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

by Anna Castle

  God, that awful day! She’d been in tight spots before, but nothing in her checkered past compared to last Sunday. She’d lost everything in one stroke: all hope of rescuing Sebastian, her personal freedom, and her professor. It had taken the inspector a few seconds to grasp the truth of Moriarty’s claim to be the one person who could not have twisted that jump rope around Lord Hainstone’s neck. It had taken another minute to recognize that if he hadn’t done the one, he probably hadn’t done the other. Lord Nettlefield had sputtered and blustered, but the inspector didn’t share his faith in the infallibility of Mr. Sherlock Holmes. He’d unlocked those ugly iron cuffs and let the prisoner go. Moriarty had turned on his heel without so much as a wry smile in her direction and walked away. She’d watched him as long as she could. He never turned around or cast a backward glance.

  She couldn’t blame him. She’d panicked and grasped at the only straw she could reach. After all, she’d just stumbled over a body lying on the carpet, its face going purple and its eyes — She shuddered and skipped past that memory.

  She still couldn’t understand what had happened. She had stayed hidden behind the drapes until she heard the room grow silent. Then, thinking everyone had gone, she started to step out but spotted a man in morning dress frowning at a colored rope he held in both hands. She popped back into her hiding place.

  She heard him say, "You wanted a minute? Make it a short one. We've got to get this damned jump rope out to the stage by three o’clock." No response. Then he said, "What are you — I say — Stop! Stop!"

  She heard a struggle, feet scuffling on the carpet, and hideous choking sounds, partly masked by the tinkling notes of the “Lenola Waltz.” Something fell heavily to the floor. She had to clap her hand to her mouth to keep from screaming. She tried to open the window, but it stuck fast. She heard the door close, peeked through the gap in the drapes, and risked going back into the room.

  The music was still playing. She could see at a glance — one horrible glance — that Hainstone was dead. She ran into the corridor, heard another door open or close, and panicked. She dashed back into the library, meaning to go out through the French windows, but found Lord Nettlefield bending over the body on the floor. She screamed. He grabbed her arm and dragged her outside.

  He must have come in through the French windows as she left the room. Or he might have closed the door after strangling Hainstone and remained hidden in the library while she ran out. The killer hadn’t spoken and had managed to come and go — or hide himself — without her catching a glimpse.

  When the inspector finally allowed her to leave in the Bentons’ custody, Reginald escorted her to his coach, all tender concern until the door was closed and the curtains drawn. Then he’d grinned at her — his father’s wolfish smile — and said, “You’re mine now, Angelina.”

  She had expected to be taken to Cheshire House, but he said, “No, my dear. It’s best for you to stay with us until things are settled. I can keep a closer watch on you under my own roof.” His tone had made it clear that she was as much a prisoner as if she’d been arrested and taken into police custody. She’d driven all the way across Surrey with her fists clenched and her heart in her mouth.

  Fortunately, he’d only locked her into a room at Canbury Park, their estate on the Thames south of Richmond. The room was comfortable enough, with a bath in her dressing room and a water closet at the end of the otherwise unoccupied corridor. He’d sent for her trunks but refused to allow Peg to come with them. Not even Lucy had been allowed to visit.

  Lady Lucy, however, had turned out to be a woman of surprising depths. During those few moments when they’d clung together on the terrace, Angelina had managed to whisper a swift warning in her young friend’s ear. “Trust me, darling. What I’m about to do will look like a betrayal, but it’s all for show. I’m going to grab onto Reginald in hopes he can save me from the Old Bailey. I don’t know what else to do!”

  Lucy had understood. She’d held her peace and even managed a fairly convincing expression of hurt surprise at the right moment. Then the earl’s daughter had rallied round with a determination and a flair for strategy that would have made her ancestors proud. She’d gone straight home to hold a conference with Peg and her own maid. They’d contrived a scheme to pass messages via the cooks’ helpers at Cheshire and Durham Houses, who happened to be cousins. One of them also happened to be sweet on the gardener’s assistant at Canbury Park, who brought flowers from the country estate to Mayfair every morning.

