Moriarty Meets His Match: A Professor & Mrs. Moriarty Mystery (The Professor & Mrs. Moriarty Mystery Series Book 1) (4 page)

“I’m all right.” Moriarty took out his handkerchief and wiped his mouth. He managed a shaky smile. “I’m as anxious as you are to get to the bottom of this.”

“Quite so,” Holmes said. He tucked the glass back into his pocket and drew out a measuring tape. “I notice you have a notebook and pencil at the ready, Professor. Might I impose upon you to jot down a few figures as I call them out?

“Certainly.” The more he could insert himself into this process, the better.

Moriarty made a quick sketch of the general layout, labeling key elements like the table and the boiler. He listed the measurements on a fresh page. Holmes measured everything from the damaged engine out, moving methodically through the booth. He was as agile as a spider and as intent as a bird of prey. Twice Moriarty saw him stoop swiftly, examine something with his magnifying glass, and then tuck the object into his pocket.

Dr. Watson strolled over to engage Inspector Gregson in conversation, apparently to keep him from interfering.

Holmes and Moriarty worked in harmony for several minutes until the stub end of the lead fell out of Moriarty’s projecting pencil. “Blast! A moment, Mr. Holmes, if you will.”

“Watson can take over if you are incapacitated.”

“Not at all.” Moriarty tucked the silver pencil into his breast pocket and withdrew his old wooden standby. “No mathematician is ever caught without a spare pencil.”

Holmes had been on his hands and knees inspecting a slew of brass nuts and bolts. Now he sprang to his feet and turned his full attention toward Moriarty. “Ah, so you’re a mathematician as well as a patent examiner. That explains your title, Professor.”

Moriarty merely smiled. Nettlefield already knew his full academic history. Nothing could be gained by hiding it, nor could its revelation do him any harm.

Holmes bounded to his side, startling him into taking a step back. Holmes leaned toward him, peering intently at the pencil. “May I?”

Moriarty handed it to him, bemused.

Holmes turned the pencil in his long fingers, studying it carefully. “No. 4, made by Waterlow & Sons. I recognize the maker’s mark.” He handed it back. “I’ve written a monograph on the subject of pencil leads. Do you always use this particular model?”

A monograph on pencil leads? Could this man be entirely sane? “I buy them by the dozen,” Moriarty answered. “The lead is hard enough to hold a sharp point, yet soft enough to make a nice dark line.”

“A considered choice.” Holmes grinned, his eyes shining with satisfaction. Moriarty realized with a jolt that the detective must have found the short pencil he’d employed in the indicator, another No. 4 Waterlow & Sons. What other bits of minutiae might point in his direction?

They returned to their task. When they finished, Holmes restored his instruments to his pockets and went over to speak with the doctor and the police inspector. Moriarty watched them, considering his options.

They probably expected him to hand over his notebook and take his leave, but he wanted to know what would be reported to Nettlefield and Teaberry. He couldn’t know if his name had been mentioned in that telegram; his wisest course was to assume it had been. If not, this Sherlock Holmes doubtless knew perfectly well there was no such thing as a Patent Office observer. Moriarty had aroused his suspicions by returning to the exhibit.

A mistake, but running away now would only make things worse. He had misrepresented himself. He had lied by omission, failing to mention the hour he’d spent with Mrs. Gould or his brief, harmless conversation with Mr. Bruffin. And he’d lied about the pencil.

Holmes would probably interview the other members of Nettlefield’s party. Mrs. Gould had no reason to conceal either their shared repast or his story about the indicator. He would never ask a lady to lie for him, in any event. That would only spread the stain of his deception over her innocent hands.

No, he had to see this through himself. He must remain abreast of Holmes’s inquiry, and the best way to accomplish that was to be made an active participant.

He pretended to review his pages of measurements until the inspector walked away and the other gentlemen returned. Then he made his offer. “I could make a fair copy of these notes for you this afternoon, Holmes. I’ll send them to you if you’ll provide me with your address.”

