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

by Anna Castle

  “Convenient for you, if a trifle embarrassing for me.” Holmes rose and strolled to the mantelpiece, where he drifted his fingers across the slew of objects until they landed on his cigarette case. He offered it to his guest. “Smoke?”

  Moriarty shook his head. Holmes shrugged, extracted a cigarette, and lit it with a match. He leaned an elbow on the mantel, blowing smoke in exaggerated puffs toward the window. “Well, I am sometimes wrong, though you wouldn’t know it from Watson’s little stories. But what could cause our imperturbable professor of mathematics to risk the underground railway at this hour in order to consult with a man he has every reason to regard as an antagonist? Judging by the level of your distress —”

  He broke off with a bark of laughter. “Come, come, my dear Professor! Every man and woman who shared your car on the Metropolitan line must have taken note of your distracted condition.” He spoke rapidly yet with extreme fluency, flicking his long fingers at Moriarty as he delivered each item of evidence. “The punched ticket protrudes from your breast pocket. You have smears of coal dust on your left ankle and your left sleeve, undoubtedly from the foul condition of the platform at the Baker Street station. The seasoned traveler knows to avoid it. Your hair is still damp where it was covered by your hat. Knowing that you maintain a membership in the London Athletic Club, I assume you were engaged in your favorite sport of rowing when something inspired you to dash across the city to see me. Something that struck you most forcefully since you did not take the time to dry your hair or to fasten your jacket properly. You’ve missed the third button. Your tie is twisted. And your hat has been dropped, stepped on, snatched up without regard to the shape of the brim, and mashed back upon your head. I hope it wasn’t a favorite because I fear it may be unsalvageable.”

  Moriarty was beyond caring about his appearance and he would endure any amount of derision to save Angelina. He deserved much worse. In fact, he welcomed the contempt and the verbal castigation. He was the son of a vicar, at bottom. If he could suffer enough, endure enough, perhaps he could earn Angelina’s salvation.

  “I admit to the distress. I admit if freely. I need your help, Holmes, if you’re willing, and in fit condition.”

  “I am fitter in this condition than most men in the pink of sobriety. Allow me to demonstrate by deducing the nature of your problem. Since you have evidently saved yourself from the noose, it must concern someone else, someone dear to you. Not a relative — you visit your parents once a year at Christmas and have nothing otherwise to do with your family. Not a colleague — your fellows at the Patent Office barely know you. Not a friend — you don’t seem to have any. A woman, then.” He studied Moriarty’s face for reactions. Whatever he saw made him chuckle. “Do I surprise you? I believe I can put a name to the woman: Mrs. Angelina Gould. Ha! I see by your gaping mouth that I have struck the mark. Hardly a fair example of my talents, Professor. You don’t meet many people of any description, as I discovered in my investigation, and vanishingly few persons whose attributes might compel such passionate attachment on such short acquaintance.”

  Moriarty was no longer fooled by Holmes’s tricks. “She’s better at this game than you are.” He pointed at the letters pinned to the wooden mantelpiece with a jackknife. “The topmost letter displays Nettlefield’s coat of arms. He wrote to you asking you to investigate Hainstone’s murder, didn’t he? He’s trying to cast the blame on Mrs. Gould.”

  “Very clever! Yes, I found three letters from his lordship awaiting me on my return from Paris, demanding that I come at once to produce evidence against your Mrs. Gould. I sent a telegram refusing the commission. I’ve had enough of self-important men with grudges and I am not the agent of revenge. My methods seek only the truth, whatever it may be.”

  “The truth is all I want,” Moriarty said, relieved. “I know she’s innocent. I believe Nettlefield did it himself. But how can I —”

  “Of course you suspect him. He’s your nemesis!” Holmes threw his cigarette into the fireplace and lit another one.

  “I don’t have a nemesis,” Moriarty said, trying to tamp down the detective’s wild mood. He managed a dismissive chuckle. “We don’t like each other, but it’s hardly a struggle to the death.”

  “Isn’t it?” Holmes regarded Moriarty with a mocking smile. “Two men have died as the result of your conflict. I confess I did not fully recognize the strength of your attachment to the American heiress until today.” He wagged his finger. “It does connect the other pieces of the puzzle, doesn’t it? Can it be a coincidence that the woman with whom you lunched shortly after Lord Carling’s dramatic death now stands accused of a murder which conveniently casts doubt on your guilt?”

  “Not a coincidence,” Moriarty said, his blood freezing. He should never have come here. He’d awakened a tiger that would have been better left undisturbed. “Someone else is manipulating these events. Neither I nor Mrs. Gould has committed any crime.” He heard the lie as uttered it.

  Holmes heard it too. “Are you quite certain of that?” He grinned, showing an expanse of white teeth. “Did you think it would escape my notice that the Bookkeeper Burglaries stopped on the very day you were recruited to identify the perpetrators? Cherchez la femme, as they say in France.” He stubbed his cigarette out on the mantelpiece. “You know, my dear Professor, I believe that once I’ve recovered from this little interlude, I will look into the situation surrounding the intriguing Mrs. Angelina Gould. It does seem to have several features of interest, now that you’ve brought it to my attention.”