  They could only communicate through this fragile chain once a day, but at least Angelina’s friends knew where she was and that she was being held against her will. Her velvet prison even had a guard: a buxom, sharp-faced girl named Elsie. Ostensibly Angelina’s maid, she never did so much as brush her charge’s hair or shake out a dress. Her only job was to follow her prisoner everywhere to make sure she didn’t stray from the grounds or talk to anyone.

  The little beast even stood beside the door when the ladies retired to the drawing room for coffee after dinner. Lady Nettlefield had gone north to visit her mother, so only Lady Rochford, who lived with the family, had sat with Angelina these past three nights. She had lifted an eyebrow at her nephew when the new guest appeared at the dinner table, but then had treated her like a distant relation in whom she had little interest.

  What the old woman could do to help or whether she might be willing to do anything remained an open question. She kept to her own suite during the day and stuck rigorously to the most mundane topics of conversation after dinner. Angelina had learned more than she would have imagined possible about the care and feeding of the rhododendron.

  Her situation would have been dark indeed, but fortunately the servants at Canbury Park had their masters’ measure. Each and every one of them could be bribed if the price were right. Angelina didn’t know if they’d learned corruption from their employers or if they’d been selected for that quality and didn’t care. She’d given her watchdog a signed playbill with Sebastian Archer’s smiling picture on it for her one hour of liberty today.

  At last, she saw the dark shadow of a greatcoat shifting through the emerald leaves in the woods behind the temple. She recognized Moriarty’s long-legged stride. She quickly seated herself on a stone bench, smoothed her hair, and pinched her cheeks. Then she sang a scale sotto voce to calm herself and folded her hands in her lap.

  “Mrs. Gould?” Professor Moriarty entered the temple, raising his top hat as he spoke. He spared a glance for the robin’s egg blue of the walls and the plaster bas relief portraits, then focused his attention on her.

  He didn’t smile, but that didn’t matter. He’d come. That must mean he didn’t utterly despise her. His eyes had been so cold when she’d risked a glance at him on the terrace. She’d been resisting the urge to look his way for fear she’d melt or smile or somehow reveal how well they knew each other. That wouldn’t have helped either of them at that moment of extreme peril.

  She met his eyes now, putting all her relief and happiness into her smile. “I’m so glad to see you.” She held out both hands to him.

  He looked down at her outstretched hands but didn’t take them. He stood a careful three feet from her bench. “I don’t know why you sent for me. Are you unhappy here in your new abode? It seems a far sight better than prison.” He tilted his head toward the manicured view that showed through the windows. Generations of aristocrats had employed generations of gardeners to achieve the artful layers of green lawn, nodding trees, and May blossoms.

  He maintained a level tone, but she knew him by now. He was furious, at her.

  “It may be beautiful,” she said, “but it’s still a prison. They don’t mistreat me, but I’m always watched, except when I’m locked in my room. This is the first time I’ve seen the sky in three days.”

  “From a silk-lined chamber in Mayfair to a private estate in Surrey. I imagine you’re suffering dreadfully.”

  The harsh words struck her like a slap. “Would y
ou rather they had thrown me into jail?”

  “That’s where I was headed, thanks to you and your confederates.”

  Confederates! Lord help me, he thinks I’m in league with them!

  And how not? She’d lied to him from the start and thrown Reginald at him as a distractor whenever he got too close to the truth. Angelina’s mind raced, searching for something to say. She reviewed the scene on the terrace from his point of view and winced. What else could he think after that badly improvised performance?

  He must have seen her in the window. He would have seen her go into the library two seconds before Hainstone was murdered and then be dragged out by Lord Nettlefield, only to fling herself into Reginald’s arms. She hadn’t offered him the slightest flicker of sympathy or even acknowledged his presence. She’d ignored him to protect him, but he couldn’t know that. She’d latched onto Reginald to fend off Nettlefield, but he couldn’t know that either. For all he knew, the three of them had staged the whole show.

  He watched her think it through in silence, a sour twist to his lips. “You were never in any real danger though, were you? When one ship founders, you leap onto another. You came to England to marry a lord and now you’ve got one: Reginald Benton, son of a viscount. Frame his father for murder and you’ve got title, estates, and fortune in one stroke.”

