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

by Anna Castle

  “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 Dishonorable 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?”

  Viola said, “Sebastian and I met the most interesting fellow the other day. He gave me the seed of an idea. After he dropped us off, we hatched a fresh plan.” She took a sip from her glass. “I’ve done my part. I’ve studied all of Teaberry’s prospectuses and made a list of the front-sheet men. I’ve looked them up in Who’s Who and found where they live, both in town and out. So we know where to look.”

  Angelina started to protest, but Viola held up her hand. “We understand your difficulties. If you’re staying at the Brown, you can’t very well slip down to Lord So-and-So’s library in the wee hours on the pretense of wanting a book. If you’re staying in the house, you’re at the mercy of your hostess and there will probably be other guests, which makes it difficult to find a quiet moment.”

  “Fellows staying up till all hours playing billiards and what not,” Sebastian said. Angelina shot him a quelling glance. “Playing billiards and what not” had caused this trouble in the first place. He shrugged charmingly, knowing he would always be forgiven.

  “And you need money desperately,” Viola said. “You must have more clothes. No self-respecting heiress wears the same dress to the opera twice! It’s being talked about. If it’s talked about enough, you’ll be exposed as a fraud and our whole scheme will c
ollapse.”

  “Then Hugh and I will go to prison, and Sir Joseph will be drummed out of government. And I will never get to play Robinson Crusoe at the Avenue.”

  “Lady Lucy has offered me her —”

  “Absolutely no cast-offs,” Viola said. “What can you be thinking! She should be asking for yours. We must have money or the game will be over. And you must get into those libraries, gather up all the likely books and files, and bring them back here for me to study. The solution is staring us in the face. You simply must become a burglar.”

  Angelina gaped at them. “Become a what?”

  “A nabber,” Sebastian offered helpfully. “A tea leaf. You know: a thief.”

  Chapter Five

  Angelina stared at them. How could they look so angelic and be so devilish? They’d gone barmy, that was the only possible explanation. The strain had gotten to them and they’d gone right off their bloomin’ nuts.

  Viola clucked her tongue. “We’re not daft. I can hear you thinking it. If you break in from the outside and take everything in the library, it will look like the work of ordinary thieves. No one would dream of suspecting the respectable Mrs. Gould. And no one would ever imagine the real target is a bundle of letters. When we fence the valuables, you’ll have plenty of money. You can buy some decent clothes and live in comfort at the Brown all summer.”

  “Fence the valuables? Can you hear yourself?” Angelina spoke slowly, articulating each word. “We are not thieves.”

  The twins shook their heads. Sebastian said, “We’ve picked our share of pockets, working the crowd while the Chairman sang ‘Walking in the Zoo.’”

  They always referred to their father as the Chairman, a nod to his function as the master of ceremonies in the music halls and taverns where they’d grown up. He’d trained them to call him Mr. Buddle when speaking to him directly, to keep the little children from slipping up when he was playing a long game. Sebastian had taken to calling him Archie as he got older, as if he were an older brother. None of them had ever once called him Daddy.

  “You did,” Angelina said, “not me. I had to change costumes.”

  She’d worked her rosy, round backside off in those days, being the principal support of the family. Her father had fancied himself a great impresario, exploiting his attractive children to the nth degree. Angelina had begun performing in the back rooms of pubs at the age of five. The twins took their turns onstage as soon as they could toddle out and take a bow, doing especially well as Angelina and Her Little Angels. Their sweet faces coined money until Sebastian’s voice changed. Then the Chairman devised double acts for them, mostly brief farces larded with innuendo involving short-sighted blighters who couldn’t tell one twin from the other.

  The Chairman had also taught them the arts of the confidence trickster to tide them through the slow seasons. It had been a practical education. Angelina had kept herself and Peg in silk stockings and dime novels for the past ten years on the generosity of gullible gentlemen. And by singing — there were stages everywhere. Sometimes that had been enough.

  The twins watched her mulling over their preposterous plan, four blue eyes twinkling and two sets of rosy lips curved in anticipation. They knew she’d come around; she always did.

  “I’ll admit we’ve tiptoed around the law a time or two,” Angelina said, “but I’ve never done anything I could be sent to jail for. My marks are always panting to hand me their valuables.”

  “Then don’t get caught,” Viola said. “Besides, it doesn’t really count as stealing to take money from these front-sheeters. Their profits are immense. The very week the General Act was signed at the Berlin Conference —” She broke off at the others’ looks of incomprehension and rolled her eyes. “Hugh’s secrets, remember? That’s what they were about: opening Africa up to trade. When and who and where. Enormous profits being passed around like party favors. Thanks to Sebastian’s advance information, Teaberry was able to buy a diamond mine in the Congo Valley for a song. When the news went public, his company sold thousands of shares in a matter of days. They made more than a million pounds!”

  Angelina was stunned. “I had no idea it was so much.” Teaberry would never let Sebastian go, not with stakes that high. He’d bleed him dry and then throw him under a train when he was done.

  “We’d be fleecing the wolves.” Sebastian flashed his irresistible smile. “You’d be like Robin Hood in a Worth gown.”

