The Final Equation Page 3

  “Mr. Holmes has a plan,” I told him. “I do not know the details yet, but I do know the general idea. It is possible that we could use your connections, your funding. I know that it might sound mercenary of me to ask, but—”

  “It is logical that you should ask such a thing,” Mr. Darcy replied. “I will help you as best as I am able. I trust Mr. Holmes’ plan, whatever it is.”

  I nodded. “Then we shall go to him first thing in the morning. I do not know what has taken him away from Baker Street tonight, but I trust that it is a part of his plan.”

  I did not add that I was concerned for Mr. Holmes. It could have been that he had chosen not to be home in case Moriarty returned. It could have been that he was pursuing a lead to stop Moriarty. But I could not help worrying that maybe, just maybe, Moriarty had gotten to my friend.

  Mr. Darcy bid me farewell, and I told him to be careful on his way home. We arranged for him to meet me early in the morning so that we could go over to Baker Street together, to keep one another safe.

  As one could well imagine, I did not get much sleep that night. I tossed and turned, staring up at the ceiling. Could I be wiling away hours with my family while my closest friend was being attacked? Would I wake up and go to Baker Street with Mr. Darcy tomorrow morning to find him dead or missing still? Would I hear only days or weeks later of his body being found somewhere?

  As disturbing thoughts and scenarios filled my mind, I drifted in and out of a restless sleep, eagerly awaiting the morning, when I might find Mr. Holmes in his usual chair at 221B Baker Street and finally put my worries to rest.

  Or, my helpful mind supplied, when my fears might be confirmed.

  Chapter Five:

  The Web Unravels

  The next morning, I arose before the rest of the household. I took breakfast with the servants, who had long since gotten used to the “unconventional” Miss Bennet. I dressed carefully, in older clothes, nothing that would cause me to stand out. I did not need to look like a lady of the higher classes with what we would be doing today. Even if I did not know the full details of our plan, I knew that much.

  Mr. Darcy had a carriage waiting when I exited. We rode in silence. My nervousness increased with every street that we passed. I tried to swallow it down, to hide how I was feeling, but I was almost certain that Mr. Darcy could tell.

  We pulled up in front of 221. Without waiting for Mr. Darcy, I exited, walked up the steps, and knocked.

  Mrs. Hudson answered, smiling at me. “Ah, Miss Bennet. You’re up early! I must warn you, I don’t believe that Mr. Holmes has slept all night. He only got in an hour or so ago. He might be rather…well, you know.”

  Relief shot through me. “I’m glad to hear that he is all right. We will go up and see him. I know how to handle his moods.”

  Mrs. Hudson opened the door for us, greeting Mr. Darcy, who had finally come up behind me, and we ascended the stairs. I could barely contain my relief when I saw Mr. Holmes indeed sitting in his usual chair by the fire, smoking a pipe.

  “Ah, Miss Bennet.” He stood. “You need not have been so worried about me, but I thank you for your kindness.”

  I did not even blink. At this juncture, I was used to Mr. Holmes simply taking one look at me and knowing everything about how I was feeling and what I had been up to. I had found myself doing it as well, such as with Mr. Darcy last night. I had found it to be both a blessing and a curse, for people did not often appreciate somebody knowing all of their business.

  “Mr. Darcy.” Mr. Holmes nodded at him, as close to a handshake as Mr. Holmes got. Unlike most, Mr. Holmes did not care for physical contact nor for the class differences that everyone seemed so occupied by. A king or a coal miner, it made no difference to Mr. Holmes. Only their moral character. It was admirable, and I strived to be the same way.

  “Mr. Darcy has recently become a victim of Moriarty,” I told him. “He came to me last night when he could not find you at your flat, and he is willing to help us in whatever way we deem necessary.”

  “That is good,” Mr. Holmes replied. “I must act alone for my part, but he can accompany you. It will help you get into the university if you have a male escort.”

  “You wish for me to go without you? To retrieve the evidence from Moriarty’s office?”

