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

by Anna Castle

“Now that is purest guesswork!” Moriarty cried. Surely he couldn’t be that transparent.

  “Not at all,” Holmes answered smugly. “Whenever you mention the lady, your eyes soften and your brow smooths, as if recalling a vista of particular delight. Faces can be read quite accurately by a skilled observer. I learned many refinements of the art from an expert, an old East End confidence trickster named Archie Buddle.”

  Watson said, “I don’t believe you’ve ever mentioned this Buddle.”

  “Haven’t I? You must remind me of him next time we’re fogged in. We’ll fill up one of your notebooks.” Returning to Moriarty, he asked, “Was Mrs. Gould a member of Lord Nettlefield’s party?”

  Dr. Watson answered this time. “My dear Holmes, she’s the sensation of the Season. The society pages are full of her. Mrs. Angelina Gould, lately of the New Mexico Territory in the American West. Widow of a mining speculator — a cousin of John Jay Gould, the Railroad King. Gossip has it she’s come to our fair shores in search of a titled husband.”

  “Once again,” Holmes said, beaming at his friend, “we are enriched by your predilection for the society columns. Perhaps we should pay a call on this sensation while we have the excuse. Is she staying in Lord Nettlefield’s house?”

  “No,” Moriarty said. “She’s with Lord Carling’s family at Cheshire House.”

  Watson chuckled. “Let’s hope she doesn’t disappear, leaving only a smile.”

  Holmes and Moriarty stared at him in mutual incomprehension. He rolled his eyes. “Philistines.”

  “I must say, I am glad to have that out in the open.” Moriarty chuckled ruefully. “I didn’t like withholding information, but there was a lady involved. One has an obligation.”

  “Crime is no respecter of gender.” Holmes’s eyes glittered as if he’d won a contest. He tapped out his pipe in a crystal candy dish and rose to refill it. While he was up, he refilled their glasses as well, then returned to his seat. “No discrepancy, however small, can be allowed to remain unresolved. A precise understanding of the timing of events may be critical to the solution of our puzzle. Toward that end, I asked Inspector Gregson to interview the guards and other personnel and draw up a schedule.”

  He picked up a sheet of paper and glanced over it. “The period of interest begins at roughly three o’clock yesterday afternoon, when the engine was delivered, accompanied by its inventor. If the sabotage occurred before that time, only Mr. Bruffin could have done the deed. Engineer and engine waited, impatiently, one supposes, outside the goods entrance for the better part of an hour. The Exhibition staff were behind in nearly every aspect of their work.”

  “Typical of large undertakings,” Watson put in.

  “Just so,” Holmes said. “Mr. Bruffin was admitted to his booth shortly before four o’clock. He supervised two workmen as they set the machine in its place, installed the boiler, and brought in coal and water for the demonstrations. These were placed under the table, ready for use. The guard’s logbook noted the arrival of Lord Nettlefield with his secretary at 4:30. They left the hall at 5:42. The guard had no information as to how they occupied their time. The next morning, opening day, the engineer arrived at 8:30 sharp to light the fire in the boiler. Our friend, Professor James Moriarty, presented his ticket at 9:43.”

  Moriarty acknowledged the accuracy of that report with a nod, congratulating himself for the impulse that had led him to give a false name the night before.

  Holmes continued. “Lord Nettlefield returned with his guests at 9:30. Oscar Teaberry arrived soon after, at 9:35. Lord Carling and secretary came through the front gate at 10:07. The explosion occurred at 10:18.” Holmes swiveled to face Moriarty. “Do you have anything to add, Professor?”

  If he were ever going to confess his actions, this was the moment. But Moriarty had no desire to expose his history with Lord Nettlefield to Holmes’s intrusive examination. If the full truth were known, it would supply a powerful motive for performing exactly the sort of sabotage Holmes and the company suspected. Nettlefield must realize he’d had something to do with replacing the indicator; certainly he knew it had not been in place the evening before. His lordship might have directed Holmes to focus his attentions on Moriarty.

