The Meeting with Miss Holmes Was the Worst (2)
James Moriarty, now twenty-one, had accepted the position as tutor to the second son of Mr. Holmes primarily for the money, but also because of the name Holmes. In truth, it was a foolish notion. There must have been over a thousand people named Moriarty in the Ireland of his birth alone, and thousands more named Holmes in England.
In reality, when he arrived by train and carriage at a small rural town near Scotland, he couldn't help but feel somewhat disappointed. Mr. Holmes was an Anglican pastor in the area, a respectable local gentleman landowner in his fifties, and a thoroughly boring man. Mrs. Holmes seemed less dull than her husband; she was a striking red-haired woman in her mid-thirties who still looked like she was in her twenties. Her appearance clearly betrayed fairy blood. Such lineages from long-vanished fairies still lingered occasionally in Ireland and Scotland. They were famed for their red hair or eyes and slow aging, and Mrs. Holmes appeared no different. Yet, unlike the often strikingly handsome or beautiful folk of those lines, her looks were quite ordinary.
Upon arriving at the manor, he learned the Holmes household consisted of two sons and one daughter. The eldest son, like many provincial English landowners' heirs, was away at seminary to inherit his father's calling. He wouldn't even see the youngest daughter until he began speaking with his pupil. It was a bit disappointing, but the student he was to tutor was named Mycroft. Mr. Holmes clearly had an oddly eccentric naming habit beneath his boring exterior. Moriarty had never met anyone named Mycroft before the boy standing before him.
"Hello, sir."
"So, preparing for Oxbridge, are you?"
"Yes."
The conversation was brief. Mycroft Holmes was a fifteen-year-old boy, tall like Moriarty himself but a touch plump, giving him a sluggish air. Yet his eyes gleamed sharply, unlike those of ordinary dullards, making him an impressive youth. Over light conversation on the first day, as a casual test, Moriarty realized the boy had a fine mind, much like his own. Still, it didn't particularly excite him. Mycroft was bright, but he lacked the passion to stir up anything interesting with that intellect. At least it was far better than teaching idiots, so Moriarty figured he could be content with his year as a tutor.
After lightly concluding the first day's lesson, he retreated to his room, pondering how to spend the coming year. Planning to head out immediately, he'd left the door open—which allowed an unexpected visitor.
"Just who are you, anyway?"
The unfamiliar voice made Moriarty freeze for a moment. He had no hidden identity to conceal, yet it felt as if some oblivious soul had pierced straight through him, leaving him momentarily rooted. Had he thought rationally, as usual, he would have realized there was no need to be startled by that interrogating tone. Any ordinary adult man might have reacted the same. The voice belonged to a child, unmistakably—pre-pubescent, hard to tell boy or girl. But as he slowly turned toward the sound, he was certain it was a girl. And he was right.
Someone stood in the doorway now. Considering he'd heard no footsteps despite his focus, she was clearly a little thief. Moriarty quickly observed the girl. Astonishingly, he realized she was observing him right back, and he couldn't suppress a hollow chuckle.
She was a young girl. He later learned she had just turned eight—thirteen years his junior, a tiny thing. She wore a dress befitting a girl, but closer inspection revealed trousers beneath the skirt, smeared with dirt and mud here and there. She was far more active than she appeared, a true tomboy. Mrs. Holmes must have tried to raise her properly; the black hair reaching just below her shoulders gleamed with luster. But it was perpetually tousled, as if she were always off on some outdoor adventure—no one could call it tidy, even politely. Most striking were those sharp eyes appraising him. Mycroft's gaze was impressive, but hers was even more so. Her gray eyes, capturing him like jewels, held a red glow at their core. Evidently, the daughter had inherited her fairy blood even more strongly than her mother.
That potent fairy blood made the girl astonishingly beautiful, enough to speculate on its strength. Of course, it wasn't yet an apt description for her current age. But anyone seeing her would be certain she'd grow into a stunning beauty. Even Moriarty had to concede the point. Yet his unwitting focus on her wasn't merely because the child was pretty. Strangely, the moment he saw her, some impression seized him—one he couldn't quite explain, even to himself.
Still, he couldn't maintain the suspicious silence forever. Moriarty opened his mouth cautiously, calmly.
"What do you mean by that, little miss?"
"I'm not little."
The bold young lady shot back pertly. Yet her triumphant gaze at Moriarty held the innocent playfulness of her age. To him, she seemed utterly immersed in grilling him like some fairy-tale hero who'd uncovered a secret.
"All right, all right, Miss Holmes, my apologies. But what did you mean by that just now?"
"Don't toy with me—no, that's not it... Ahem. You're Mr. Moriarty, right? Mycroft's tutor. And a university student."
"Precisely, I've already graduated, but close enough, Miss Holmes."
At Moriarty's affirmation, Miss Holmes's lips curved upward. As if she'd won, she raised her voice excitedly.
