by Anna Castle
Angelina poured a dollop of milk into each cup and handed his across. He held it under his nose, closing his eyes while he inhaled the soothing fragrance. She lifted her own cup and blew across the tea to cool it. They shared a long moment of silence, peaceful even with muted cries still echoing from the glass ceiling thirty feet overhead. Then, without a word, they began devouring buns and downing hot tea as if they’d just hiked across the Alps on short rations. They finished everything she’d brought in minutes. The professor eyed the empty plate regretfully.
“There are more buns,” Angelina said. “Lots. I’ll refill the pot while I’m at it.”
He was standing with his hand on the back of her chair before she had kicked aside her skirts and gained her feet. A cool head and quick wits. Careful, Lina! This is no dim-witted society swell.
She returned with two more pots of tea and a plate piled high with sandwiches, roast beef with cheddar and watercress with cream cheese. He rose again to hold her chair, then sat and began to eat beef sandwiches. She nibbled at her cheese and cress, watching him from under the fringe of her lashes.
He ate steadily but without haste, like a man taking a customary meal before catching his daily train. This Professor Moriarty created calm from chaos by his very nature. Yet he was so unassuming in appearance — apart from his height — that she would have walked past him at a party or on the street without a second glance.
But she’d always had a weakness for that combination of a bald head and lush lashes. It signaled maturity tempered by a touch of sweetness. He couldn’t be much older than she was, judging by his youthful vigor; surely not more than thirty-five. The perfect age for a woman on the brink of that important boundary. She’d be thirty in one month, though she wouldn’t confess that dire fact to anyone but her dresser.
The professor probably thought of himself as stoic and unrevealing, but his brown eyes betrayed his feelings. They’d burned with loathing at Lord Nettlefield, glinted with disdain at Reginald Benton, and twinkled with amusement at Lady Lucy. When he looked at her, she caught the expected flash of admiration along with a shadow of sadness. Not a hint of flirtation, not even when she’d flirted first. She’d bet a tanner he didn’t know how the game was played.
He wore one of those school ties, striped in green, blue, and white. Gentlemen cared about such things, so she’d conned her ties. His meant Rugby, which suggested one of the lesser toffs; titled nobs went to Eton or Harrow. This man’s father was most likely a vicar with a private income or a barrister with a lucrative practice.
His neatly trimmed moustache ended in the whisper of a curl on either side. A touch of vanity, she liked to see that in a man. Vanity gave her an edge, something to work with. His nails were freshly manicured, but his cuff links didn’t match. Bless the lamb! No manservant, then, to air the smoke from his jacket and do up his cuffs. His long fingers were free of rings — no wife either. Her professor was a bachelor.
Good. That meant he’d be free in the evenings.
He wasn’t handsome in a conventional way, but she liked his way better. The high dome of his forehead bespoke a formidable intellect. She could imagine him working late into the night, solitary under a single lamp, his pencil racing across pages of calculations.
But his body was so well framed, lean muscles flexing under the well-cut suit. She vividly remembered the sensation of his iron arms pulling her close against his oak-hard chest. Mathematics hadn’t sculpted that physique. And there was something about the negligent grace of his posture that made her wonder how fast he could calculate with her sitting on his lap, feathering kisses up his neck.
He looked up from his plate and met her gaze, catching a most unladylike spark in her eyes. He blinked twice. His lips curled in a puzzled smile. She could see the gears start to turn in his powerful brain. Before they could mesh, she asked, “What was supposed to happen?”
Two more blinks. She’d caught him flat-footed. Even so, he didn’t stammer and say, Happen? What the dickens do you mean? He knew what he’d said and had too much integrity to pretend otherwise.
“Ah.” He dabbed at his moustache with his napkin. “I only meant to teach Lord Nettlefield a little lesson. An old conflict. Nonsense, really. You’d think we were back in fifth form.” He paused. “May I ask how well you are acquainted with the viscount’s family?”