  The detective did not seem at all amenable to any such directions, but he did seem to find Moriarty challenging on a personal level. Moriarty recognized the stance from many scholarly disputes with brilliant men who were always quick to defend their own presumably superior intelligence. Holmes had latched on to him as an opponent worth testing from the start.

  Too much time had passed. Heaven only knew what Holmes had been reading on his face while he considered his options. “I’ve been trying to remember if I saw anything at all unusual as I entered the Steam Engines and Boilers exhibit, but I’m afraid all I can remember is a large German party I had to wade through. There really was the most fearful crush.”

  “The papers reported a record attendance,” Watson said.

  Moriarty nodded his agreement. “I’m certain the hall was too crowded for anyone to tamper with that engine without being observed by a dozen curious onlookers.”

  “Apart from the engineer,” Holmes said, “who arrived before the general public was admitted. He could do as pleased even after. People would assume he was doing his job.”

  Watson said, “I don’t believe an engineer would deliberately sabotage his own engine.”

  “Nor do I,” Moriarty said. Bruffin had shown some chagrin about the indicator, as if he’d been glad to see it restored. He’d been quite candid about his engine’s shortcomings as well. He’d suffered enough from Moriarty’s carelessness, if that had indeed been the cause of the explosion. The man didn’t need this aggressive sleuth-hound on his trail.

  “I can think of several reasons for a man to perform such an act,” Holmes said. He leaned back in his chair, long legs crossed, with the air of man playing devil’s advocate.

  Moriarty shook his head. “No, I can’t see it. Bruffin’s reputation will be damaged to some degree at least. This incident may cause irreparable harm to his career.”

  “I’m thinking about his injuries,” Watson said. “He took quite a risk, leaping forward in his vain attempt to save Lord Carling. Nasty things, burns. Very dangerous. He could have avoided them had he planned the explosion, by positioning himself farther away.”

  “Excellent points, gentlemen,” Holmes said, “but I will reserve judgment until we have more facts on the table.”

  “What is your next step, may I ask?” Moriarty leaned forward to tap the long ash from his cigar. “Will you focus your attentions on persons with a motive to discredit Mr. Teaberry’s company?”

  “Motives can be inscrutable,” Holmes replied. “I prefer tangible evidence. Evidence will tell me how the engine was altered; that, in turn, will tell me who effected the alteration. Once I know who, the question of why will answer itself.”

  “I see,” Moriarty said. “Then are you convinced this was a deliberate act of sabotage?”

  “We have three possibilities.” Holmes counted them out on his long fingers. “Accident, negligent homicide, or murder.”

  “Murder!” Moriarty exclaimed. “You can’t be serious!”

  “Oh, but I can,” Holmes said. “I consider it unlikely that an accident could result in such a well-aimed explosion. The escaping steam struck only the man who pulled the lever.”

  Moriarty waved his cigar to dismiss the proposal. “The method is too bizarre. Who could imagine that gambit would succeed?”

  “We’ve seen more bizarre methods employed than this, haven’t we, Watson?”

  Watson smiled grimly. “We have indeed.”

  Holmes said, “Correct me if I’m wrong, Professor, but if the saboteur only meant to embarrass the company, couldn’t he have caused water to puddle on the floor or added a gauge or whistle to signal some fault? Or simply made sure the lamps failed to light? He had many options short of a lethal release of steam.”

  �
��That’s technically correct.” Moriarty felt a chill in spite of the closeness of the smoke-filled room. Holmes had struck dangerously near the mark and seemed willing to draw the direst conclusions from each new fact. “However, the saboteur, if there was one, might have been trying to cause a leak and misjudged the points of greatest pressure. Engines are complicated.”

  “Complicated and dangerous.” Holmes caught Moriarty’s gaze and held it. “Whatever the motive, something about that engine resulted in Lord Carling’s death. If tampering can be proved, have no doubt that charges of homicide will be brought against the saboteur.”

  Chapter Seven

  Four days later, Moriarty had heard no further news from Holmes or any other source. His life had returned, more or less, to its normal round of work, rowing, and lectures at the Royal Society. A dull routine, perhaps, but it filled the time.