"That's all lies, isn't it? That's why I'm asking—who are you really? Why hide it? Are you some kind of villain, Mr. Moriarty? If so, what's your goal? There must be a reason you came to this backwater hiding your identity."
"...Why do you say it's lies?"
Moriarty quickly realized the girl was lost in her adventure fantasy. This was the problem with cheap gothic novels. For a penny, you could devour trashy adventure tales featuring cocky young protagonists grilling villains—and Miss Holmes was shrugging just like one, shoulders back proudly. At his question, she even wagged a finger, mimicking how he sometimes mocked fools, and opened her mouth toward him.
"You said you're a university student, but you're really a soldier, aren't you? You can't fool my eyes, even if you tricked Mama. Well, precisely, a retired soldier. Anyway, a man like that pretending to be a student to take a tutor job? Suspicious on its own. No need to be shocked—everyone's like that. They often miss what's plain as day."
Miss Holmes had probably expected him to rage like a novel villain whose cover was blown. Unfortunately, Moriarty had no intention of giving the young Miss Holmes such an experience. Above all, she'd anticipated him panicking, demanding how she knew. Like the dull adults around her who marveled when she merely pointed out the obvious, she expected shock from this new "villain." Then she could triumphantly explain what she'd deduced from his appearance, boasting her cleverness. But instead, Moriarty mocked her right back—an experience utterly new to the girl.
"Hm... Ah, it's this overcoat, then. Officers often wear epaulets, so traces linger on the shoulders. And they maintain their clothes differently, making the edges sharper. But a retired officer... Yes, those marks are too old to pass as recently removed for disguise. So that's your reasoning. Was I right, Miss Holmes?"
Moriarty rose slyly from his seat and approached the wide-eyed Miss Holmes, looking down at her. Taller than most, he naturally loomed over her, forcing her to crane her neck. He had to admit her reaction was intriguing. There was annoyance that he'd voiced her own thoughts, mingled with surprise—and in those sparkling gray eyes, astonishment and joy at meeting someone like herself for the first time. The glee burned red like her inner glow, and Moriarty felt a faint kinship. He too was surrounded by dullards, perpetually bored with life.
"H-How...? Y-You're no ordinary villain after all!"
"Miss Holmes, I'm no villain."
To the girl crying out in delight and shock, as if she'd met a nemesis, Moriarty replied with a smile. Of course, his next words made her instinctively step back.
"But if I were a real villain, wouldn't it be foolish for you to come here like this? Knowing what I might do?"
"Ah...!"
Like a frog pinned by a snake's stare, the girl could only let out a small gasp, frozen. She was still far too young and inexperienced to withstand that cold, impassive gaze from above. Yet even then, her mind whirred, pondering how to deal with this enigmatic "villain" who'd entered her life. It was strange, but a novel thrill in her dull existence—she couldn't help a half-twisted smile. Naturally, Moriarty's follow-up dashed it.
"Kidding, Miss Holmes."
"Ah... "
"Still, amusing notion, little one."
"...Not little!"
"Your thinking's childish, so you are. Well, the coat's owner was a soldier, as you guessed—not retired. Still am."
"I knew it!"
Moriarty had to concede Miss Holmes was fun to spar with, unlike the dull, boring lot. She was still too young and small for real engagement, so it was mere teasing—but she had something special. Perhaps that's why he was chatting longer than usual. Smiling at the dissatisfied upward glare, he spoke.
"But sometimes, you can't trust just what you see, little one."
"...What does that mean?"
"You deduced from this overcoat alone. By the clues given, you were right."
He patted the inherited worn coat, lecturing her like a pupil. Oddly, though irked at being called little, she glared half-heartedly while her eyes sparkled, riveted.
"And?"
"But you couldn't see where it came from. My brother bought it—he's the soldier. I inherited it, wore it here. Our family's not well-off enough for a tutor job otherwise; hand-me-downs are common."
Miss Holmes nodded unwittingly, clearly unprepared for his explanation. Moriarty stifled a laugh. He began to understand why professors dote on attentive students. Above all, Miss Holmes had towering pride, proving her uniqueness. She grumbled as if his explanation were cheating.
"W-Well, I couldn't predict that. It's not visible, so of course I couldn't deduce it!"
"That's why you judge with intuition. You're lacking there."
"What?"
"Observation's good, but cultivate intuition, little detective. Rely on more than the obvious, and you won't make childish mistakes. Right?"
"...Tch."
Though a stranger, this was the closest conversation he'd had in this life, surprising even Moriarty. Her name suddenly piqued his interest. He rarely remembered names, but instinct said this girl was worth it.
"Speaking of, I've kept you waiting for introductions, lady. My apologies. James Moriarty. And yours?"
But her reply stunned even him—beyond his intuition.
"Holmes... Sherlock Holmes, Mr. Moriarty."