“Hardly at all.” She put a note of distaste into her voice and got a gleam of approval. “His lordship’s aunt, Lady Rochford, has been kind enough to introduce me into London society. She was a friend of my mother’s, you see, and when I wrote to her to tell her about poor Victor — he died almost a year ago, and I was so longing for a change of scenery — she suggested I come to London for the Season.”
“I see,” he said.
She had to press her lips together to keep from grinning at the echo. This fish wanted to jump into her boat, so long as she didn’t scare him.
He asked, “Did your mother spend many years in England?”
“Oh! My mother was English; didn’t I say that? I am too, or rather, I was born here. I’ve spent so many years abroad I’ve quite lost touch with my native land, and of course my parents are long gone.” She lowered her eyes in respect for the dear departed — at least for her mother. As far as she knew, dear old Dad was still alive and up to his old tricks somewhere in the East End.
“Well,” the professor said gravely, “America’s loss is our gain.”
“You are so kind.” She patted his hand lightly. “Everyone has been so kind. I’ve had the loveliest time! Until today, of course.” She bit her lower lip. “I do hope Lady Lucy and the others got home safely.”
“I didn’t see them,” the professor said, “but I have confidence in Mr. Ramsay’s abilities.”
They traded knowing looks. Lord Nettlefield and son had undoubtedly saved only themselves. “Now you must finish your story, Professor. What lesson did you mean to teach?”
“Ah, yes. It seems a trivial matter now. That engine obviously had much greater flaws than excessive fuel consumption. The patent application came across my desk, naturally. When I noticed Nettlefield’s name on the prospectus, I’ll confess I gave it extra scrutiny.”
“Why?”
“To put it bluntly, I know the man to be capable of cutting corners, whether intentionally or not. With Nettlefield, one never knows if ignorance or cupidity is the driving impetus.”
Angelina had to repeat those words in her mind. Then she laughed. “Whether he’s stupid or greedy, you mean. How elegant you make it sound!”
Moriarty chuckled. “Please forgive me. I suppose can be a little pompous. I suspected both qualities were in play when I saw the advertisement in the Exhibition catalog. The patent application documented a proper complement of indicators, but some of these were clearly missing from the illustration in the catalog. The company had deliberately omitted essential information about their engine; Nettlefield, again, up to his old tricks.”
“I believe Oscar Teaberry is the company director.”
“Is he? I thought him merely a promoter. He dresses the part.” Moriarty gave her one of his penetrating looks, remembering those crossed fingers. What devil had possessed her?
She brushed an invisible crumb from her blouse, diverting his gaze. Then she met his eyes with an expression of interest. “There was an indicator though. You took special care to explain it to us.”
“Yes, there was. I installed it myself.”
“How? Or should I ask, when?”
“Both questions are appropriate. And now, I fear, we embark upon the shameful portion of my tale. I bought a parallel motion indicator from Elliott Brothers, tucked the necessary tools into my pockets, and entered the hall last night under a false pretext. It didn’t take long. My primary intention was to prevent potential investors from wasting their hard-earned money.” Moriarty shook his head and frowned. “Actually, no. My primary intention was to embarrass Lord Nettlefield. A childish prank. I placed everyone at risk an
d may have caused a man’s death. I can only imagine what you must think of me.”
She estimated that he’d told her about half the truth. For one thing, he hadn’t explained the “old grudge” against Lord Nettlefield. But her story had been a good three-quarters poppycock, and fair was fair. She’d get the rest out of him another time.
“That doesn’t sound so terrible to me,” Angelina said. “All you did was restore a missing part. Can an indicator make the engine blow up? Don’t they need them to make sure their machine is working properly?”
“Yes, they do. And no, it shouldn’t alter the engine’s functions. In fact, it would be useless if it did.”
“Then the explosion couldn’t have been your fault.”
He frowned, not convinced. “I might have loosened a bolt or crimped a valve. I couldn’t positively swear that I didn’t. If I caused that accident by my foolery, I must take full responsibility. I must inform the authorities of my actions.”
