by Anna Castle
Full circle, in a monstrous way.
He shed his hat and coat as he walked into his sitting room, hanging them up by force of habit. Then he poured himself a glass of whiskey and drank it off. He felt numb already; the liquor had no effect. He managed to choke down enough of his tasteless supper to keep Mrs. Peacock from asking questions, then sat in his chair with a journal in his hand, staring at the unlit coals in the grate. His mind roved restlessly over the events and personalities of the past few weeks, unable to settle on anything like a plan.
What need had he for a plan? He had nothing left to destroy.
A pounding on the front door echoed up the stairwell, startling him out of his dismal reverie. A sense of foreboding dragged him to the landing. Had the authorities come to arrest him again? Leaning over the railing, he watched the housemaid trot down the hall to open the front door. He couldn’t see the person outside, but he saw the maid take a step backward, emit a shriek as sharp as a steam whistle, and collapse in a dead faint.
A handsome man in a morning coat and eelskin trousers caught her before she struck the floor. He laughed as he carried her into the hall, turning his head toward a woman in a flounced cape, who followed him inside. “What do we do now, Viola? She didn’t even tell us if that Moriarty chappie actually lives here.”
They’d come to call on him. Two fashionable young persons arriving at his door mere hours after he’d savaged the elusive Mrs. Gould. Two persons who looked as alike as two peas.
He ducked back into his rooms to trade his dressing gown for a jacket. He returned to the landing and peered over the railing again. The couple had lowered the maid to the rug and were bending over her while the man fanned her with his silk hat.
Moriarty started down the stairs. As he rounded the turn, he saw the man from Sir Julian’s library cross the threshold with a large box in his arms. A boy followed him carrying another box. He remembered the man’s name: Sandy. And the threat he’d made. “One hair,” he’d said, in a tone to be respected. “I’ll cut you down like a rabid pariah dog.”
Moriarty hadn’t laid a hand on Mrs. Gould, but he had hurt her, deeply. He devoutly hoped this man hadn’t already learned about it.
Both man and boy stopped with their boxes in their arms and looked down at the maid. The boy asked, “Wot ’appened to ’er?”
The woman answered. “Sebastian. They drop at the mere sight of him now. The price of fame.” She lightly slapped the maid’s cheeks. “Wake up, dearie. It’s all right. He won’t eat you.”
The maid revived and allowed them to help her to her feet. She gave a small “Eep!” as she passed Sebastian, but managed to scurry on through the kitchen door.
Moriarty jogged down the last flight and extended his hand toward the actor. “I believe you may be looking for me. I’m James Moriarty.”
“Glad to meet you, Professor.” Sebastian took his hand and shook it heartily. His face lit up in a smile so dazzling Moriarty felt a trifle woozy himself. He recognized the shape of the eyes and the curve of the lips, but most of all, the effect of that charmed attention. This was Mrs. Gould’s brother, all right.
The woman joined them. “You’ll notice he no longer bothers to introduce himself. Of course everyone in London knows Sebastian Archer! We lesser mortals must supply our own names. I’m the lowly sister, Viola Archer.”
Both of these elegant creatures had blue eyes and golden hair, but Moriarty could see the resemblance to Mrs. Gould in the shape of their faces and that special radiance they all seemed to possess.
Miss Archer said, “Lina has told us so much about you. I feel we’ve known each other for weeks.”
Lina. Angelina. The names echoed in his ears like a sigh. What had she told them about him? Good things, by their smiles. False things, in other words.
He shook her hand next. “Pleased to meet you, Miss Archer.” He tilted his head politely. “Mr. Archer.” He’d never been so grateful for the rituals of courtesy, drilled into him every Sunday at his father’s side. They gave him time to collect himself.
He looked past them to the man with the box and managed a smile. “We weren’t properly introduced the other night.”
The man set his box on the floor and held out a hand. “Gabriel Sandy, at your service.” His grip was powerful, but his smile was warm. They all seemed as glad to meet him as if he were a long-lost cousin. That meant they hadn’t heard the latest news from Canbury Park. Perhaps she really was a prisoner of sorts. There had been enough time to send a message, otherwise.
