cold, the way that it got when he was impatient and irritated.

  I swallowed down my own urge to retort. He was upset with himself. The irritation was coming out at me, but it was not truly at me that it was directed. I looked back down at the letter and forced myself to read on.

  You have no idea how difficult it has been to occupy my position. The sacrifices I have made. I am—or was—so close to my goal, Mr. Holmes. Soon, Europe would have been in the throes of war and political upheaval and I would have been making enough profit to call myself a queen. It would be lovely fun for a few years and then perhaps I could retire. Or start all over again somewhere else. Africa is such a profitable place lately.

  And now, you have ruined it all. Years upon years of work, and it is completely down the drain. I shall have to start anew. Fortunately, there are a few places where I can still take refuge.

  After, of course, I set a few little things in motion. It will not be the empire for myself that I envisioned, but it is still so easy to create chaos. All you have to do is know the right strings to pluck.

  You will most likely chase after me. I confess that I almost look forward to it. If I am to struggle to pick up the shambles of my former glory, then the least that you can do is give me the pleasure of a merry game. Your wit is the only one to match mine and everyone else is so easily manipulated and dreadfully dull.

  Besides, what is a victory worth if it is not hard earned?

  Give my regards to the lovely Miss Bennet. She is rather your better half, if you ask me.

  Sincerely,

  Jane Newcomb

  I stared down at the signature. Jane. Jane Newcomb.

  “I can have Mary look into the records—”

  “She already did. She looked into James Newcomb when I first discovered him.”

  “And what did she discover?”

  “That he came from a poor family. Noble, once, but had fallen onto hard times. He had a sister who died of consumption when they were children.”

  “But now it seems that it was the brother who died and the sister who lived.” My mind whirred. As one of five daughters, I knew how hard it could be for parents to have no sons in the family. My father was lucky from the start to be a member of the gentry, so that he at least had a steady annual income. He only had to worry about marrying us off.

  If a family had no steady annual income, however, then having a girl could possibly be the thing that tipped them over into poverty. Boys had many more opportunities in front of them. Not only for getting work as children, but for advancement. While in my time with Mr. Holmes I had seen women rise to prominence in their own ways, they were unfortunately still the exceptions.

  It made tragic sense that a family would claim the daughter died and have Jane become James in order to give her the best chance at life. Especially if they had already seen the spark of genius in her.

  “What do you think that we ought to do?” I asked.

  “She will try and activate the favors that she has been holding over various political leaders through her blackmail,” Mr. Holmes said at once. “She will order them to act as she sees fit or she will release whatever blackmail she has on them and most of them will comply.”

  “Then, we must seek to stop her,” I said, determination filling me like hot cider.

  “And how?” Mr. Holmes replied. “She could run to any number of people.”

  I shook my head. “That is the talk of a defeatist and you, sir, are not that. You never have been. You are Sherlock Holmes and you always get your man. Ever since I have known you. I will not allow you to talk about yourself in such a fashion.”

  “Because I am the great Sherlock Holmes?” he asked sardonically.

  “Not the great,” I replied staunchly. “Because you are my friend, Sherlock Holmes. Because I have seen firsthand the work that you can do. Already you have accomplished the miracle of finding Moriarty and bringing her in. If anyone can find her again, it is you. You know her. You understand her methods. Nobody else would be able to find her, not even me. But you can. I know that you can, for I have been there when you have found out everyone else. And I know, just as I know that the sun rises, that you will catch her.”

  Mr. Holmes looked at me with a warmth that I had seldom seen from him. He was not a man prone to great shows of emotion. When he laughed, it was always a quiet chuckle. When he smiled, it was usually in sarcasm.

  Any other man, in that moment, I am sure, would have crossed over to me and taken my hands, or perhaps even—if they were not so caring about propriety as most—hug me briefly. There might have been one or several fond words given to me.

  But Mr. Holmes was not that sort of man, and so he did none of those things. Instead, he simply gazed at me with a warm, soft look upon his face, and then he cleared his throat and turned to look at the wall which held all the information on Moriarty.

  “You know, Miss Bennet,” he told me, “I do believe that you are correct. The game is afoot.”

  I could not help but smile broadly. Mr. Holmes gave me a small, determined smile in return.

  The detective that I knew was back.

  Chapter Eight:

  A Grand Chase

  To say that we h
ad a hard time of it would be an understatement. Moriarty was determined to keep us on our toes, which I cannot say surprised me in the slightest.

  It felt as though every time we drew close to finding her, she would disappear again. Mr. Holmes was understandably frustrated by this. It was clear to us that this was the sort of escape that Moriarty had planned, that she had always suspected that there might come a time when the game was up.

  The most frustrating thing was how she seemed to have all of the powerful people in Europe by the throat. Despite the truth of her blackmailing them being known, the Crown had worked it out so that the majority of the reasons why these people were being blackmailed was not released to the general public or even the court.

  Part of me felt that it was a miscarriage of justice to have someone tried for a crime when the details of the crime would not even be shared with the public. How could we know that the person was being properly tried? That they had even committed a crime in the first place?

  In the case of Moriarty, however, I had understood. The amount of pure insanity that would have erupted had the details of all the blackmailing cases been known would have thrown everything into chaos and I doubted that Moriarty’s case would have actually gotten the proper legal attention that it deserved. She might even have been assassinated by a political leader once his sordid details were made known, and Mr. Holmes never would have stood for that. He believed in justice.

  Or, at least, he usually did.

  As time went on, Mr. Holmes grew more and more agitated. I didn’t know what to do for him. I liked to think that I was one of the few people who knew Mr. Holmes intimately, in the true sense of friendship, but even I was not entirely sure how to help him in this time.