The police! Had he gone right off his onion? “Oh no, Professor! You mustn’t. They’ll tie you up for days with questioning, at the very least.”
“But I must know. How can I live with myself?” His eyes were bleak. “Wondering if my conceit led to the violent death of an innocent man?”
His searing self-reproach nagged at her conscience. All this for an indicator? What would she find if she looked into her own heart with such ruthless candor?
Probably nothing but a string of fake pearls and an empty box of chocolates.
“Couldn’t you find out for yourself if you went back and looked?”
“I suppose I could try.” He sipped his tea while he considered it. Then he smiled at her. “Thank you for the suggestion, Mrs. Gould. I shall make the attempt. After I escort you home, of course.”
She couldn’t let that happen, not today. She couldn’t go back to the Carling household now; she would never get away again. She wondered if Lady Lucy would even want her to stay after her stepfather had died so publically and so shockingly. Lady Carling would surely ask her to depart as soon as could be arranged. Lucy’s invitation to stay with her had been such a lucky stroke.
On the other hand, they might want her to stay and help with things. There would be a raft of cards and flowers and so forth. She could make herself useful and worm her way further into the bosom of the recently departed earl’s family.
Well, she’d worry about that later. She’d have to go straight on to the meeting at her sister’s flat now. The twins would be worrying about her if they’d heard the news of the explosion. She couldn’t introduce the professor to her family today, regardless. That would be ticklish under ordinary circumstances, her family being what it was. It was out of the question in the current crisis, especially while he was cackling on about talking to the authorities.
She laid her gloved hand on his arm. “That is so terribly kind of you, Professor, but it really isn’t necessary. I’ll simply pop myself into a cab.” She raised a finger to forestall his objection. “No, now, I won’t hear of it. They might clear everything away before you could return, and you’ll have no peace until you reassure yourself. But you must promise to call and tell me what you discover. I’m staying with Lady Lucy at Cheshire House in Mayfair. I’ll be in the most dreadful suspense until I hear from you.” Angelina leaned toward him, widening her eyes and parting her lips just a trifle.
“I’ll find you,” the professor said. “I promise.”
She had no doubt that he was the kind of man who kept his promises. She beamed at him. She’d landed a brilliant, resourceful ally with one wink and a few cups of tea. It didn’t hurt that he was also tall and strong and had dreamy eyelashes.
Now if she could only figure out what to do with him.
Chapter Three
A police constable appeared at the far end of the dining hall and strode toward them. “What are you two doing here? All persons must evacuate the premises. Don’t you know there’s been a serious accident?”
Moriarty explained how they had found refuge in this quiet corner. He handed Mrs. Gould into the constable’s care and watched them walk away, fixing her image in his memory. He was glad she’d made him promise to call on her; otherwise, he never would have. Society ladies were hardly within his sphere. He left a few shillings on the table to pay for their meal and returned to the exhibit.
He spotted two more constables standing guard outside the railing and decided to go farther up the service way and return from the direction of the main entrance. The central walkway was a shambles, strewn with flotsam and jetsam like catalogs, ribbons, even the odd shoe. The iron railing opposite the engine exhibit had been bent inward, its stanchions now tilting at hazardous angles.
Lord Carling’s body had been removed. Mr. Bruffin had also gone, taken to the nearest hospital, he hoped. Drawing a small notebook from his pocket, Moriarty marched briskly up to the nearest guard.
“Good morning, Constable.”
He ducked under the railing and proceeded to the table, his gaze sweeping across the scene. He smelled wet ash and the lingering stench of panic. The spherical chamber of the engine had shattered completely, blowing shards of gray iron all about the booth. The main shaft remained in one piece, though it had broken free of its connections. Water puddled on and around the table and soaked the draperies behind it. Water and something thicker.
Moriarty shuddered. No need to linger on that aspect.
“Here, now.” One of the constables moved toward him, shaking his finger. “You can’t go up there. This whole area’s restricted.”