Mr. Sandy introduced the boy as Zeke and pointed toward the boxes with his chin. “There’s plenty more in the cab. I suppose you’ll want them upstairs.”
“Upstairs, in my —”
“Did you see her?” Miss Archer interrupted. “Were you able to make the rendezvous? How is she?”
“She looked well,” Moriarty said. Actually, she’d looked pinched and pale with dark shadows under her eyes, like a woman under tremendous strain. He hadn’t let himself notice it at the time; he’d been so furious about the silk and the feathers and the miles of manicured lawn. Too busy indulging in his self-righteous rant.
“They haven’t hurt her, have they?” Sandy asked.
“She said they had not mistreated her.” So this was how the best lies worked. One offered a single palatable morsel as a substitute for the whole ugly truth. “She is naturally anxious to come home.”
“Home?” The twins made faces at one another. “Maybe she means the Brown Hotel,” Sebastian said. “Or perhaps she’s planning to buy a house.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” Viola said. “What would she do with a house? I hope you’ll forgive us dropping in on you like this, Professor. We haven’t heard from Lina yet, but it’s so difficult for her to send messages. They’re keeping her under close watch. But the way she’s talked about you, we knew you’d be willing to help us. We really can’t wait now that she’s in trouble too. We have a four-wheeler full of boxes out there.”
They all smiled at him as if he were one of them, part of their mob or gang or whatever the term was. Beaming faces, kindly faces, expecting him to do — what?
Moriarty’s mind raced. He looked at the boxes, the captain, the boy, and the twins and understood in a flash what they wanted. They’d brought him the stolen account books. They needed his help examining them. What had she said to him Saturday night? That it wasn’t her secret. It must belong to one of these people, then; most likely the sister or the brother. But what could this pretty pair have to do with Teaberry’s companies?
Then he remembered that the newspapers had reported that correspondence was being stolen as well. Sir Julian had hinted about Teaberry getting his hands on government secrets somehow. Mrs. Gould had told him her sister was the mistress of a member of the House of Lords. Might Lord Somebody also be connected with the Foreign Office?
She had reasons, she’d said. Not her secret, she’d said. Why can’t you just trust me, she’d said. He’d ignored all that, swept it aside, focused on his own offended self-regard, his trivial confusion, his jealousy. He’d let himself be consumed by it and lost all capacity for reason.
Who are you? he’d demanded. Well, now he had a better question: Who was he?
Perhaps he could put something right. He didn’t know what they were looking for, but he knew what he wanted to find: evidence of financial crimes worth killing to protect. He’d wanted a crack at those books and here they were, delivered straight to his doorstep. “Of course I’ll help you. My rooms are on the first floor.”
The captain picked up his box again. Moriarty took the smaller one from the boy. He would have to think of a way to find out what they were looking for without exposing his ignorance. He tried a probe. “Do we need evidence against Teaberry alone, or will any of his front-sheeters do?”
“Oscar Teaberry?” Mrs. Peacock emerged from the depths of the house. She stood with a hand on her hip, surveying the scene in her front hall. Her gaze fell upon the young Adon
is and a smitten expression stole ten years from her face. “Sebastian Archer, as I live and breathe. I didn’t believe that silly chit, but here you are.”
Moriarty set his box on the stairs and performed the introductions.
Mrs. Peacock greeted each of the intruders without turning a hair. “You mentioned Oscar Teaberry. Is he a friend of yours?” Her pale blue eyes glittered. “If so, I must ask you all to leave my house at once.”
Another victim? Moriarty took a leap. “On the contrary; these people have been grievously injured by him. I have also recently been entangled by his schemes. We obtained these account books by means I prefer not to explain at the moment. We intend to study them for evidence of crimes for which we can hold Mr. Teaberry accountable in a court of law.” That was his plan, anyway.
