The Final Equation Read online

  The Final Equation

  A Sherlock Holmes & Elizabeth Bennet Mystery

  By Amelia Littlewood

  Also by Amelia Littlewood

  Death at the Netherfield Park Ball

  The Mystery of the Indian Diadem

  The Peculiar Doctor Barnabus

  The Apparition at Rosing's Park

  The Shadow of Moriarty

  The Adventure of the King’s Portrait

  The Case of the Patriarch

  The Final Equation

  Copyright © 2018 Amelia Littlewood

  All rights reserved.

  Published by Cyanide Publishing

  www.cyanidepublishing.com

  First edition

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

  Contents

  Chapter One: Dear Readers

  Chapter Two: The Visitor

  Chapter Three: Proof

  Chapter Four: An Unexpected Ally

  Chapter Five: The Web Unravels

  Chapter Six: Trials and Tribulations

  Chapter Seven: The Spider Flees

  Chapter Eight: A Grand Chase

  Chapter Nine: The Falls

  Chapter Ten: End of the Line

  About the Author

  Chapter One:

  Dear Readers

  It was with a heavy heart that I took up my pen to record my most recent adventures with Mr. Holmes.

  I had taken care to always record our cases. Mr. Holmes never cared for such things himself. He could remember his cases, so what did it matter if anyone else should recall them? After all, he did not do his work for fame or notoriety, but rather for the pleasure of the case itself. The chase was what mattered to him, not the reward at the end of it.

  I personally had always appreciated that there was usually a reward. Mr. Holmes’ flat would not pay for itself and goodness knew that Mrs. Hudson had enough to worry about because of that man already. She dealt with enough—literal—skeletons in Mr. Holmes’ closet. It would never do to have her worry about the rent on top of it all.

  Additionally, I saw the recording of our cases as a necessity—for posterity, perhaps. Perhaps simply to prove to myself that it had all truly happened.

  This time, though, as I sat down in the library of the Bingley house at the desk that had come to be mine… the pen had never felt so heavy. The paper before me seemed like an empty, yawning cavern into which I had to dive.

  It was still so fresh in my mind. So new and painful. A part of me wished that I might be able to take some time away from it all—time to recover.

  However, I knew that I must do it immediately or the details would fade from my memory. They were sharp now, all of my observations in neat order, shining like bright new toys, but they would become muddled and distorted if I left them to gather dust for any length of time. I was not quite as good at recalling facts as Mr. Holmes was.

  As he had been.

  I owed it to him. I owed it to my friend, my partner in detecting, to explain all that had happened, just as it had happened. He did not wish for the details to be known to the public, but I knew there might come a time when someone else revealed them and I was determined to make sure that, should that time arise, I could counterargue any slanderous charges brought against Mr. Holmes. He would never bother to defend himself were he there to do so, but I was a loyal person. Or, so I liked to believe. I would not allow a good friend’s name to be dragged through the mud.

  And, so, I picked up my pen, despite the heaviness of my heart, and began.

  It all started when I returned to London after my visit to my parents.

  I was filled with elation at having solved a mystery all on my own. The praises of those around me, including Mr. Darcy and my parents, still rang in my ears. I hoped that I was not giving myself over too much to pride and prepared myself for a proper humbling when I went to see Mr. Holmes.

  To my surprise, however, Mr. Holmes was not at all interested in hearing the details of my case. The moment that I stepped into the room, he took me by the hand and pulled me over to his wall.

  That dratted wall. Sometimes I wished it had never existed. Other times I appreciated it, for who else besides Mr. Holmes ever had a chance of discovering and outing Moriarty?

  Mary, I could see just by looking at the wall, had done much to help Mr. Holmes in properly organizing it. Mr. Holmes had no need for cleanliness or order due to his inhuman ability to catalogue and store even the most miniscule of details in his mind. He always knew where everything was. Unfortunately, mere mortals, like myself, needed some semblance of order to keep track of everything.

  I was proud of Mary’s work. I hoped that someday soon she might be able to accompany Mr. Holmes on some of his cases in lieu of myself. Not that I at all wished to stop detecting. But how was she to learn if she did not get some hands-on experience? And three detectives showing up at once might be a little much for clients.

  Mr. Holmes gestured excitedly. I had rarely seen him in such a passion. He was a calculating man by nature. Not cold in his heart, but cold in his manner. It was a comfort to me, actually, to know that there was someone upon whom I could rely to be calm and logical about such things.

  But not today. Today he was in a proper state. It was unusual to see him give in to the fits of passion and emotion that punctuated the attitudes of everyone else I knew. I was astounded at his behavior and worried that perhaps he had taken too much of some of those drugs of which he was so fond.

  “Miss Bennet,” Mr. Holmes said. “Look. At last. It has taken me far longer than it should have, but I admit that I have been using myself up rather too freely. It has taken its toll on my faculties.”

