Moriarty Meets His Match: A Professor & Mrs. Moriarty Mystery (The Professor & Mrs. Moriarty Mystery Series Book 1) (10 page)

Angelina took his lantern and held it while he knelt before the safe. Zeke came over to watch. Sandy twirled the dial a few times, then dialed in the three numbers. The lock clicked and he swung open the door. They knelt together to view the contents.

Silence fell as they stared into the nearly empty metal cavern. A stack of engraved documents, a smaller stack of currency notes, and a carved sandalwood box — that was all.

“No letters,” Angelina said mournfully.

Sandy gave her a sympathetic smile. “With such poor pickings, perhaps it’s just as well. The next house is bound to be better.”

“Couldn’t be worse,” Zeke said. He grabbed the stack of notes and counted them. “One ’undred and forty and no change.” He stuffed the money in his pocket. “Won’t go far, especially not wiv your young lady takin’ an extra bite.”

Sandy lifted out the engraved pages. “These look like stock certificates.” He leafed through them. “Most of them seem to be from American silver mines.”

Angelina rolled her eyes. “That explains the lack of silver: he’s gone broke. Most of those mines played out early or were never there in the first place. Might as well leave them.”

“They don’t weigh much,” Sandy said. “We should let Miss Archer have a look at them. Have you ever heard of a place called Comstock?”

Angelina blinked and turned back. “Those are worth a fortune, if they’re real.”

“Wot’s in ’ere?” Zeke dove halfway into the safe to fetch the wooden box. He removed the lid and said, “Pearlies! That’s somefink!”

The box held nothing but a single strand of pearls — a long strand, but with suspiciously regular, evenly colored white pearls strung along it.

“Let me see those.” Angelina took the strand and ran it through her fingers. All round, all glossy white. “Hold that lantern for me, would you, darling?”

Zeke obliged by shining his light directly on the strand. Daylight worked better, but even in the yellow glow of the candle, Angelina could see that the luster was weak and there was no trace of the overglow that made real pearls so fascinating.

She performed the final test, baring her teeth and running the strand over them. She clucked her tongue and tossed them back into their box. “That colonel is truly a scoundrel. Even his wife’s pearls are fake!”

Chapter Ten

On Sunday morning, James Moriarty received the telegram he’d been waiting for all week. Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson would call for him in a carriage at one o’clock that afternoon to drive out to Millwall to visit Mr. Bruffin, the engineer. He looked forward to the excursion like a school treat. He’d never visited an engineer’s workshop before and for all his bluster, Holmes was a highly intelligent man who asked intriguing questions. The afternoon promised to be enlightening on all counts.

Moriarty had spent the last week going about his regular routine, half expecting to hear constables pounding at the door of his Bayswater flat or to find a Scotland Yard inspector waiting at the Patent Office. But he’d had no communications of any kind regarding the events at the Exhibition. He could almost believe his role in those events had been forgotten, but he knew neither Holmes nor Nettlefield would let him go so easily. The piper must be paid and today was reckoning day.

The coach arrived punctually. Moriarty climbed in and greeted his fellow travelers. As they clattered across the metropolis, Holmes entertained them with a running account of the precincts through which they passed. His knowledge of London rivaled that of a senior cabman, if one with a morbid fascination for the more unsavory aspects of urban life.

Watson laughed out loud after one anecdote drew a frown on Moriarty’s face. “You must forgive my friend, Professor. His knowledge is profound, but narrowly focused. He can give you the details of every murder committed in a given parish while never mentioning the more salubrious fact that a famous poet once lived there as well.”

Holmes smiled equably. “Poetry will not help me bring a murderer to justice.”

“You are a specialist,” Moriarty said. “It’s only natural to view the world in terms of your domain of expertise.”

“You see, Watson? Some men comprehend my singularity of attention.”

They arrived at length in Millwall, a respectable working-class neighborhood east of the Isle of Dogs. Holmes informed them that the area was favored by artisans and engineers whose skills were in demand in the nearby dockyards. The coachman stopped before a trim house at the end of a side road. They descended and Watson paid the driver. Holmes collected a large box from the boot. “What’s left of the engine,” he said. Moriarty hastened to grab the other handle and they carried it between them up the path.

Watson knocked on the green front door. It was opened after a short wait by a small girl clutching a toy train by one wheel. Her severe expression suggested they had interrupted her in some vital repair. Moriarty observed a wrench in her other hand and smiled. Truly the daughter of an engineer.

Watson introduced himself and told her they had come by invitation to speak with her father.

“I know that,” she answered tartly. Without another word, she led them in single file straight through the house, out the back door, and across the garden to a workshop where smoke rose from a tall chimney. Its wide double doors stood open. The girl gestured toward her father, who stood on the threshold, and returned to the house.

