by Anna Castle
As they approached the library, Moriarty heard the supercilious tones of Sherlock Holmes and steeled himself for the meeting. He would pretend to know nothing of the detective’s inquiries at his home and office. Holmes had obviously gone to some trouble to conceal his identity; let him imagine his disguises remained unpenetrated.
Ramsay greeted him warmly, hurrying forward to shake his hand. “I’m so glad you could come, Professor.”
“I thank you for the invitation,” Moriarty said. “I’m delighted to have another opportunity to work with Mr. Holmes and Dr. Watson.”
Watson had the grace to tilt his head in acknowledgment. Holmes chose to make one of his pedantic pronouncements. “Necessary work, Professor, if tedious at times. We seek justice for the slain and peace for the living. All except for one.” He leveled his gaze at Moriarty in a challenging expression.
Had he discovered that Moriarty was conducting inquiries of his own? Or was he daring Moriarty to evade his pursuit? He’d already thrown down his gauntlet; perhaps he’d forgotten.
Ramsay ushered them to chairs arranged around a low table which held an assortment of accounting ledgers strewn across stacks of business and engineering journals. He offered them tea, which they declined. “Just as well,” he said. “The skeleton staff left behind when the family goes to Surrey aren’t really up to Durham House standards of hospitality.”
“Don’t you accompany his lordship wherever he goes?” Watson asked.
“Not when there’s such a tremendous press of work,” Ramsay replied. “His lordship wouldn’t normally leave London at such a juncture, but family comes first.”
“What distinguishes the present juncture?” Holmes asked. Precisely the question Moriarty wanted answered.
Ramsay looked startled by the question, like a deer surprised in a wood. He had a doe-like air about him in general: soft brown hair and eyes, round spectacles, mild manners. Much like Edwin Pickering-Jones in age and education, he was the opposite in disposition. Pickering-Jones was breezy, charming, and shallow; Mark Ramsay was humorless, somber, and competent.
“Well,” Ramsay said, “there’s the launching of the Tip-Top Toy Company next Sunday at the Hainstone village fête. There are invitations to be sent, performers to hire. Lord Hainstone insists the company supply the catering for the whole event. These promotions entail an endless sea of details, and his secretary isn’t —” He broke off with a twitch of his lips. “Then there’s the winding up of the Compact Spherical Engine Company.”
“I thought they meant to carry on.” Moriarty glanced at Holmes. “You’ve proved the explosion was not caused by a defect in the engine. Wasn’t that the goal of your inquiries?”
“I alone define my goals,” Holmes said. “They may evolve over the course of an investigation. Scotland Yard has an interest in the case now since it is a matter of murder.” He leveled that gaze at Moriarty again.
Moriarty met his challenge with a patient smile. Let him bluster. The solution to this puzzle lay before them on the table. His hands itched to open those ledgers.
Ramsay first responded to Holmes. “I’m instructed to give the authorities every assistance.” Then he turned to Moriarty. “Unfortunately, the spherical engine has been tainted by the bad publicity. We may know the truth, yet the public retains a negative impression. Promotion is a delicate art. We had aimed at the Royal Navy as a major customer, but they’ve decided not to go forward. Without them, we’re unable to sustain the cost of production.”
“What about Mr. Bruffin?” Moriarty asked. “Won’t this harm his professional reputation?”
“I share your concern,” Watson said. “I liked the fellow and his jolly family. What will become of him?”
“Oh, he’ll be all right,” Ramsay said. “He’s been paid his full fee. He’s a skilled and inventive engineer. He’ll find something even better in time.” Something in his tone suggested exactly the opposite.
“Shall we move on to the timetable?” Holmes asked, bored as always by any digression. “We have the bare outlines from the guard at the entrance to the Exhibition, augmented by Mr. Bruffin’s contribution. Watson, would you be so good as to refresh our memory?”
Watson opened his notebook and leafed through the pages in silence for a few moments. Holmes, unable to endure the wait, sprang from his chair and strode to the tall windows facing the street. He stood with his hands clasped behind his back, glowering at the rain pounding against the glass. Outside, it was as dark as dusk, but the library was bright, being amply supplied with gas lamps.