  I noticed then how pale he was, how thin. I doubted that he had slept much at all in the last week or so. “Mr. Holmes. Perhaps you ought to have some of Mrs. Hudson’s cooking. I shall ask her and see if she has some soup and tea for you. And then you must certainly lie down.”

  “Not at all. Miss Bennet, I have at last gathered enough information to say with certainty who this Moriarty is.”

  “Do you mean to say that is not his real name?”

  “It is a pseudonym, I have come to learn, which he uses in his profession as a blackmailer and the head of several smuggling rings. No, his true name is James Newcomb. He is a college professor of mathematics. A rather quiet one, who has published only a few academic papers. Not what anybody would call a famed man in his field. And yet his genius is subtle and vast.”

  “You must take care, Mr. Holmes, for I almost detected a compliment within that description.”

  “Please, Miss Bennet, if you would, fetch me a cigarette for a smoke.”

  I would normally object to such a thing. Mr. Holmes took far too much more of all kinds of smoke than was healthy for him, and far too few vegetables and other strong foods. But it would serve to calm his nerves, and so I fetched him what he requested and lit it for him.

  After drawing in a few breaths with the cigarette, Mr. Holmes became much calmer. I could see his mind whirring behind his eyes like clockwork. “You see, Miss Bennet, I have deduced the man’s identity by realizing that there was a cold calculation to the crimes of which he was in charge. I had your sister organize for me a list of all the profitable crimes being perpetrated in London and used my homeles
s network to spy upon the smuggling rings and other organized groups of criminals.

  “I noticed within the most successful ones the pattern of mathematical precision and calculation. It suggested to me not only a genius, but a person with a particular turn and frame of mind.

  “It has long been a subject of speculation of mine that professors and other academics should inevitably make excellent criminals because they are beings that thrive upon intellectual exercise. Take philosophy students, for example. They are often posed questions of such natures as, ‘Would you save one person that you know and who is near and dear to you, or rather, would you save ten strangers?’

  “Such academic speculative exercises would not necessarily make one a criminal. But I could see how, if one has such criminal tendencies already, one could easily become enticed to enter into a practical version of those experiments.”

  “Should that be the case, Mr. Holmes, would we not see more people forced to choose between saving their mother and saving ten strangers?” I asked him. “Such a story would be sure to make headlines.”

  “Do not mock me, Miss Bennet,” Mr. Holmes replied, but he sounded rather fond, and he must have seen that I was only teasing him. “Between the nature of the crimes, the way in which they were carried out, and my observation about academics, I concluded that it must be some sort of expert in an academic field. I narrowed it down to history, philosophy, and mathematics.

  “I have made an extensive study recently of all three subjects and learned who the current London-based experts in that field are. While I was not lost to the possibility that it could be someone not based in London, I thought that given the amount of activity here that seemed to be linked to this Moriarty, it was far more logical for him to be stationed nearby.

  “After much process of elimination, I have found my enemy. He is a great adversary, possibly the best that I have ever encountered. His plans are far-reaching and insidious. And if we are to stop him, it will take a great deal of cunning. He has taken care so that his influence will not be felt by the arms of the law.”

  I had a great many questions running through my mind. This Moriarty, or rather, James Newcomb, if that was his true name, had been an underlying thorn in our sides for some time. Could it truly be that Mr. Holmes had stumbled upon a way to end his criminal enterprises? Would it really be so simple as that?

  I also wished to remind Mr. Holmes that Moriarty had pegged Mr. Holmes as a potential threat long before we had learned of him. Indeed, I should think that despite Mr. Holmes’ great intellectual faculties, had Moriarty not arranged for us to be attacked by that odious circus, we should not have learned of his existence at all. Or at least not for a great deal longer.

  “The only thing that we now need is some sort of proof,” Mr. Holmes went on. “For I can tell my theories to the magistrates all that I please, but although they are sound, I must have something tangible before they will take action.”

  “Rather like how in mathematics, you can speak of a mathematical formula all that you wish, but you must have a way to prove it in order for it to be accepted?” I teased him, seeing as our Moriarty was apparently a mathematics professor.

  Mr. Holmes fixed me with a stern look. “Precisely.”

  I wanted to ask Mr. Holmes how he proposed we go about getting this proof. Should we confront this Moriarty directly? Attend one of his lectures at the university? Or would it be best if we not engage with this man at all? He had tried to kill us—or, at the very least, incapacitate us—once already.

  However, I could ask Mr. Holmes none of these things, for just then, we heard someone coming up the stairs.

  Chapter Two:

  The Visitor

  We turned to see Mrs. Hudson enter the room, someone behind her. “Pardon me, Mr. Holmes, Miss Bennet, but you have a visitor. He said that it was quite urgent.”

  She stepped aside and backed out of the flat. Mrs. Hudson was wonderfully astute that way. She put up with a great deal from Mr. Holmes and handled his mood swings and messiness with a cheerful grace that I highly admired. Her status as a woman of business was also something that I greatly looked up to. Her independence had helped to strengthen my own determination to be my own woman and beholden to no one, despite objections.