  God in heaven, what a leap! His accusation shocked her so violently all she could produce was a high-pitched gasp. She pressed her hand to her breast to keep her heart from bursting. “I loathe Reginald Benton. You must know that.”

  “I don’t know anything, Mrs. Gould. That’s not what the papers say, and from the looks of things on Sunday, they seem to have gotten it right.”

  “I was fighting for my life on Sunday! I did what I had to do to keep from being arrested and carted off to jail!”

  “We could have ridden together. Something to share; another one of our special moments.”

  “You knew you would be let go. You saw me in the window trying to escape. You heard me scream.”

  “Ah, that scream! Very effective. Bravissima!” He clapped his hands together slowly. “You miscalculated though, didn’t you? You didn’t expect me to be handcuffed to a constable at the crucial moment. Is that why you came to the window? To see if you could get me back inside the room before you did the deed so I would be the one they found standing over the body?”

  “What?” She shrank back against the cold wall as if he’d struck her. “How can you think such a thing? After all the time we’ve spent together, the conversations we’ve had, the confidences we’ve shared.” That kiss in the cab. “How can you believe I would murder a man?”

  He stared at her, his dark eyes hollow, every line of his long face mirroring her despair. “I don’t know what to believe, Mrs. Gould. I know nothing about you. You may have been manipulating me from the start, from that first day at the Exhibition when you caught my eye and winked at me. You hooked me at that moment; I think you know it. I think you intended it. I’m a solitary man and you’re a beautiful woman. I don’t know why you chose me. Perhaps simply because I was there, perhaps because of my history with Lord Nettlefield. I do know that men have died in strange and dramatic ways, men whose deaths are convenient for Reginald Benton. I know that you’ve been stealing account books from his father’s colleagues. I don’t know why; you refused to tell me. I can think of several reasons. Blackmail springs to mind. You seem to be capable of doing whatever serves your purpose at the moment.”

  Angelina bit her lip, struggling to hold back the tears. He was right about all of it, from one way of seeing things, but wrong, wrong, wrong about her. “I admit I lied about my past. I didn’t want you to think less of me.” A bitter laugh broke free. “That seems absurd now. I’m an actress, Professor Moriarty. I have been since the age of five. My parents were music hall entertainers. My brother is an actor too, a rising star. Sebastian Archer, perhaps you’ve heard of him?”

  He stared at her in silence, his hard face giving her nothing.

  “Ah, well. He’s still only getting second billing. My sister, his twin, is a courtesan, the mistress of a member of the House of Lords.”

  She paused, but his expression remained stony and unreadable. She pretended not to care. The chatter gave her time to breathe, restored her balance. This was what she did best. She tried for a light laugh, but it rang falsely from the stone walls of the folly.

  “She’s quite successful in her profession, you know. We all are, each in our own way. We stole those books to protect Sebastian. I won’t tell you more than that. We’ve been looking for something that was taken from us by Oscar Teaberry. These men, these front-sheeters, are my enemies as much as yours. Can’t you see how much I despise them? How they frighten me?”

  “No, Mrs. Gould. I can’t. I can’t interpret every twitch and nuance. I can’t distinguish between real flirtation and false. I don’t see spots of mustard on a lapel or notice that one sleeve is shinier than the other.” He rubbed his chin with a trembling hand. “Holmes is right. I see, but I do not observe. I haven’t the knack. And even if I should happen to observe something, I’m unable to erect a whole suppositional edifice on a spot of mustard or an ink-stained finger.”

  He laughed suddenly, a short, sharp burst. “You’re just like him, aren’t you? You both build whole fantastic worlds on some self-made system of observation and inference.”

  “Holmes!” Angelina spat the name. “He’s a rank amateur. The art is called ‘reading the mark,’ and I was better at it than your Mr. Holmes by the age of twelve.”

  “I don’t doubt it,” Moriarty said. “I find little to choose between you. And between you, you nearly sent me to the gallows.”

  She had no answer for that.

