A Study in Charlotte

“What,” I asked her slowly, “were you doing picking fights with a Moriarty?”

Professor James Moriarty was Sherlock Holmes’s greatest enemy. In some ways, he was almost as notorious as the Great Detective himself. Moriarty was the first criminal mastermind of London, who famously died after fighting Sherlock Holmes at the Reichenbach Falls in Switzerland. After that fight, Sherlock faked his own death in order to hunt down the rest of Moriarty’s agents in disguise. Even Dr. Watson thought Sherlock was gone for good. Though the official story says differently, I have it on good authority that when Holmes waltzed back into his consulting room three years later, my great-great-great-grandfather delivered one hell of a punch to his former partner’s jaw.

Like I said before, I haven’t had the best role models.

But then neither had Charlotte Holmes.

She dashed her cigarette out in the ashtray with a delicate, vicious hand. “It’s irrelevant.” There was smothered hurt in her voice, but I couldn’t afford to drop the subject.

“Professor Moriarty still has fans, Holmes. Followers. Did you know that some English serial killers still list him as their greatest inspiration? And they’ve never recovered all the art he stole. Not to mention the rest of his family actively attempting to live up to his legacy.” I drew a line under his name. August. I had never heard of an August Moriarty. “I mean, I know it’s been more than a hundred years, but—”

“I’d prefer to think,” Holmes said, cutting me off, “that we aren’t all so mercilessly bound to our pasts.” She rose, shedding her blankets. Underneath, she wore a short pleated skirt, rolled at the waist to appear even shorter, and her white oxford was undone to the fourth button.

Had she dressed this way for the detective? Or for something else? What was she playing at?

I cleared my throat awkwardly. In one of her mercurial shifts of mood, she flashed me a smile and hauled a box out from underneath the love seat.

Inside was a collection of wigs. Dozens of them, stored in soft mesh bags and arranged by color. Holmes drew a hand mirror out from the box and peered at herself for half a second before smoothing her hair up into a knot.

“So this conversation is over,” I said, but I might as well have been talking to the air. It was no use; I’d been outplayed. She didn’t want to talk about August Moriarty, and so she wouldn’t, and nothing I could say would change her mind.

Getting to watch her transform herself helped soften the blow. She did it with all the cool efficiency of a violinist tuning her instrument. A stocking cap went over her hair, followed by the wig—long blond hair, curled at the ends—and makeup that she applied with an expert hand, balancing the small mirror between her knees. I didn’t know the terms for what she did, but the face that looked up at me was doe-eyed and glimmering, her cheeks pink, her lips smudged with sticky gloss. She spritzed herself with perfume. Then, without a hint of modesty, she pulled a pair of plastic inserts from a bag and slid them, one at a time, into her bra.

I turned away, my cheeks burning.

“Jamie?” asked a bright American voice as she stepped in front of me. “Are you okay?”

She was like textbook jailbait, all curves where there used to be straight lines. I hadn’t registered before that Holmes had perfect posture, but I noticed the absence of it now, as she stood indolently in—dear God, knee socks. The blond wig and makeup lit up her gray eyes, imbuing them with a friendliness that I hadn’t thought they could have. And the look those eyes were giving me was criminal.

“I’m Hailey,” she said, her pronunciation lazy and Californian. “I’m a prospective student? For next year? My mom’s in town but I wanted to, like, see the campus for myself. Is there a party tonight?” She touched my chest with a finger. “Do you want to take me?”

I’d never been so turned off in my life.

I stepped back into her chemistry table. The beakers rattled against each other; one crashed to the floor and shattered. And then there Holmes was again, underneath all the false wrapping, severe and mysterious and . . . pleased.

“Good,” she said, in her usual hoarse voice, rapidly tossing things into a backpack. “If you hate Hailey, she’ll do just fine for my purposes.”

“Which are?”

“Be patient,” she said. “I promise I’ll tell you everything later.” She glanced at the suspects list, at the name at the bottom. August Moriarty. “Everything, Watson. But not now.”

“This is completely unfair,” I pointed out.

“It is.” Holmes smiled to herself. “We can talk more at the poker game tonight. I’ll be there as myself.”

“No one’s going to come. Everyone thinks we’re murderers.”

“Everyone will come,” she said, correctly, “because everyone thinks we’re murderers.”

“Well, you’ll be lucky if I’m there.”

“Yes,” she said simply. “I will be.”

“Fine,” I said, throwing up my hands. Because she’d won, check and mate.

She was already at the door, and, having taken those five steps, she wasn’t Holmes anymore.

With a coy wave over her shoulder, Hailey said, “Bye, Jamie.”

And then I was alone, with nothing to do but sweep up the shards of the beaker from the floor.

I WASN’T SURE IF IT WAS OUR DUBIOUS CELEBRITY, OR JUST brewing excitement for homecoming weekend, but Holmes had been right about the crowd. When I arrived at Stevenson at half past eleven, the basement kitchen was already overflowing with people. Some freshman boys had spun off a satellite game of five-card stud in the common space, and I had to push past a group of giggling girls to get through the kitchen door. Instead of going silent at my presence, the way everyone else did, they giggled louder. Gritting my teeth, I finally got through to the card table at the back.