  “Robin Hood had a band of merry men,” Angelina pointed out. “If you think Peg is going to shinny up and down a drainpipe with a sack of swag over her shoulder, you are badly confused.”

  They all laughed at that image. Peg famously loathed all forms of physical exertion.

  “No one expects Peg to do anything strenuous,” Viola said. “Although we do think she should manage the fencing of the goods.”

  That, at least, made sense. Peg could out-haggle a Cockney fishwife.

  “So just me doing the shinnying, then. After which I hail the first cab and hope the driver fails to notice my little black mask and the clanking silver in my sack?”

  “Trust us to arrange things rather better than that,” Viola snapped. “You won’t need to hail a cab.” She rang her little bell. “Françoise, would you ask the captain to join us now?”

  Captain?

  A man of medium height and about thirty years of age emerged from the back room. He wore the checked coat and trousers of a typical London cabbie but stood with the straight back and squared shoulders of a military man. His ginger moustaches draped almost to his chin. His face was broad and his nose was freckled; not exactly handsome, but likeable at a glance. His hazel eyes held a worshipful glow as he bowed toward Angelina.

  “Miss Lina Lovington.” His voice was hushed with awe. “I never thought I’d be so fortunate as to meet you in the flesh.” Then he blushed from ear to ear, winning Angelina’s heart forever. “I’ve carried your picture next to my breast for years.” He reached into his jacket and drew out a creased and faded photograph card of Angelina and Her Little Angels.

  She remembered that photograph. It had taken them over an hour. Sebastian had been impossible that day, making the Chairman curse and Viola cry. You wouldn’t know it to see the result. They all wore filmy white gowns, Angelina’s revealing the outlines of her fourteen-year-old figure. They had wire halos that pinched like the dickens and pasteboard wings held up by props hidden behind them. The twins turned their innocent gazes up to heaven while Angelina smiled straight at the camera with just the faintest touch of mischief in her smile.

  She laughed out loud. “I haven’t seen one of these in ages. To think of you carrying it around with you!”

  “I wouldn’t part with it for all the tea in India, Miss Lovington. It’s my good-luck charm. It kept me safe in places where — well, where no lady should visit, not even in words.”

  He gazed at her as if blinded by her radiance. Ridiculous, but impossible not to enjoy. Once upon a time, Angelina had taken that expression for granted. As Lovely Little Lina, she’d had daisies thrown in her path as she walked down the street. When she turned twelve and her figure began to change, her father had smoothly transformed her into Miss Lina Lovington. Playing breeches roles and ingénues, she’d sung and danced on half the stages in England. She’d even played La Périchole in Offenbach’s operetta. She and Peg managed to squirrel away enough gifts from her admirers, hiding them from the Chairman’s greedy eyes, to make their escape the week she turned eighteen.

  She’d had to leave the twins behind. She hadn’t known where she was going or what she would do when she got there, but she’d known her options would be far fewer with two children in her train. She’d always regretted it.

  Viola said, “Allow me to do the honors. Captain Sandy, Lina goes by Mrs. Gould these days. Lina, this is Captain Gabriel Sandy, formerly of the Duke of Connaught’s Lancers.”

  “It’s just plain ‘Mister’ now, Miss Loving— er, Mrs. Gould. I stumbled a bit when I left the compa
ny but found my way back into the world of horses. A different part of the world, but still my favorite beasts. I’m a far sight happier with horses than people, as a rule. I own my own hansom cab now and a fine pair of steppers.”

  “An honorable trade, Mr. Sandy. Is that how you met these two rascals?”

  “I had the good fortune to pick them up one night on Drury Lane. You could have knocked me over with a feather, I don’t mind telling you. The Amazing Archers, in my cab!”

  “You don’t mean to tell me that a photograph and a chance meeting are enough to persuade you to participate in this lunacy?”

  “Oh, but I do,” Captain Sandy said. “I owe you three my life.”

  Angelina gaped at him. “How can that be?”

  Sebastian chuckled and reached across Viola to ring the bell. He asked Françoise for another round of drinks, then gestured at a chair. “Sit down, old chap. You’ll have to tell the story again, you know. Secondhand won’t do.”

  The captain tucked his precious photograph back into his pocket and sat on the edge of the chair with his hands on his thighs.

  Drinks were brought and passed around. Angelina looked from Mr. Sandy to Viola to Sebastian and back again to Viola, who was obviously the master of ceremonies in this theater of surprises. “I’m all ears.”

  Captain Sandy laughed as if she’d made a clever joke. “Strictly speaking, it was the photograph that saved my life. The Lancers were sent to Afghanistan; I never fully understood why. Nevertheless, we did our duty. Fierce warriors, the Afghans. They fight like demons during a battle and don’t quit in between. Uncanny marksmen, ever last one of ’em. They can shoot the spots off a goat from a mile away with those jezail rifles of theirs, or so people say. They liked to hide in the rocks above our camps and take potshots at us going about our business. You got used to it, in a horrible sort of way, like bad weather.