“Watson and I have had a better idea,” Holmes replied. “Would you do us the honor of joining us for supper this evening, Professor? I can promise an adequate meal followed by a rather exceptional port.”

Chapter Four

Angelina found hordes of people still milling outside the Exhibition Galleries. Many wandered through the crowd anxiously calling out names; some clung together weeping; a few seemed to be trying to get back in. The queue for cabs stretched all the way down to Cromwell Road and around the corner. She decided to walk out of the congested area.

And walk she did. She blessed the cobbler who had made her low boots all the way across Hyde Park, then began to curse him when she had to keep on walking, tramping along more hard blocks of pavement through Bayswater to Paddington Station before catching so much as a glimpse of a free cab.

Once at the station, she decided to send a telegram to her dresser, Peg, who must be tearing her hair out with worry, especially if Lady Lucy had made it home in one piece. She found the telegraph office and wrote, “Darling, alive and well. Dashing to Viola’s. Home soon. Love, Lina.” Going back out to the street, she finally found a cab to carry her the remaining distance to St. John’s Wood High Street.

Infuriatingly, an empty hansom cab stood right outside her sister’s building. A boy sat on the seat holding the reins, as indifferent to her and his surroundings as if he had attended an Institute of Idleness and graduated with full marks. No wonder there wasn’t a cab to be had along Exhibition Road!

She paid her fare, alighted, limped across the pavement, and rang the bell at Number Five. The maid let her in. “Madame Angelina,
a bon dieu!
We feared you had been
tout a explosé!
”

“I’m fine, Françoise, thank you.” She followed her up the stairs to her sister’s flat on the first floor. “Be a lamb and bring me something cool to drink?”

The flat had been done up in the latest Aesthetic style. Dutch-blue walls edged with carved plaster friezes provided the dramatic backdrop for a collection of blue-and-white porcelain vases and other expensive Oriental knickknacks. A gleaming grand piano stood in front of tall windows facing the street. Long silk drapes fluttered gently beside the tall front windows, ruffled by the freshening breeze.

Viola Archer had been the most sought-after courtesan in London for three exciting years. Wined and dined by the toniest members of the ton, boxing matches had been fought for her favors. She’d finally accepted the protection of Perry Wilton, Viscount Brockaway, who had established her in these elegant apartments with a generous allowance. Lord Brockaway took his duties as a member of the House of Lords very seriously, especially concerning finance and foreign affairs. When he was in town, which wasn’t often, Viola played hostess to some of Europe’s most important men. When he was away, representing the crown abroad or sustaining the family estates in Wiltshire, Viola let herself go slightly to seed.

She found her sister lounging, as usual, on a blue velvet fainting couch before the marble fireplace. Periodicals littered a wicker table behind the couch, along with soiled handkerchiefs and dirty teacups. She wore a deep pink gown meant to bring out the roses in her cheeks. The rich colors of gown and couch emphasized her angelic complexion as well as the golden hair, the sapphire eyes, and the ruby lips that had won her this life of luxury.

Angelina opened her arms wide and swept across the plush carpet to embrace her sister. “Darling! You look lovely, as always!”

Viola lifted her cheek for a kiss. “You look utterly fagged, Lina. At least you’re still standing. Françoise had it that you’d been blown to bits at the Exhibition and we’d have to wait for the lists of victims to be published in the newspapers to know your fate.”

“Whole and hale, if a trifle exhausted. The park was a madhouse. I had to walk all the way up to Paddington.”

“Walk! I never walk anywhere if I can help it. Well, let’s have a good look at you.” Viola twirled her finger. “Turn, turn! All the way around. Françoise says people were killed by pieces of flying iron.”

Angelina shuddered. “I didn’t see that, thank God. I was too terrified to see anything. I think my hat has suffered, but the rest of me seems to be all right.” She held out her arms and turned slowly in a circle.

Viola clucked her tongue as she came back around. “No harm to your tender person, thank goodness, but your flounces are shredded down one side. Peg will have a fit.”