  He looked at her for a long moment, his eyes bleak. “I do observe some things, Mrs. Gould. I see the way you bite your lip when you’re thinking and the way your head quavers when you’re angry, as you are right now. I see that you’re wearing the same dress you wore on Sunday. You wore it to the Exhibition too. That purple shade turns your eyes the color of burnished gold. I see these things, but I can’t use them to deduce your occupation and place of origin or what the devil it is you want from me.”

  He’d tied her up in knots in one short speech. He hated her because he loved her. She had no idea how to fix that.

  “Can’t you just trust me?” she pleaded. “I do have reasons. Can’t you pretend for a moment that you believe me and take me at my word?”

  “Which word, Mrs. Gould? Your story changes with your costume. You looked like a schoolmarm at the tea party at Cheshire House. You like your tea sweet, with lemon, and not too hot. I noticed that, but it didn’t tell me who you were. On Friday night, when I caught you in Sir Julian’s library, you looked the perfect lad-about-town, if rather prettier than average. Who were you then? I noticed that you tied your cravat with an old-fashioned knot, but it didn’t tell me why you were there. At that Royal Society reception — you remember, the one with the mirror — you looked like an Italian countess dressed for a court ball. That wink took my breath away. It changed my life. A minute later, I saw Lord Nettlefield watching you, as if he thought you’d overplayed your part.”

  Was that where this had begun? Angelina didn’t remember his lordship; she’d been too busy juggling admirers.

  Moriarty hadn’t finished. “I know who I am, or at least who I was before I met you: a sober mathematician and a humble patent officer serving Queen and country in my own small way. A simple life, quiet, and sometimes even satisfying. Not an impresario in a silk waistcoat, not a consort for an Italian countess, not a master criminal.

  “Who are you, Mrs. Gould? Your accent changes as readily as your costume. You sounded like Cockney newsboy when you first walked into Sir Julian’s library, as patrician as my mother at Cheshire House, and as American as Mrs. Lincoln on the terrace Sunday. Now you tell me you’re an actress. That’s the only thing you’ve said that I believe.”

  He
stopped abruptly and turned away, covering his eyes with his hand. Hiding tears, she guessed. He had every right to be hurt and angry. She had manipulated him. She’d used him, or tried to. She’d deceived him. She deceived everyone; it was how she earned her living. She could never make him understand that. She couldn’t love him so much if he did.

  He’d never help her now. She’d planned to confide in him and ask him for something not too difficult. Something reasonable: to find a lawyer or consult that friend of his, Sir Julian, the one with all the ministry connections. Under that, deep underneath, she’d cherished the mad, romantic dream that he would sweep her into his arms and carry her out of Canbury Park to freedom, fending off all resistance by the sheer force of his character and the strength of his love, which he would have recognized immediately on seeing her desperate plight.

  Dreams dashed, all hope gone, Angelina sat silently on her cold bench, holding her head up so he could see her face, willing herself not to cry until he left. He took two steps toward the arched doorway, then turned back to study her as if she were a painting he meant to copy later on. Time ticked by in the pulses of her heart. Then he drew in a gasping breath, like a man who had almost drowned. He tipped his hat, turned on his heel, and walked away.

  Chapter Twenty-Nine

  Moriarty stumbled home, blindly navigating the crowded tunnels of the Metropolitan Railway with his own horrible words ringing in his ears. What had he said to her? What devil had possessed him? When he’d seen the luxury of her so-called prison and found her sitting there calmly, in a silk dress and a feathered hat, he’d gone mad with jealousy. He’d lost his temper — he, James Moriarty, once renowned for his preternatural calm.

  In ten short minutes, he’d laid waste to the only love affair of his life.

  For most of the past year, he’d had no thought of the future beyond wreaking revenge on Lord Nettlefield. Now his lordship’s rotten character seemed to have accomplished that task for him. For a brief, magnificent span of days, he’d allowed himself to imagine a future with Angelina Gould. His dreams, both sleeping and waking, had been filled with her eyes, her figure, her dazzling smile, her musical laugh. That dream had been shredded by Sherlock Holmes, replaced by the prospect of a stint in Newgate and a final jerking dance at the end of a rope. He’d barely had time to register that fresh doom when his restraints had been unlocked and he’d been turned loose, only to watch the woman he loved go home with the son of his enemy.