“I’m with the Patent Office.”
“Oh. I beg your pardon, sir.” The man returned to his post, with an air of guarding him now as well as the engine.
Moriarty bit back a laugh. He’d had no idea that his place of employment carried such weight. He touched the boiler gingerly — only slightly warm. He drew out his watch and checked the time: 11:42. Great Scott! He’d sat drinking tea with Mrs. Gould for the better part of an hour. Some official would surely be coming soon to inspect the situation. He’d best get busy.
But busy doing what? He regarded the scene with dismay. How could he possibly identify the cause of the explosion in this chaos of destruction?
He opened the notebook, drew his pencil from its case, and noted the time at the top of the page. He had to do something to keep the constables from asking questions. He began to examine the main shaft, trying to locate the points at which he had attached his indicator, but his attention was diverted by a trio of men making their way up the corridor.
First came a blond man in a greatcoat and bowler hat. He strode directly toward the two constables, who greeted him deferentially. The second newcomer wore an Ulster coat and a short-crowned topper. He stopped every few paces to study the area around him, as if memorizing details. The third man, wearing a black frock coat and silk hat, followed him at a little distance, strolling patiently with his hands behind his back, for all the world like a country gentleman out walking with an inquisitive hound.
The first man turned now to frown at Moriarty. “Inspector Gregson, Scotland Yard. I’m in charge of this situation. They tell me you’re from the Patent Office.”
Moriarty had no choice but to brazen it out. He sniffed officiously. “It’s about time, Inspector. I am Professor James Moriarty, Assistant Patent Examiner. I approved the patent for this engine. As you can see, I’ve begun without you.” He displayed his notebook and pencil.
The man in the Ulster coat slipped under the railing. “The Patent Office, eh? Very diligent of you.” He subjected Moriarty to the same focused scrutiny he’d employed while walking.
Moriarty returned the favor. They stood eye to eye, so the other man must be a little over six feet tall. His lean figure seemed animated with barely contained energy. His dark eyes glittered with intelligence. His face was clean shaven and sharply sculpted, with a square chin and a hawk-like nose.
“Allow me to introduce myself.” He held out a hand,
showing oddly colored stains on his long fingers. His grip was firm, but not aggressive. “I am Sherlock Holmes, consulting detective. This is my associate, Dr. John Watson.” He gestured toward the man in the top hat. “We happened to be at Scotland Yard when the news of this disaster arrived. I was interviewing an inspector who frequents the Isle of Dogs about shipping schedules. The better I understand the commonplace, the more swiftly I can home in on the extraordinary.”
Dr. Watson struggled stiffly under the railing to join them. He pulled a notebook and pen from his pocket and wrote, murmuring his friend’s words under his breath. He was some sort of assistant, then, in spite of his title.
Moriarty had never heard of a consulting detective. It sounded like a puffed-up term for a private inquiry agent.
Holmes continued, “Inspector Gregson here is worried about the possible involvement of Irish terrorists in this incident. He asked me to come along and have a look.”
“Terrorists!” That idea had never entered Moriarty’s mind. “Is that likely?”
“Not probable, but possible,” Holmes said. “If I were a terrorist, this is precisely the opportunity I should choose. Opening day at an International Exhibition would provide the maximum degree of public disruption and strike a blow at our national pride in the presence of throngs of foreign visitors.”
Dr. Watson spoke for the first time. “Thomas Cook’s tours alone bring in some thousands every day.”
“There you are, Professor — Moriarty, was it? Terrorists, however, demand recognition. Since no one has claimed responsibility for this incident, I believe we can safely retire that theory.”
“I’m glad to hear it,” Moriarty said, but the talkative fellow had not finished.
“I also have a private client,” Holmes went on. “As we were leaving the Yard, a runner brought me an urgent message from Mr. Oscar Teaberry, whose company is promoting this engine. The victim, Lord Carling, was a member of his board. Another member was also present at the time.”