Angelina twisted, trying to peer at her backside. “Oh dear. They must have caught some of the iron bits. Who thought bustles would ever serve any kind of purpose?” She hadn’t thought to inspect her professor. He might have sustained wounds on his back and manfully kept her from seeing his suffering. She’d have to apologize for her selfishness when she saw him again.

“Sit, Lina, and rest your feet,” Viola said. “Let Françoise bring you something to drink.”

“Anything cool would be heavenly.” Angelina collapsed into an ebony armchair and stretched her weary feet out before her. She wished Peg were here to help her get these boots off.

Viola read her mind. “Does Peg know you’re alive?”

“I sent her a telegram from the station. I couldn’t very well pop in to Cheshire House, give her a kiss, and pop out again. Not after what’s happened.”

The maid brought her a large glass on a tray — lemonade with a generous splash of gin. Perfect. She drank half of it and wiggled her fingers at the maid for a second glass.

Viola said, “I hope you have good news for us today.”

“Not much to report, I’m afraid. Where’s Sebastian? Wasn’t that his cab outside?”

“He should be along any minute.”

Of course. Sebastian was always late, perfectly late. He had the uncanny ability to be the last to arrive while still making his appearance before anything interesting happened.

Angelina picked up a newspaper from the tea table. “Good heavens! When did you start reading
The Economist?
”

“Badger likes for me to be informed. It makes me a more effective hostess for his political soirées. And I must say, I prefer real news to those novels you and Peg devour. I learn all sorts of useful things. In fact, I may have found another way of solving our problem. That odious Teaberry skates awfully close to the limits of the law, puffing up his companies to maximize the initial investments and then closing them on some flimsy pretext — keeping the cash, of course. If you could find something to prove he’s crossed the line —”

The bell downstairs rang. A moment later, the upholstered door opened in a swoop to admit Sebastian Archer, the rapidly rising star of the West End theaters. He was beautifully turned out in morning coat, gray hat, and striped trousers. Sebastian possessed that special, indefinable magic. His teeth were always white, his hair was never rumpled by his hat, and his gloves remained eternally pristine.

“Lina, darling!” He rushed toward her and bent to hug her to his chest, careful not to touch his face to her clothes. He even smelled expensive, of musk and something citrusy. “I was certain you had been killed by flying bits of engine or trampled by the mob. A fellow at my club said more people died in the crush than in the accident itself.”

“It was horrifying.” Gooseflesh rose on Angelina’s neck as she remembered those first harrowing moments. If it hadn’t been for Professor Moriarty’s cool head and strong arms, she would certainly have been among the victims. “Fortunately, I was rescued.”

“Oh?” Sebastian raised a well-shaped brow. He waved Viola’s feet from the end of her couch and sat, sweeping aside the tails of his coat. “By the Honorable Reginald Benton, perhaps?” He shot her a stage wink.

“Hardly. The very
Dis
honorable Mr. Benton thinks only of himself. No, I was saved by a tall, handsome stranger.”

“Oh, Lina!” Viola stabbed a lacquered nail at her. “We do not have time for handsome strangers!”

“Unless they can be useful,” Sebastian said. “Does our stranger have a title, perchance?”

“Alas, no. He’s a mathematician.”

Viola and Sebastian frowned at each other as if deeply impressed. The expressions were adorable on their nearly identical faces. Viola, ten minutes older than her twin, liked to pretend to be his senior by several years. He never minded, being as easygoing as she was fussy. Their mother had died giving birth to them, so Angelina, only six years old at the time, had taken charge of them, with thirteen-year-old Peg’s help. They’d muddled along as best they could.

“Let’s not get sidetracked,” Viola said. “The question is whether or not Lina has found those letters yet. I assume the answer is still no, or she would have said so right off.”

Angelina ignored her tart tone and spoke directly to Sebastian. “I am so sorry, darling. We knew this scheme was next to impossible when we started. I can get myself invited to every fashionable house in town, but I’m never
alone
in them. Certainly not long enough to nip down to the library and ruffle through my host’s correspondence. When I try, the host is more likely to follow me in, thinking I’m playing hide-and-seek. Even at Cheshire House. Every time I step into that room, his lordship comes oozing after me, trying to get his oily hands around my —” She stopped abruptly. Poor Lord Carling would not be much missed, not even by his own family, but his death deserved respect.