  “You must, for I must obtain the book from him, and I cannot be in two places at once. Only I have the pickpocketing skill and the homeless network at my disposal. I spent all of last night putting things into place so that the book can be obtained. It is a delicate operation and everything, all of our hopes, ride on it.”

  “If that is so, then why have me break into his office at all?”

  “Partially because we must see if there is anything else that can be of use to us. We must leave no stone unturned. And also because we must have a diversion. Our only chance is to have Moriarty’s mind split every which-way between various points. He is a mathematician. He has a logical mind, just as I do. We must create chaos.”

  I nodded. The spider’s web that Moriarty had created had to unravel. We had to unravel it.

  Mr. Holmes provided us with a detailed set of instructions and we went on our way. Mr. Darcy escorted me to the university. My heart was hammering, but as Mr. Holmes had predicted, nobody looked twice at me since I was in the company of a man. If somebody paid attention to us, it was attention to Mr. Darcy and his obvious wealth. It was as if I was not even there.

  As much as I hated the idea that I had to have someone with me, the anonymity was helpful.

  We were to wait until exactly noon, Mr. Holmes had said. Not one moment earlier.

  It was bothersome, to have to wait. I was not patient by nature. We wandered the grounds, but I itched to get to work. And, I admit, to test my lockpicking skills. Mr. Holmes had been teaching me, but this was the first time that I would be testing them out in the field, so to speak.

  We loitered around the green—only a few seconds’ walk from Professor Newcomb’s office—where we could hear the massive clock from the main building striking twelve.

  I heard the clock striking and felt adrenaline course through me. This was it. This was the moment.

  We crossed over to Professor Newcomb’s office and I took out my lockpicking tools. Mr. Darcy stepped in front of me, casually blocking me from the view of anyone else who might be around.

  Picking locks required dexterity and skill. I’d thought that I had both of those in spades until I’d actually started trying to pick locks. Then I’d realized just how clumsy my fingers were, how large and useless they were for this sort of thing.

  I bent down, carefully inserting the lockpicks and pressing my ear to the door, listening for the sound of the tumblers sliding into place. It took me longer than I wanted it to, but I refused to grow impatient. If I moved the picks with too much force, I would break my tools.

  One, two, three…I felt the last tumbler clicking into place.

  I reached up, gripping the door handle, and turned it.

  The door opened.

  Mr. Darcy shot me a pleased smile as I stood up. “Excellently done, Miss Bennet.”

  “A compliment, Mr. Darcy? I thought that I was beneath such things for you.”

  “I have not been given the gift of conversing easily with others,” Mr. Darcy replied. “And so, I am aware that I have insulted you in the past and done little by the way of apologizing. But I have come to admire you and your work with Mr. Holmes, Miss Bennet. I hope that this will not be the last chance I have to assist you and that this Moriarty will be dealt with.”

  “I hope so, as well,” I replied. “And thank you, Mr. Darcy. I appreciate the respect.”

  We entered the office.

  It was a tidy place, obsessively so. I did not see a speck of dust. I knew that maids came in to clean the offices, but only once a week. This spoke of someone cleaning more than that, perhaps every day. A touch neurotic, perhaps?

  Everything was in neat, o
rganized piles. There were some equations written on a chalkboard, and the handwriting was neat, too—far neater than most. There were books on the shelves in all different subjects, everything from philosophy to history to law and government.

  “This man has quite a range of interests,” Mr. Darcy noted. He walked up to the books and began carefully tipping them.

  I stared at him. What on earth did he think that he was doing?

  “Sorry.” He looked a bit awkward, like a boy caught with his hand in the cookie jar. “Criminal mastermind, you know, I thought that maybe one of them led to a secret room. We have them all the time in old estates, priest holes and things like that.”

  I ducked my head down quickly to keep from laughing.

  The desk. That was where his important things had to be. It was the most logical place and this was a logical man, a neat and organized man. After all, why would a middling-level professor need to worry about people breaking into his desk? Outraged students trying to change the results of their exams? Surely there were easier ways of cheating.