She held his gaze for a long moment. Then she presented him with the second surprise of the day. “It’s about time someone did. You’ll find the dining room more suitable, I believe, and it will save you climbing the stairs with those boxes.”
She drew a bunch of keys from her pocket and opened a door. Leading them in, she took a match from an enameled box on the mantel and lit the gas lamps on the inside wall. The room filled with warm light. She whisked a cloth from the long table and bundled it into her arms. “I haven’t used this room since Mr. Peacock passed. I can’t think of a more fitting reason to open it again.” She nodded at Moriarty. “I’ll go shake some sense into that girl and bring you some tea.”
She left them with a lingering glance at Sebastian Archer. The men made several trips to bring in the boxes, with Viola directing from the stoop. At one point, Moriarty found himself alone with Sebastian while they unpacked some of the books onto the table.
“This is awfully decent of you, Professor,” the young man said. “All things considered. You’re not too terribly shocked, I hope.”
Moriarty took his best guess. “Blackmail is despicable. I can only imagine how upsetting this must be for your family.”
Sebastian’s eyes seemed wiser at close quarters. He smiled, understanding the unspoken words. “She didn’t tell you how I got us into this mess, did she? Still trying to protect me, even when she’s in the soup herself. That’s our Lina.”
“We hadn’t much time together,” Moriarty said. Because he had stormed away before she had a chance to tell her side of the story.
“No, of course not.” Sebastian gave Moriarty a sidelong look. “Well, I think you should know it all. You might choose to let me sink and that would be your right.” He proceeded to tell the tale of a trusting pair of young men falling into the clutches of a wily villain. It was an old tale and not an unfamiliar one. But when he mentioned the name of his lover’s father — the source of the secrets — Moriarty’s jaw dropped.
“I’ve disgusted you,” Sebastian said. “I knew it.”
At first, Moriarty was nonplussed, but then he realized Sebastian was referring to his intimate relationship with Sir Joseph’s son. “Nonsense.” He waved his hand to dismiss that trivial item. “I went to a public school. Intra-masculine affairs are nothing to me.”
Sandy entered the room with one more box. “I tried to explain that to them, but they thought with the vicarage and all . . . ”
“Long past.” Moriarty smiled at the young man. “No, I was shocked to learn your friend’s father’s name. I recognize it, naturally, as well as his position in government. I’m appalled at the thought of a man like Oscar Teaberry getting his hands on secrets of that importance. That could be dangerous for our soldiers and our diplomats abroad.”
Viola and the boy entered the room with two more small cases. Sandy set them on the table beside his last box and sent the boy out to mind the horses. He surveyed the lot with a wondering eye. “How many people have been harmed by Teaberry’s machinations?”
“Too many.” Mrs. Peacock came in with a well-laden tray, followed by the housemaid with another one. The housemaid kept her eyes on her work as she transferred dishes to the table. She allowed herself one melting glance at Sebastian as she took both trays and left.
Mrs. Peacock pulled covers from chairs and held them in her arms, her gaze turned toward the curtained windows. “Oscar Teaberry murdered my husband.”
Every jaw dropped in astonishment.
Moriarty recovered first. “What happened?”
Sebastian took the cloths from her arms and dropped them on the floor. Then he pulled out a chair and guided her into it. Viola took the chair beside her, lowering herself into it at the same rate of descent. She took one of Mrs. Peacock’s hands with both her own. Sebastian kept his hand on the back of her chair while he gazed down at her with somber sympathy. The golden pair had wrapped her in their warm regard like a cashmere blanket.
“Tell us everything, Mrs. Peacock,” Viola said, giving the hand a little pat. “You’ll feel so much better.”
So this was how they did it. They surrounded you with sympathy, drew forth your secrets, and made you love them for it. These Archers worked their manipulative charm without a plan or a moment’s hesitation. What had Mrs. Gould called it? “Reading the mark”?
But what harm did they do? They weren’t picking Mrs. Peacock’s pockets or teasing out her bank statements. They might be playing her, but they gave full value in return.