“Welcome, gentlemen! I’m Ross Bruffin. Forgive me for not offering you my hand.” He raised his arms to display his bandages. His wrists and palms were well wrapped, leaving only his fingertips free. He ushered them into the workshop, directing them to set the box on a scarred worktable in the full light of the open doors.

The shop was crowded with tools, spare parts, and engines of various kinds in various stages of construction, but all seemed logically organized. Wrenches hung on one wall in order of size, gears on another with similar precision. Tall cabinets with labeled drawers undoubtedly held an assortment of bolts, screws, and other fittings. Two young assistants sat by the fireplace at the back, cleaning machine parts with greasy rags. Moriarty noticed the bright red hair spilling out from under their caps; Bruffin’s sons, no doubt, learning their father’s trade.

Holmes performed the introductions. Bruffin cocked his head at Moriarty with a quizzical smile. “You’re the gentleman from the Patent Office.”

Holmes chuckled. “Professor Moriarty is assisting me in my inquiries. He has been present at all the critical junctures and knows a fair bit about engines, so I recruited him as an expert consultant.”

All
the critical junctures? How many had there been?

Moriarty said, “I’m happy to help in any way I can.” He wanted a conclusive explanation of how that engine could have failed so dramatically. He’d replayed his actions in his mind, attaching the indicator again and again. Each bolt, each valve, each narrow pipe. Could he have tightened the wrong thing or loosened something else? He thought not, but couldn’t bring himself to certainty.

Bruffin grinned nervously, plucking at the bandage on his left hand. “I do hope we can sort this to the company’s satisfaction, Mr. Holmes. This was a big chance for me. Lord Nettlefield and Mr. Teaberry even allowed me to purchase a share in the profits. I had so much confidence in my engine, I’m afraid I rather —” He broke off with a glance toward the lads at the rear of the shop.

The implication was clear: Bruffin had risked the family fortunes on this venture and faced hard times if his engine were proved to be at fault.

Holmes rubbed his hands together briskly. “Then the sooner we get to the bottom of this business, the better. Certain knowledge is better than anxious doubt, eh, Professor?”

Why ask him specifically? Moriarty knew his doubts would not appear on his face. He had learned to maintain a stoic countenance at his father’s knee and had been renowned for it in college. On the other hand, both Sherlock Holmes and Mrs. Gould seemed able to read him like a freshly printed newspaper.

“Is that my engine, then?” Bruffin waved at the box on the table. “Or what’s left of it?”

“It is,” Holmes said. “And we can examine the remains in detail if you wish. But first, I wonder if you could identify this piece. I found it on the floor near the table. It doesn’t seem to match the other materials.”

He held out a flat circle of burnished black metal about three inches in diameter. Bruffin took it gingerly from his hand and turned it to view both sides. “This was certainly not part of my engine.” He frowned, drawing down the points of his red moustache nearly to his collar. “This is steel, to be sure, but it’s hammered, not cast.”

“Hammered?” Moriarty held out his hand for the piece and took it to the threshold of the door to inspect it in full light. “By gad, you’re right! Look, you can see the faint impress of the tool. Barely visible when viewed straight on.”

He handed it to Watson, who performed the same visual tests. “Could it be from someone’s belt buckle?” Watson asked. “Or a lady’s reticule?”

“Too large,” Holmes said. “And note the small holes around the edge. They wouldn’t serve either of those purposes.” He retrieved the piece of metal and held it up for them all to see.

“D’ye know,” Bruffin said, “that wee bit looks about the same size and shape of my sensor plate.” He went to the box and fumbled at the lid with his bandaged hands. He called to the back of the shop. “Could you lend me a hand, dearest?”

The taller boy came forward to assist him. As he approached, Moriarty realized with a start that the lad was in actuality a pretty young woman wearing coveralls and a rough cap. The spray of freckles on her cheeks were smudged with grease. She smiled shyly at the men and dropped an awkward curtsy as her husband introduced her. “My wife, Effie.”

Holmes affected to be unsurprised, but Watson crowed with delight. “The perfect helpmate for an engineer!” He tipped his hat to her. “May I be so fortunate in my future spouse!”

Moriarty had a vision of Mrs. Gould sitting beside him in the evening, sharpening pencils while he worked out a mathematical proof. He shook the fanciful image from his head. She would be bored to tears and nagging to go to the theater. He had always known himself to be a bachelor born.

The Bruffins opened the box and removed its contents together, sorting pieces neatly across the tabletop as they went. Holmes watched the process with his usual intense focus. When they finished, Mrs. Bruffin went back to her work. Her husband turned to his guests and said, “It’s as I feared, Mr. Holmes. My plate’s not here. Someone must have switched it out.”

