The Meeting with Miss Holmes Was the Worst (4)
The encounter with Miss Holmes had been disastrous. Mrs. Holmes couldn't help but be wary when the new tutor, who had barely been in the house for two days, made a suspicious proposal regarding her youngest daughter. No, she had intended to be wary. She had just apologized profusely after hearing from the maid Sally that her youngest daughter had been rude to this young, handsome tutor on the very first day. The conversation, which should have ended smoothly, concluded with a proposal that was hard to comprehend right away, leaving even the rather obtuse Mrs. Holmes with no choice but to harbor doubts.
That was why Moriarty added one final remark. No matter how suspicious the offer, the promise of doing it for free was enough to give even ordinary people pause. Of course, it couldn't completely dispel Mrs. Holmes's lingering unease. But Moriarty had already anticipated that.
He had shown a glimpse of it even in front of Sherlock Holmes, but he was always gifted with intuition. Unlike Miss Holmes, who observed his overcoat and swiftly pieced together clues to make deductions, he could read most people at a mere glance. Moriarty recalled the dinner he had shared with the Holmes family the previous evening, his first day as tutor.
The Holmes family was utterly ordinary. As was well-known, Mr. Holmes was a local Anglican pastor who had inherited the position from his forebears and was respected as a landowner in the area. He was the head of the household, a man in his fifties. Pious as befitted a man of the cloth, strict in his ways, yet above all, an ordinary man who valued the preservation of his family above everything.
However, Moriarty could clearly read a certain anxiety in him toward his wife, who was quite a bit younger. Mr. Holmes neither showed it nor realized it himself, but it was there. Still, unlike Miss Holmes, he was a profoundly boring man. The epitome of ordinariness, the kind found anywhere.
Mrs. Holmes was similar. Thanks to fairy blood inherited from an ancestor, she retained her youth despite being in her mid-thirties, but she felt a certain boredom with her ordinary life. The sort of woman who might dream of a minor indiscretion if the opportunity arose—a dreamer at heart. Yet she was an ordinary housewife, strict in her children's education. She was especially concerned about her youngest, Sherlock. Anyone could see that Sherlock was far from an ordinary girl, and for a Mrs. Holmes steeped in the average morals and common sense of the era, she couldn't help but worry about her wild tomboy of a youngest daughter's future.
But Moriarty could read that she hadn't been strict with Miss Sherlock yet because the girl was only eight years old.
The couple had three children: two sons and the youngest daughter, Sherlock. But Sherrinford, Mr. Holmes's eldest son and Sherlock's oldest brother, had been absent from the dinner table. The eldest son of the Holmes family, three years younger than Moriarty himself, was away at a strict boarding school studying theology to inherit his father's vocation.
Sherrinford, Mycroft, and Sherlock. Strange names that hinted at an eccentric streak in Mr. Holmes, ordinary though he was. Moriarty had only learned such names existed upon arriving at the house. And fitting those names—though he couldn't confirm it without meeting Sherrinford—at least Mycroft and Sherlock struck him as special in his eyes. Unlike the dullards and the worthless scarecrows who would fade from memory the moment they vanished, these two children were the sort one would remember long after parting.
That was why Moriarty had impulsively offered to take on Sherlock's education as well. Half impulsive, yes, but he didn't regret it. And he already knew Mrs. Holmes still found the proposal unsettling. She was boringly ordinary, planning to hire female tutors for her daughter's education going forward. Of course, predicting how that future would unfold required no deduction at all.
Sherlock was a special girl—no, a special being. Ordinary education and dim-witted tutors couldn't handle her. Moriarty sensed it intuitively. So she wouldn't entrust her eight-year-old daughter to an outsider, no matter how young or trustworthy as her son's tutor.
But Moriarty added carefully. Anyone who knew his true intentions would feel a chill at such brazen acting. It was the picture of a young man captivated by old memories and family, thus swayed by sentiment.
"Actually... talking with Miss Sherlock, she reminded me of my own little sister without realizing it."
"Is that so... Your sister must have been a beauty, Mr. Moriarty."
"Yes, sadly she passed at five. But she followed me more than anyone, and I still cherish her memory, ma'am."
"Oh... My apologies, Mr. Moriarty!"
How could the dim, ordinary Mrs. Holmes dare suspect the young man before her? Moriarty barely remembered his dead sister's name and had felt no emotion when she died, but for the first time in her life, he was grateful for her existence. Of course, he could have lied smoothly without her. But the wise prepare for every contingency. The odds were near zero, but someone might investigate if Mr. Moriarty truly had a deceased sister. Having a sister who had conveniently died made him grateful to the sibling whose name he barely recalled. Though he forgot it soon enough.