  The man who stood before us was rather androgynous in his look. It was due, at least from my observations, from the rather emaciated nature about him. His frame was so slight and so lacking in muscle and fat that he appeared ascetic. He was clean shaven and rather pale, with sunken eyes and stooped shoulders.

  His clothes were oddly baggy, completely hiding his frame. Perhaps to hide how lacking in form he was. It was almost as though a skeleton had walked into the room.

  The man simply stood there for a moment and smiled at us. I was quite at a loss as to what was going on and what I should say. Usually, a client would announce themselves or have Mrs. Hudson announce them. But this man appeared content simply to watch us.

  “Going over all of those academic papers has given your shoulders quite a stoop, I see,” Mr. Holmes observed.

  He evidently knew who this man was, even if I did not.

  I felt wrong-footed, and struggled to regain my mental balance. I could sense a strange tension in the room, and was unusually hesitant. “Would you like some tea, sir?”

  “No thank you. I have a rather delicate stomach.”

  That was evident enough judging by his frame. I did not have to be trained by Mr. Holmes to recognize that. I nodded and gestured to one of the chairs. “Would you like to be seated then?”

  The man’s smile grew. It was a rather grim smile. There was something about him that struck me as odd, as out of place, but I could not quite put my finger on it. It was as though I was seeing something that I was very purposefully meant to see, rather than seeing the truth of something. As if there was a smoke screen in front of my face and I was buying into it.

  Yet, I had no observation to truly back up my statement. Only that odd gut feeling. I had learned from Mr. Holmes how it was really just a symptom of my observing something of which my conscious brain was not aware. I had even learned how to hone my skill in deciphering that feeling. Right now, however, I could not pinpoint what inspired my unease.

  “I see,” the man said, “that you evidently do not know me.”

  “On the contrary,” Mr. Holmes said. “I think it is fairly evident that I do. I suppose that I can spare you five minutes if you have anything to say.”

  “All that I have to say has already crossed your mind.” The man’s voice was high and reedy. There was, I realized, an odd sort of smell that he carried with him. It reminded me of doctor’s visits, although I could not think why.

  “Then possibly my answer has crossed yours,” Mr. Holmes replied.

  This was immensely frustrating to me. This man was clearly highly intelligent, enough so that he and Mr. Holmes were mentally attacking and counter-attacking one another without ever needing to make actual moves. That was all well and good for them—except for the part where it put them at an impasse—but it was rather bothersome for myself, as I had no idea what they were talking about.

  “You stand fast?” the man asked.

  “Absolutely.”

  The man drew out of his pocket a small notebook and flipped it open. I could see various neatly marked passages, including dates and figures. He caught me looking and smiled. His sunken eyes gleamed. “Perhaps you ought to let your associate know who I am.”

  “Miss Bennet,” Mr. Holmes said. “Allow me to introduce you to the formidable man known as Moriarty.”

  My breath froze in my chest and I instinctively grasped the back of the chair next to me in surprise. This was Moriarty? The great criminal?

  He hardly looked the criminal type. More like an invalid than anything else. I had learned not to judge a criminal by how they looked, of course, but this man appeared to be penniless. What was he doing with all of his power and wealth if no
t enjoying it?

  “I have come to realize,” Moriarty said, “that despite my efforts, thanks to you, I shall soon be in danger of losing my liberty. It is an impossible situation, you must understand.”

  “What, then, do you suggest that we do about it?” Mr. Holmes replied with an air of disdain. I had to admire him for it. A renowned and powerful criminal came into his home to taunt him and Mr. Holmes was not fazed in the slightest. I confess that it was better than I was behaving.

  “I suggest that you drop it,” Moriarty said, all casualness gone from his voice. There was true malice in his voice now, his eyes gleaming like those of a snake, and suddenly his baggy clothes and skeletal frame and odd manner did not matter. Before me stood a dangerous, vicious man, and I was seized with the desire to grab the fireplace poker and thrash him out of the room, if only to rid ourselves of him.

  He did not even have to raise his voice, and that was what made him all the more terrifying. A bully that raged and ranted provoked no fear from me anymore, for now I knew that those were the actions of a man against the ropes, of one who felt the noose tightening about his neck.

  A man who could remain calm and confident in himself, on the other hand, a man who was quiet in his menace—that man was infinitely more dangerous.

  Mr. Holmes remained calm. He showed no sign of being intimidated, and I was impressed with him for it, although not surprised. It took quite a lot to rattle my friend.

  “I am afraid that it is quite impossible for me to drop the matter,” he said, as if he was giving a regular client his opinion on a subject.

  “Ah, well.” Moriarty shrugged, and put his little book back into his pocket. “It seems then that I must leave you. It is a pity. But we must do what we must do, is that not so?” He bowed to me. “Miss Bennet. I would implore you to make your companion see reason, but my understanding is that you are even more hot-tempered than he is and so such pleas would fall upon deaf ears.”