Holmes turned abruptly around. “Do you mind if I smoke?” He drew a cigarette case from his breast pocket without waiting for a response. He seemed to be in fractious mood, like an overactive child penned up by bad weather.
“Not at all!” Ramsay hurried forward with an ornate lighter. “I should have offered.” Turning back to the circle around the table, he asked, “Would anyone else like a cigarette? Or a cigar?”
Watson shook his head. Moriarty waved a hand to decline.
Ramsay hesitantly took a cigarette from a box on the mantelpiece and lit it. He sat down again and took small, delicate puffs, clearing his throat after each one. He was obviously not a habitual smoker and had only taken one to keep Holmes company. An unnecessary courtesy. Holmes would probably smoke during a surgical operation on his own head, whether anyone else indulged or not.
“Here we are,” Watson said.
Holmes whirled on his heel and returned to his chair, sitting forward with one elbow on his knee while Watson summarized his notes.
“The engineer arrived at three o’clock on Thursday. He was admitted through the loading dock to the exhibit area at about 3:15. Lord Nettlefield and Mr. Ramsay arrived at 4:30. Mr. Bruffin departed through the front gate at 4:45. Lord Nettlefield and Mr. Ramsay exited the hall at 5:40 on the dot.”
“That sounds about right,” Ramsay said. “I was anxious about making our appointment with Mr. Teaberry. His lordship loathes tardiness.”
Holmes asked, “Why did you linger after the departure of the engineer? Wasn’t the purpose of your visit to ensure that he had prepared everything properly for the demonstration?”
“Yes,” Ramsay said. “And we arrived in the nick of time, I must say. Bruffin was only supposed to set things up and leave them ready for the morning. But he worried about every detail to a fault. We caught him on the brink of firing the boiler to conduct a full test.”
“Why shouldn’t he?” Moriarty asked. “The engine might have been damaged in transit. These things have many working parts. Something might have been loosened or crimped while jolting through the crowded thoroughfares.”
Ramsay shook his head. “Not one of ours. No expense is spared. The engine was packed in layers of wool and nestled in a bed of shredded paper like a piece of fine porcelain.” He gestured at a large chinoiserie vase standing in the corner. “Besides, his lordship insisted there should be no tests in the exhibit area. He didn’t want our display dirtied up with smoke and water. We couldn’t afford any delay in the morning. People get restless, you see, and wander off, spoiling the publicity value of the opening demonstration. Bruffin had ample time to tighten bolts and so forth. He was more likely to make things worse at that point, fussing about with his wrenches. His lordship sent him home with strict instructions to rest and pull himself together so as to be in top form at the critical hour.”
“Then I must repeat my earlier question,” Holmes said. “Why did you and Lord Nettlefield remain at the exhibit after the engineer had gone?”
Ramsay pursed his lips before answering. “His lordship is very particular. He leaves nothing to chance. He asked me to recheck everything myself.” He gave them a worried frown. “I’m not half the engineer his lordship is, but I did my best. I can say that at that time, everything seemed to be in perfect order.”
“Lord Nettlefield is an engineer?” Holmes sounded incredulous.
“Not by profession, of course!” Ramsay wave
d a hand to deflect the idea. He noticed the cigarette, which he still held between his fingers, and stubbed it out in the silver ashtray. “But he is quite the enthusiast, like many men from the coal country. His lordship has a complete workshop at the Durham estate, where he enjoys tinkering on his own designs in his rare moments of leisure. That’s what drew him into the investment game originally. His interests have expanded now, but his heart is still in steam.”
Holmes smiled at the secretary, his dark eyes gleaming. “You interest me immensely. Then are we to understand that his lordship possesses sufficient skill to have examined the engine himself?”
“Well, yes.” Ramsay frowned, looking from one man to the other. “But he would never do such a thing in public. It’s only a hobby for a gentleman. Something you do on the odd Saturday afternoon when there are no guests to entertain and nothing to shoot.”