  I had to use my lockpicks on the desk drawers. He kept every single one of them locked, which must have been a bother, but made sense if he was keeping valuable material in some of them. Better to lock every single drawer and be seen as private, or leave people without a lot of time to guess which drawer held all the important information. If only one or two drawers were kept locked, I should have known at once where the information was. Fortunately, I had the time to unlock all of them.

  Mr. Darcy kept an eye on the door.

  A half an hour, Mr. Holmes had said. We should not get any more time than that.

  “Do you think it’s going well for him?” Mr. Darcy asked.

  “I believe in him,” I replied.

  Each drawer held something different. The top papers were all exams, or articles from the newspaper, mathematical proofs, and the like. But underneath…

  Information. The information that we needed. It wasn’t all of the blackmail proof that he had on the various people in power in Europe, but I had not presumed that it would be all of the information. But it was enough. It would help us.

  I made sure to shove the papers in disarray. Normally, I would be careful to leave no trace of my being there, but this was to cause chaos. This was to disturb Moriarty, to upset him, to throw him off balance.

  Half of the important papers I hid on my own person and the other half I gave to Mr. Darcy. We then left the office—it was twenty past twelve. We went in separate directions, heading back to Baker Street by separate routes.

  I could not stop myself from looking over my shoulder constantly as I moved through the streets. I trusted that Mr. Holmes had used his homeless network to sufficiently distract Moriarty and lead him on a merry chase, but Moriarty was not just one man. He was the leader of an organization. He could have men following both me and Mr. Darcy right this moment.

  Nobody stopped me, though. Nobody came after me. I got to Baker Street safely, as did Mr. Darcy.

  We hurried up the steps. Mrs. Hudson was not at home, but that was not unusual. She usually did her shopping in the afternoon. That did not concern me.

  When we entered 221B, Mr. Holmes was there.

  I smiled at him, indicating Mr. Darcy and myself. “We have the papers.”

  Mr. Holmes nodded. “Good. And I have the notebook. It was quite a chase. Fortunately, we can go to the magistrates with this.” Mr. Holmes looked at Mr. Darcy. “I think it would be best if you delivered the information.”

  Mr. Darcy nodded. “It would most likely be best if you joined me, Mr. Holmes. You will be able to best explain what is going on to them. But you will have my full backing and I can put in the formal request for arrest.”

  “Excellent.” Mr. Holmes looked at me. “You and Mary ought to gather what information you can from my apartment here so that we have a thorough case. We do not have much time. He will retaliate quickly.”

  I nodded.

  Needless to say, I was not there when they apprehended Moriarty returning to his office to find it in disarray. None of us were. But my understanding was that the man put up a surprisingly good fight considering his physical state. Extreme anger could do such a thing to a person, I am sure.

  We had his book, filled with all the information needed to make a compelling case. And we had him.

  It was time to take this spider to the dock.

  Chapter Six:

  Trials and Tribulations

  My understanding of court cases was, I had to admit, rather lacking. Mr. Darcy, as a higher member of society than myself, and as a man, would have a better knowledge of the inner workings. He and Mr. Holmes both instructed me on how things could be expected to go.

  “It will greatly depend upon our magistrate,” Mr. Darcy informed me. “They’re supposed to be servants of the people and to uphold the system of justice, but it is a thankless and exhausting job. As a result, many are susceptible to bribes. We will have to do our best to get one who is not so easily swayed.”

  “Our greatest issue will be the crowds,” Mr. Holmes said with a slightly sour tone. Mr. Holmes was not a man known for his patience with people. Especially great numbers of them. “They will love such a sensationalist story as this and will make Moriarty into a celebrity. He will try to work that to his favor, as highway robbers often used to. We must do what we can to prevent it. I shall be speaking to my homeless network on the matter.”

  Throughout, Mr. Holmes had continued to call Mr. Newcomb “Moriarty.” I personally did not see the point in calling him by his pseudonym when we now knew his true name. When, in fact, his true name was going to be revealed to the whole of London. However, after some reflection, I thought that I could understand it. Mr. Holmes had called Moriarty “the Napoleon of crime” and perhaps this was his little way of showing respect to the man who had kept Mr. Holmes and myself on our toes for so long.