Mrs. Holmes couldn't help but waver before this young man, overlaying his fond memories of his sister with her own daughter. His handsome features only amplified the effect. Beauty was always the ultimate weapon. The perceptive might read beyond it, but most were swayed by appearances. Moriarty knew full well he was handsome. Unlike fools, he knew everything—and occasionally leveraged his looks for gain. A good face was like keeping a pistol in one's pocket for defense against idiots.
Moriarty played his final card.
"Miss Sherlock doesn't attend school yet, nor does she have a tutor, as I understand, ma'am. I'm not staying in this manor forever anyway, am I? Think of it as simple reading and math lessons to pass the time, for her future. She seems to play outside a lot... Sitting and studying might be more ladylike, don't you think?"
"Yes... She's still so young... She runs wild, dirtying the whole house with mud, and poor Sally suffers for it."
"Consider it light preparation. As I said, not for pay, but because I want to. Basic math, as you know, is proper refinement even for ladies in London society."
Was it really? Truth didn't matter. But for Mrs. Holmes, already fretting over her tomboy youngest, mentions of London society and ladylike refinement were enough to tip the scales.
"...I'll discuss it with my husband first, sir."
"Of course, ma'am."
He sensed intuitively that the outcome was sealed, but to ordinary eyes, he ended the talk with a pleasantly affable smile.
That evening at the Holmes family dinner table, the topic naturally arose. Unlike the first night, when they had all dined together for the guest, Moriarty now ate separately in the annex prepared for him.
Mycroft, as usual, averted his gaze from his parents chattering about parish affairs and turned to his sister beside him. Normally sharp enough to notice his glance immediately, she seemed unusually listless today. Of course, the Sherlock in Mycroft's memory was always listless at dinner. Usually from boredom with their parents' talk. But this was different.
Mycroft couldn't help but feel considerable surprise. His sister was an unusual girl, far from the typical eight-year-old. Mycroft himself seemed odd to others, but at least in his eyes, she was. Yet now, uncharacteristically, she looked every bit the eight-year-old girl—disappointed, like a child denied a coveted doll despite tantrums and pleas to their mother. Mycroft could never have imagined seeing such an expression from Sherlock in his fifteen years of life, so he was duly shocked.
But he knew the cause. His observation skills rivaled—no, surpassed—Sherlock's, whom he acknowledged as the only family member smarter than him.
The new tutor, James Moriarty. He had heard from Sally and his mother that Sherlock had bothered the guest as usual on the first day, but clearly something else had happened. Sherlock subtly craved conversation with Mr. Moriarty, perhaps hoping to see him again at dinner tonight. She hadn't been able to speak to him last night because of Mother.
It felt a bit strange to Mycroft. He was glad to see his beloved little sister acting her age, but he instinctively sensed something off about this Moriarty fellow. He resolved to take a personal interest in the new tutor. Then, astonishingly, his parents' conversation turned to Sherlock's "tutor."
"Mr. Moriarty? For Sherlock?"
"Yes, he said she reminded him of his sister, and since he has time, he'd like to take it on, dear. I think it's fine, but what do you—"
"I want to! I want to learn from Mr. Moriarty! Please, Dad, please! I won't cause trouble, I swear—I'll study quietly!"
Sherlock's sudden outburst brought a bizarre silence to the Holmes dinner table. Even Mycroft stared at his sister with eyes wide, uncharacteristically startled by her behavior. In truth, Sherlock was unusually mature for an eight-year-old girl—reading people's secrets as if by magic, loving to run wild outside and worrying her mother, yet more adult than childish. Had she been born a boy like her eldest or second brother, Mrs. Holmes wouldn't worry at all; she was diligent and mature, far from childish whims.
So to see their daughter throw her first-ever childish fit left Mr. and Mrs. Holmes staring blankly, too stunned even to scold her.
Mycroft noticed her pretty eyes flash red for an instant. Childlike, yes, but burning with fierce desire for something.
Mr. Holmes had no choice but to yield to his daughter's unprecedented plea. Even without it, as a man who prized family harmony above all, he would have agreed.
And so James Moriarty took on the role of tutor to Miss Sherlock Holmes as well. At their father's permission, Mycroft could only stare at his sister, who beamed like a child gifted a treasured doll.