“An odd way of putting it,” Holmes said, “but we take your meaning.” He ground his cigarette out in the ashtray and lit another one. “Let us return to the timetable. Where were we?”
“At the engineer’s departure: 4:45.”
“Thank you, Watson. I’d be lost without you and your invaluable notebook.” Holmes spoke to Ramsay. “What happened next?”
“His lordship wanted to speak with the director of the Exhibition to impress upon him the need for absolute punctuality in the morning’s proceedings. He sent me off to fetch the man. Workmen were fairly streaming out the exit gate by that time. A fellow in the main office sent me to China — the Chinese exhibit, I mean. I had a bit of a merry chase around the hall and finally caught up with the director in India. He seemed rather glad for Lord Nettlefield’s summons, to be honest. He disentangled himself from the viceroy of the Rajah of Never-You-Mind as swiftly as courtesy would allow. We returned to his lordship at 5:25. I know the exact time because I glanced at my watch as we walked, being a bit anxious about our appointment. Although Teaberry tends to be late himself.” He pursed his lips. “There’s always a bit of a —” He broke off with a little tsk.
A bit of a tussle, had he been about to say? The upstart peer versus the rising commercialist? Moriarty had noticed the friction between the two men himself.
“Did their conversation last until you left at — what was it, Watson?”
“It was 5:40.”
“Until 5:40?”
“Yes,” Ramsay said. “Then the director escorted us back to the gate.”
“I see. Thank you, Mr. Ramsay.”
Holmes seemed satisfied, as if he’d confirmed some theory. Moriarty couldn’t guess what. He decided not to share his observation that Lord Nettlefield had been left alone with the engine for almost thirty minutes, plenty of time to replace the sensor plate. The company promoter had not visited the Exhibition Galleries that night, but he could have hired someone. He couldn’t be ruled out.
“We can add another note to our timetable now, can’t we, Professor Moriarty?” Holmes showed his shark’s smile.
“Yes, we can,” Moriarty answered without demur. A gentleman owned up to his actions. He directed his apology to Ramsay. “I added that fuel indicator. I meant it only as a sort of lesson. As you know, I have a little rivalry with Lord Nettlefield and didn’t like to see the facts being swept under the table.”
Ramsay’s mouth opened in surprise. “Do you know, I thought Bruffin had done it. He’d argued fiercely against its removal. Then I quite forgot about it after the — well, after the events that occurred. It’s nice to have that small mystery cleared up.”
“And so we proceed,” Holmes said, “step by step, shedding light into dark corners until all is revealed.” He clapped his hands together and rose in one swift motion. “Shall we go, Watson?” Without waiting for an answer, he strode out the door.
Watson followed him, but Moriarty lingered, racking his brains for an excuse to stay on and poke his nose into Nettlefield’s private accounts. He couldn’t think of anything.
Ramsay misunderstood his hesitation. “I do thank you for your support this afternoon, Professor. It may not seem like much to you, but that man makes me so nervous. I’m afraid I’ll start babbling all sorts of nonsense, and he’ll take that as some sort of admission.”
“Happy to oblige,” Moriarty said.
“I’m so glad to see you don’t carry a grudge, at least not against me.”
Moriarty waved that away. “You’re not responsible for your employer’s acts.”
Ramsay smiled, but his eyes shimmered with a trace of moisture. He blinked it away. “I’d ask you to tea, Professor, but I’ve got to dash out to the printers — even on a Sunday! But we’ve only a week to get ready for the fête.”
Moriarty had little choice but to allow himself to be ushered out the door, where they found Holmes subjecting the suit of armor to a thorough examination with his magnifying glass. A gas lamp hanging over it shone yellow squares of light onto the dark gray steel. Holmes hummed to himself as he wiped a finger across a metal plate.
Watson stood a few paces away. He crooked an eyebrow at the others and whispered, “There’s no way of knowing what’s caught his attention. He’ll tell us in his own good time.”
After several minutes in which the three men stood silently watching, Holmes straightened up and returned the glass to his pocket. He said to Ramsay, “Either you have an exceptionally conscientious housemaid or this armor has not been standing under this lamp for long. I found only a minute trace of soot on its surface.”