  After Sunday’s lecture, Sir Peter Epworth had asked him to drop by this Tuesday evening to render his professional opinion of a new type of rotary engine. Sir Paul had been asked to lend his name to the front sheet and had been offered the chance to invest at an enticing rate of return. But Lord Carling’s sudden death had alarmed him profoundly. The new engine was not a Teaberry production, but even so, Sir Peter felt the need of expert advice before taking the plunge.

  Moriarty considered the engine a sound design. If the company were honest, it could be a good investment. He would recommend it with that proviso. He didn’t mind being asked to perform such a service by a fellow R.S. member. He did not, however, appreciate being treated like some sort of land agent or solicitor’s clerk. Sir Peter had been the essence of politeness after the lecture, giving the impression that this would be a friendly evening of scientific chat over brandy and cigars, the sort of scholarly intercourse that Moriarty found he missed from his university days.

  He had arrived at the appointed time only to discover that his host had other guests — more important ones. Moriarty had been left alone in the library, with the prospectus laid ready on a small table by a wingback chair. A footman had supplied him with brandy and cigar, but both were of lamentable quality. He’d received better hospitality from Sherlock Holmes.

  If he had still held his university chair, he would probably have been among the dinner guests — not that he would have accepted the invitation. Pointless hours of mindless chatter which he could happily do without. Still, Sir Peter should have chosen another night for his consultation, at least for the sake of appearances.

  It didn’t take long to reach a conclusion about the engine. Moriarty had stubbed out the cigar after the first taste. Now he downed the rest of the brandy — no point in wasting that — and wondered how best to make his escape. He had no desire to speak with Sir Peter in this testy mood. Perhaps he could scribble a note and slip out the door without further ado.

  He heard a rustle of silk skirts and a soft thump, like a door closing. A woman’s voice murmured, “Five minutes, Lina! No time to dally. Look for the letters and nothing else.”

  Moriarty recognized the voice of Angelina Gould. The thrill of this unexpected encounter pinned him to his chair. She clearly expected privacy and hadn’t noticed him inside his wide-backed chair.

  Should he speak? He heard a drawer slide open and a ruffle of papers. He must speak; it was absurd. Too many seconds had already elapsed. He rose to his feet and stepped away from the chair. “Good evening, Mrs. Gould.”

  She let out a feminine “Eek!” and dropped a bundle of letters on the desk. “Professor! What are you doing here?”

  “I’m so sorry. I couldn’t think how to make myself known without startling you.”

  “Startle? You’ve astonished me. How do you come to be here? You weren’t at dinner.”

  He explained about the prospectus and even offered it to her as a sort of proof. She frowned at it as if it were a live toad, and he tossed it quickly on the chair. What kind of an idiot offered such a thing to a lady?

  “I am sorry to disturb you,” he repeated fatuously. He glanced at the desk. “You were looking for a letter?”

  She blinked at him, her dark lashes fluttering over those spellbinding amber eyes. They were almond shaped, as lovely as a Renaissance painting. She wore a black silk gown trimmed in ruffles or flounces or whatever they were called. No doubt the height of fashion; he wouldn’t know. He found it intensely difficult not to stare at the expanse of creamy white skin revealed by the low-cut neckline.

  She licked her pink lips and said, “I just popped in to write a letter when the ladies rose from the table. They’re having their coffee in the drawing room. They won’t miss me for a few minutes. Someone mentioned New York at dinner and made me think, Oh! I haven’t written to my dear, dear friend Mrs. Rutherford in ages. Simply ages! I’m so fearfully absentminded, it’s a scandal. So I thought I’d hop down to Sir Peter’s library and dash off a note this very minute before I forget again.”

  Moriarty was taken aback by the spate of babble. She sounded like a perfect fool, although he’d formed quite the opposite impression at the Exhibition. And he knew what he’d heard. She’d said, “Look for letters and nothing else.”

  He glanced at the packet she’d dropped on the desk and stroked his moustache with his fingertip, not sure what to say. Her affairs were none of his business. Perhaps she’d had some sort of liaison with Sir Paul and wanted to retrieve some ill-considered letters. It seemed unlikely — the man was old enough to be her father — but what Moriarty knew about love affairs wouldn’t cover the back of a postage stamp.