“Well, that won’t be a problem anymore,” Viola said, skipping past the social niceties. “Surely you can get in there now. Then we can cross one house off the list.”

Françoise appeared with a silver tray and served another round of drinks: sherry for Viola, a glass of ale for Sebastian, and another gin-and-lemon for Angelina.

“I know how hard it’s been,” Sebastian said. “Sneaking about and worrying when you should be enjoying your social success. You’ve done absolutely brilliantly on that score. I am grateful, you know.”

“I know you are, darling. And you know I’d do anything for you.” She leaned forward and took both of his hands in hers. “But I’m afraid it may be time to cut our losses. We could move to New York, you and I, and start fresh. They have theaters in America too, you know.”

Using what for money, she had no idea. She’d sold the last of her jewelry to set herself up for this scheme. She didn’t even know anyone with enough of the ready to buy their passage. These society nobs had plenty of twinkle with their unsaleable family jewels, but very little crinkle — cash money — in their pocketbooks.

Sebastian had set his jaw against the idea anyway. “Run off and leave Hugh holding the bag? I won’t do it.”

Hugh Flexmere was his lover, and also the son of Sir Joseph Flexmere, third Baronet of Pendley and a cabinet minister involved in foreign affairs. Sir Joseph meant to groom his son for government service, so he often spoke to him about his work. Alas, his son did not share that ambition. Hugh’s great plan was to hang about the clubs in the theater district until some producer picked him up to play the light-brained aristocrat in a comedy. True to the role, Hugh had spilled many of his father’s secrets into Sebastian’s ears.

One night Sebastian had been playing billiards at the Green Room Club with Oscar Teaberry, who promoted plays in addition to his other ventures. Sebastian, showing off, had passed on a juicy tidbit fresh from Sir Joseph’s desk. A few days later, Teaberry sent him a paid-up tailor’s bill with a note suggesting that any other such items would be equally well received. Sebastian — surprised, pleased, and utterly oblivious to the larger implications — wrote back immediately with another tip, signing his name with a flourish. This time, the haberdasher got paid.

Another letter, another gift, and he was trapped. Teaberry had put a ring through his nose and could make him dance whenever he pleased. It wasn’t just the letters. It was the way the information had been obtained. Sebastian and Hugh would go to prison if the full nature of their relationship were made public. Sir Joseph’s career would be destroyed.

Sebastian had tried to get the letters back himself. He and a friend hid in Teaberry’s city offices one evening, planning to search the place after everyone went home. They couldn’t have known that Teaberry’s secretary habitually worked until midnight. He discovered them lurking in the cloakroom and raised the alarm. They’d had to scramble out a second-story window to escape the police. At the club the next night, Teaberry told Sebastian the letters had been safely housed with one of his board members. “You won’t worm your way into a Mayfair house so easily.”

That was when Viola had cabled Angelina in New York, urging her to come back to London and rescue her brother from certain doom. The cable had been followed by a long, anxious letter spinning out every ruinous outcome imaginable. Viola could do very little herself. She was well known in society, but not acknowledged. The same was true for Sebastian. Neither of them could gain entrée into the houses of Teaberry’s board members.

Angelina scrambled to find a godmother in London who could introduce her as an American heiress enjoying a Season abroad. She sold the jewelry given to her by her admirers over the years. That added up to enough for a month or two at Brown’s Hotel, especially with invitations like Lady Lucy’s to stretch her budget. Dresses were the most serious problem. She’d told everyone that her trunks had been misdirected, and all her lovely gowns now languished somewhere off the coast of Argentina.

“Hugh can come with us. I’m sorry, darlings, truly, but what else can we do?”

Sebastian and Viola exchanged glances. Something about the puckish smiles on their pretty faces sent warning shivers running up and down Angelina’s spine. “What have you little demons brewed up for me now?”