“Both, actually,” Ramsay said. “His lordship purchased that piece last year from Baron Shottesbrooke in Lancashire. The baron is the last of a decayed line and he wanted to move to Texas, of all places. We had it in Durham until his lordship lent it to the Society of Antiquaries for display. It’s the real thing, you know. This suit was worn by the third Baron Shottesbrooke in battle against Richard the Third. It’s only just come back from Burlington House after a complete professional cleaning.” He spoke with the pride of a scholarship boy reporting his public school’s exceptional cricket record.
Holmes drew the black metal plate from his pocket and fitted it against the left elbow of the suit. It filled a gap. It had been flattened to serve as a sensor plate, but was otherwise identical to the round plate on the right elbow.
“By gad, that’s it!” Watson cried.
“Yes,” Holmes said. “There can’t be two such suits of armor missing this exact piece.”
“I knew I’d seen that armor someplace,” Moriarty said.
Holmes’s head snapped toward him. “That does not surprise me.”
“Why should it? You know I’m a member of the Royal Society. You could safely assume I would use the library in Burlington House, in addition to attending lectures.”
Watson asked, “Aren’t the science lectures presented in the east wing?”
“Yes,” Moriarty said, “but the library’s scattered all over. I must have walked past that thing a dozen times in the last month alone.”
“Those corridors are often deserted for long stretches of time,” Holmes said. “I’ve had occasion to resort to that library as well.”
“I don’t understand,” Ramsay said. “What has his lordship’s armor to do with anything? How did you obtain that piece?”
Holmes explained that this steel plate had caused the explosion. Ramsay absorbed the information with horror. He stood blinking with his mouth open for several seconds and then sputtered into speech. “You can’t for a minute imagine that his lordship —”
“No conclusions have been reached as yet,” Holmes said. “This armor stood on display in a public area for many weeks, you tell us. Any habitué of the Royal Society could have extracted this piece of metal. Once he knew what shape and size he needed, I imagine this ready source of material would be irresistible.” He aimed his shark’s smile again at Moriarty.
If the detective meant to frighten him, he failed, although Moriarty understood that Holmes still preferred him as his principal suspect for Lord Ca
rling’s death. Never mind that they’d just learned Lord Nettlefield had both the skill and the time to sabotage the engine. For all his vaunted independence, Holmes seemed unwilling to consider the possible guilt of the man paying his fees. And he’d made it clear that he relished the idea of an opponent of equal intelligence.
He’d cast Moriarty in the role of villain from the first day and had turned each new bit of evidence into another prop for that role. Unfortunately, that evidence might be sufficient to make his case to the police.
Holmes had caught him in two foolish lies: the trivial one of the pencil and the more serious one of the indicator. Moriarty had freely shared his knowledge of spherical engines in his own quest for the truth. His membership in the Royal Society and his regular participation in meetings at Burlington House were matters of public record. He had volunteered the fact that he frequented the library in the building where the armor stood unattended.
Holmes had the lies. He had plausible accounts of how Moriarty could have attained the means of murder and the opportunity for sabotage. If the detective pursued his history all the way to Durham, he might well return with a motive.
Moriarty recognized the challenge in Holmes’s smile and accepted it: he must find proof of Nettlefield’s guilt, or he just might swing for his enemy’s crime.
Chapter Twenty-One
“It’s time to take stock, darlings.” Angelina addressed her crack team of burglars. She’d called them together late Monday afternoon at Viola’s flat in St. John’s Wood. “Time is running out. We’ve barely gotten through half our list, but I’m not sure how much longer I can maintain my facade. Lady Rochford is too shrewd and Lucy is too impatient. Neither would hesitate to raise the price for her silence, and I can’t satisfy Lucy’s main demand anyway. I can’t make a man propose to her!”
“Not the way you’re going about it.” Viola reclined on her fainting couch, dressed in a peach-colored confection of lace and silk. “What were you thinking, creating a public scandal with Reginald Benton? You’ll get yourself blacklisted and then where will we be?”