  Her gaze followed his. She moved around the desk, blocking his view. She crossed the carpet and stopped barely a foot away from him. “I never thanked you, Professor, for saving my life on Friday.” Her voice had dropped in both pitch and volume, creating an intimate circle around the two of them within the bounds of the closed room and the square carpet.

  He swallowed down a lump in his throat before replying. “I’m certain that you did. Although no thanks were, or are, necessary.”

  “I disagree. And worse, I never even asked if you were injured. You protected me, but at what cost to yourself?”

  “No cost whatsoever. I received no harm. A little hot water on the shoulders. Nothing serious.” A nervous chuckle escaped him. “Good British wool — proof against anything.”

  She smiled, or at least her eyes did. She walked half around him, enveloping him in the heady scent of gardenias, and placed her hand on his shoulder. She smoothed the fabric of his jacket with a firm touch, stroking across the muscles underneath that good British wool as if assessing — or appreciating — them. Moriarty had never been so grateful for his choice of sport.

  “This isn’t the same jacket,” he said. “That one needed a little attention from the tailor, I’m afraid.”

  She emitted a low hum. What it meant, he had no idea, but the throaty sound set all his senses vibrating. She moved back around to stand before him, so close she had to tilt her head up to meet his gaze. So close that if his eyes happened to slip past her oval face, he could see straight down into her décolletage.

  He swallowed again. It sounded like a drain opening in his ears, but she didn’t seem to hear it. He kept his eyes on hers, feeling a sudden sense of vertigo, but he didn’t dare move for fear he’d startle her away.

  A smile curved her lips. She leaned into him, rising on her toes, and kissed him full on the mouth. He closed his eyes, letting the taste, the scent, and the weight of this magnificent woman overwhelm him.

  Then she broke the kiss with a little gasp, sinking back and leaning away. She cast her gaze to the floor. “I don’t why I did that,” she murmured in a small voice.

  He struggled to summon words. “I apologize if I, in any way . . .”

  She smiled at him, not quite a grin, but with genuine humor crinkling the corners of her eyes. He’d pleased her somehow with that apology. That was all the encouragement he needed. He reached an arm around her waist, but she pushed him away with a palm against his c
hest.

  “I should be getting back,” she said, her eyes still smiling into his. “The ladies will be wondering what’s become of me.”

  He released her with a sigh. “I’ll escort you to the stairs.”

  “You’re too kind.”

  He stepped back to give her room to come about in her deeply bustled gown, admiring the grace with which she managed what must be a deucedly awkward costume. He followed a few paces behind as she crossed the room and opened the door. His glance fell on the packet of letters lying atop the desk, but he couldn’t remember why they were significant. Sir Peter had untidy habits, it would seem.

  They crossed the hall in silence apart from the swooshing of her train across the marble floor. She mounted the wide, curving stairs. Moriarty started to follow her up, but she stopped and turned to look down at him with a little laugh. “Professor!” She shook her head and wagged a slender finger, eyes twinkling.

  He beamed at her, getting lost in that twinkle, then remembered where they were. Of course he couldn’t go up. “Until we meet again, then.”

  “I hope it will be soon. Please call at Cheshire House. We’re in mourning, naturally, but I’m sure you’ll think of something appropriate.”

  “Without fail.”

  She collected a swath of silk skirt with one hand and took another step, then turned back again. She raised her free hand, palm up, as if about to blow him a kiss, but then her gaze flicked toward the footman standing impassively near the door. He wasn’t watching them — at least not openly — but she shrugged and lowered her hand.

  “Good night, Professor,” she said in a low tone meant only for him. Then she gathered her skirt with both hands and ran lightly up the remaining steps.

  Moriarty watched her till she was out of sight, then spun on his heel and marched to the door. “My hat and coat, if you don’t mind.”

  “Yes, sir.” The footman disappeared through the back hall, returning in less than a minute with the requested garments. Moriarty allowed the footman to help him into his coat and accepted his tall silk hat. The wide front door swung open to admit the sight and sound of a thrashing spring downpour.