Mrs. Peacock sniffed. “Mr. Peacock took his own life, my dears. He shot himself in the upstairs bathroom, minutes before the police came to arrest him for embezzlement. The bank blamed him for the whole fiasco and it’s true his signature was on the accounts. But he was driven into it — blackmailed is the word I’d use — by that greedy toad Oscar Teaberry, who vanished right before the annual review. He was somewhere in America when the shortfall was exposed.”
Viola frowned prettily. “We are all terribly sorry for your loss.”
Mrs. Peacock nodded at her with a faint smile, but her eyes were still focused on the past. “Mr. Peacock had risen faster than any clerk in the history of the bank. He was that talented. They appointed him Vice President for Foreign Investments. That’s when Teaberry set his hooks in him, flattering him and making him offers that we should have known were too good to be true. By the time we did know, the bank was so badly overinvested in Teaberry’s trumped-up silver mines there was no turning back.”
Pink spots of anger bloomed in her papery cheeks. “The bank even honored my husband at the annual Christmas dinner. I wore a gown of canary-colored silk, the most beautiful dress I’ve ever owned. The bank president himself made the first toast. ‘Eldon Peacock does the work of two men,’ he said.”
Her eyes met Moriarty’s, and she smiled grimly. “Two men, they said. Well, little did they know I was the second man. I balanced the books right here in this house until the trouble started.” She sat tall in her chair and looked around the room, taking in each member of their odd alliance. “What I put together, I can take apart. Between you and me, Professor, never you fear. We’ll get to the bottom of these books.”
She directed them to sort the materials by owner and then by date. While they worked, they told her what they had managed to learn about relationships among the board members. Sandy did most of the sorting. Moriarty grabbed a fistful of Nettlefield’s correspondence and began opening each letter, making separate stacks by topic on a pair of empty chairs. Sebastian leaned an elbow on the mantelpiece and helped Viola elicit Mrs. Peacock’s whole life history, including the revelation that her late husband’s creditors were about to repossess her house.
“I didn’t know how to tell you, Professor,” she said. “It won’t be for a few months yet. I’ll do everything I can to help you find a suitable place.”
Sebastian flashed her another of his patented smiles. “I shouldn’t worry about it, Mrs. P. Lina will come up with something. She always does. She would never allow you to lose your house, especially not while her professor is living in it.” He shot Moriarty a brotherly wink.
Her professor? Moriarty’s world turned upside again. The more he le
arned about Mrs. Gould, the less he understood her.
Chapter Thirty
Moriarty worked with Mrs. Peacock at her dining table until the morning light overtook the lamps in spite of the heavy brocade drapes. He’d stoked himself with strong tea and gone to the office, grateful for the distraction of his job. Engines were straightforward matters of physics, a striking contrast to the tangled webs of chicanery and fraud they’d struggled to trace last night.
They hadn’t found Sebastian’s letters or anything strong enough to force the promoter’s hand yet, but Moriarty had gained a new respect for his landlady. She knew her way around a bank book, all right. She would find something, if there was anything to be found.
By the end of the day, Moriarty felt drained. He needed exercise to clear his mind and prepare his body for sleep. He went straight from the office to the London Athletic Club and hired a rowing costume from the attendant in the changing room. When he walked down to the bank, he found that all the single sculls had already been taken out. He stood scowling at the gray river, too weary to formulate a new plan.
“I say! Hallo, Professor! Fancy meeting you here.” Mark Ramsay’s voice penetrated Moriarty’s mental fog. Ramsay’s gaze took in his costume and gestured at his own jersey and breeches. “I see we’re in the same boat, ha-ha! They don’t expect any singles back for at least a half an hour. I don’t suppose you’d like to share a double?”
They got a double scull out of the shed and into the water and took up their positions, with Moriarty in back and Ramsay in front. They rowed in silence for a while, learning each other’s rhythm. The repetitive motion warmed Moriarty’s blood and calmed his mind, as it always did, bringing his powers of reason back to life.