  Certainly no one else, not even Irene Adler, had managed to outwit us for quite so long a time. Irene’s cleverness lay partially in the fact that she had acted quickly and had quit while she was ahead (and, of course, the fact that she had never been a criminal in the first place). Moriarty had led us on a merry chase for months.

  If that was how Mr. Holmes wished to refer to him, I had no qualms with it.

  “We must also take care that the jury is educated properly on the crimes which were committed and how they were fashioned,” Mr. Holmes went on. “They are good men, I am sure, but they will not be so versed in the world of criminals as I. They could also be easily persuaded or bribed to deliver a verdict of not guilty.”

  Normally, I would put Mr. Holmes’ statement down to his casual arrogance, but, in this case, he was quite right to say so. There were few people in the world quite so acquainted as he with the criminal classes who were not also criminals themselves.

  “It sounds to me as though we shall need to rely upon quite a bit of luck,” I noted. “And even then, surely Mr. Newcomb could get his sentence down from hanging to jail time or deportation, and neither will help us, for he is sure to turn such a situation to his advantage.”

  “Our biggest strength will lie in the ability to produce witnesses—such as yourself, Miss Bennet—who will turn the jury against Moriarty,” Mr. Holmes explained.

  I was quite nervous for my own part in the proceedings. The trial would indeed mainly rely upon witnesses, as it seemed that most trials did, including character witnesses. I would be called upon by the prosecution in order to showcase how we had caught Mr. Newcomb and to testify to the strength of Mr. Holmes’ character.

  I had never been involved in anything resembling a trial before. Despite having helped Mr. Holmes with many cases, including murder, I had never been called upon to give testimony. Mr. Holmes had done so a few times and seemed quite comfortable with the whole idea. But then, it took quite a lot to rattle Mr. Holmes, especially when he believed himself to be in the right, which he usually did.


  When the day of the trial arrived, I was a bundle of nerves. Jane did what she could to ease my mind as I readied myself.

  “Perhaps you ought to wear something nice?” she suggested. “It will help everyone see that you are a lady of good standing. It will lend credence to your testimony.”

  “I am not certain that this is the place for me to be dressing as if I were attending a ball, Jane dear,” I told her.

  “At least wear something made of a fine fabric. It will help to show your status, Lizzie. As much as you might not like it, people are impressed by status and by wealth. It is a sad truth, but it is a fact about the world in which we live.”

  I at last agreed to wear one of my simpler but nicer frocks, although I covered it with a coat and a hat as I took the carriage to the Old Bailey where the trial would be held. To my great shame, I should not have felt at all safe if Mr. Darcy and Mr. Holmes were not also in attendance. There was indeed a great crowd for the trial of “the greatest criminal of the century,” with many people there to try and catch a glimpse of the now-famed Moriarty.

  There was expressed by Mr. Holmes a concern that some of Moriarty’s former associates would be in the crowd, either to aid him in his escape or to kill him before he could reveal any information. I could not help but scan the crowd as I descended from the carriage, wondering if one or two among them was a criminal with intent.

  However, once we were seated and the trial began, I could not tear my eyes away from Mr. Newcomb.

  Despite his slender frame, he seemed to dominate the room. Everyone craned their necks to catch a glimpse of him. In a rare occurrence, there would be no other cases heard by the jury that day. Normally, Mr. Darcy told me, the jury would hear many cases a day, some only taking half an hour. But for such a widespread and celebrated case as this, it was clear that the court wanted to put on a bit of a show of the justice system.

  Something continued to bother me about Mr. Newcomb as I sat there watching him. It was the same thing that had bothered me when he had come to visit us in Mr. Holmes’ flat. It was the impression that I was seeing something that I was meant to see, rather like how a magician wishes for you to see the whooshing cape and the pretty assistant so that you do not see the way his hands deftly shift the cards around.