“Great Caesar,” Moriarty said, “that explains it!” Relief coursed through him like a tonic.

Holmes’s head snapped around. “Explains what, Professor?”

Moriarty raised his eyebrows at Bruffin, who answered. “You see, Mr. Holmes, Dr. Watson, the sensor plate is one of the crucial safety elements on a steam engine. It must be thin and flexible so it can rise up with increasing pressure and sink down when the pressure is relieved. If too much pressure builds up under it, the plate rises far enough to trigger a safety valve, which releases the excess steam.”

“Thus preventing an explosion.” Holmes’s eyes shone with excitement. “This plate in my hand is too thick, I’ll wager.” He tested it with his strong fingers. “Yes, it’s quite rigid. Devilishly clever, Watson. This piece of iron could not have found its way into so critical a position by accident.” He flourished the piece of steel. “When I find the source of this false plate, gentlemen, have no doubt that I shall find our saboteur.”

Moriarty said, “I’m surprised the engine didn’t blow right apart, sending pieces flying everywhere like shrapnel rather than expending the steam in only one direction.”

“Och, and so it should have,” Bruffin said. “He must have punched a hole near the lever and plugged it with a mite o’ something.” He moved to stand beside the table with his bandaged hands held up, as if to remind himself not to touch things, and studied the engine fragments. “Nae, I’ll no’ find it now. It would have gone first thing.” He frowned sadly and sat himself on a low stool. “I canna ken how some fiend could do such a terrible thing to my beautiful engine.”

Moriarty found it incredible as well. He supposed they were finished here; he was, at any rate. He needn’t go chasing around the city searching for the source of that hammered steel plate. He started to bid the engineer good-bye, but Holmes cut him off.

“That’s very convincing, Mr. Bruffin.” The detective spoke in crisp tones. “Or I should say, almost convincing. But the fact remains that you are the only person with sufficient time and skill to replace that sensor plate.”

“What?” Bruffin blinked up at him, plainly confused by the sudden accusation.

“I say, Holmes,” Moriarty began, but the detective ran right over him.

Holmes stood in front of the engineer, using his height to loom over him with his hands on his hips. “I can think of two reasons for your heartless charade, Mr. Bruffin. Either you intended to defraud Mr. Teaberry from the start, causing an explosion at the last moment to prevent your engine’s shortcomings from being revealed, or you’ve been paid by a rival corporation to discredit Teaberry and Company in the most dramatic fashion imaginable. Which was it?”

The poor Scotsman cowered on his stool, raising his pitiful bandaged hands in futile self-defense.

“No answer, Mr. Bruffin?” Holmes barked. “Perhaps we should take you —”

Moriarty couldn’t allow this to go any further. “Enough, Holmes! Leave him be! The man is innocent.”

Holmes whirled around to face him. “How do you know that, Professor?”

Their eyes locked. As a smile spread across the detective’s face, Moriarty realized that the aggressive interrogation had been staged for his benefit. Holmes knew he’d tampered with the engine.

Moriarty nodded. “I suppose some guard recognized my description. You’re very persistent, Mr. Holmes.”

Holmes pulled up a stool across the table from the engineer and sat, gesturing his friend toward another one. “Sit, Watson. I believe the professor has a confession to make.”

Moriarty took a stool himself. “A dashed silly prank, really. I’ve no excuse for waiting so long to tell you other than simple embarrassment.”

“You’re the one who added that consumption indicator,” Bruffin said.

“I am.” Moriarty met Bruffin’s gaze. “And I wholeheartedly apologize for any trouble it has caused you. I’ve been worried sick that I might have inadvertently caused that explosion. You can imagine how relieved I am to learn that’s not the case. Even so, if I could help with your medical expenses —”

“That won’t be necessary.” Bruffin’s jaw squared with injured pride. “I would have left the indicator on myself, but Mr. Teaberry thought it would confuse the public. ‘It makes it look cluttered,’ he said. ‘Let’s leave the details to the experts.’”

“Then the indicator did not contribute to the explosion?” Holmes asked.

“Och, nae,” Bruffin said. “’Tis a poor indicator that changes how an engine works.” He smiled tightly at the detective. “I’m as relieved as the professor to learn about that false sensor plate. I’ve been over and over yon engine in my mind, examining every bolt and valve. I wanted to run a full test the morning before we opened the exhibit, but Lord Nettlefield wouldn’t hear of it. He even sent his secretary after me on my way out the night before to tell me to go home, get a good night’s rest, and not come back till right before the hour, wearing my Sunday best with my hands scrubbed clean.”

“It’s as well for you and your charming family that you obeyed those instructions,” Holmes said. “Or you would doubtless have met Lord Carling’s fate.”