  Chapter Thirty-Three

  Angelina needed every scrap of her experience as an actress to get through dinner that night. She sat spooning soup into her mouth, responding politely when spoken to, smiling at nothing otherwise. Reginald was the soul of courtesy, offering to send for more bread or a different wine. He seemed cheerful, even gay, treating her like a fiancée whom he had finally persuaded to visit the family retreat. Had he truly forgotten his hideous assault on her person? Or worse, did he think that was a normal form of courtship?

  Reginald beckoned the footman to refill her glass. “My father has news for us, my darling. Something good, I hope.” He winked at her. She had to bite the inside of her lip to keep from flinching.

  Lord Nettlefield had said little during the meal. He’d sat in his Louis Quinze armchair at the head of the table, smiling to himself. She had no idea why. Was he happy? Angry? Happy because he was angry?

  She and Lady Rochford barely had time for a single cup of coffee before the men joined them in the east drawing room. Nettlefield ignored his aunt, flicking his fingers at Angelina as if she were a servant. “I’d like a word with you in my library.”

  He ushered her before him, crossing the hall in silence but for the clapping of their footsteps. Entering the library, he dismissed the secretary. The poor man had taken his dinner from a tray while working. Angelina’s eyes were drawn to the open pages of an account book. She pulled her gaze away to offer Lord Nettlefield a questioning smile.

  “Sit,” he said, waving at a chair before his desk. He walked around to the other side, picked up a sheet of paper, and read it, still standing, chuckling at whatever he read. Finally, he turned toward her. “I’ve had an answer, at last, from the Pinkerton Agency in New York. Have you heard of them?”

  Who hadn’t? Pinkertons were notorious in the United States, especially in the West. Her stomach clenched. What had he learned?

  “I wrote to them as soon as that fool son of mine began to show an interest in you. I had my doubts from the beginning and now they’ve been confirmed. You’re a fraud, Angelina. I know all about you.”

  Angelina held his gaze, willing herself to stay calm. He couldn’t know everything. The Pinkertons couldn’t go farther back than San Francisco.

  “Your name isn’t Gould. I’m not sure what I should call you.” Nettlefield wagged his finger at her. “That mining engineer never married you. Too smart, I’d wager. Your so-called cousin, John Jay Gould, has never h
eard of you or your paramour. He said, and I quote, ‘There are Goulds coming out of the woodwork these days.’ Not a flattering image, is it? You’re not an heiress; far from it. You’re not even an American.”

  “I am. I was born in Philadelphia.”

  “Were you?” Nettlefield frowned at his telegram. “Not as thorough as they claim.”

  She shrugged. “Backstage at the Chestnut Street Theatre. I can’t think how they missed that little tidbit. But we were back in England before my first birthday, so perhaps the omission can be excused.” She tilted her chin defiantly.

  He dismissed her bravado with a curl of the lip. “At any rate, you met Victor Gould in San Francisco, where you were going by the name —” He consulted the sheet again. “Angelina della Rosa. Very colorful. Victor seems to have been a real engineer, although he’d been involved in a few shady ventures even before he got himself entangled with a ballet girl.”

  “I was singing the lead role in La Traviata on the stage of the Adelphi!” Angelina could tolerate many insults, but that went beyond the pale. “San Francisco is the Paris of the West.”

  “Still no place for a respectable woman. You were happy enough to leave your operatic career and follow Gould to a barbarous place called Santa Fe in the territory of New Mexico. A place outside the reach of the United States authorities. What were you running from, I wonder?”

  “Nothing. Victor had a job surveying silver mines.”

  “He must not have been very good at it. He left you nearly penniless when he died. You took your talents to the Eastern Seaboard, where you lived on other people’s — assumptions, shall we say. The same game you’ve been playing here. You circulate a plausible tale, appear in a plausible costume, and let gullible society women imagine the rest. Your dear friend in New York was horrified to learn how she’d been deceived. She told my agent you had accepted her hospitality while searching for a long-lost brother. Do you even have a brother, Angelina?”

  She said nothing. She wouldn’t offer her darling angels up to for his examination.

  Nettlefield shrugged. “Having worn out your welcome in America, you crossed to England to play your game. A new arena with fresh victims. You might have succeeded if you’d kept away from my son. You’re nothing more than a confidence trickster, Angelina.” He shook the letter at her. “I could have you arrested on the evidence in this wire alone. The Pinkerton man is prepared to sail at my request to bring testimony against you in court.”

  Angelina’s mouth went dry with fear. Why hadn’t he already brought charges against her? He’d been eager enough to throw her in jail last Sunday. “What do you want from me?”

  Nettlefield chuckled. “You’re quick-witted. I appreciate that. It will make you more useful.” He came around to her side and leaned a hip against the desk, looming over her. She had to tilt her head back to look into his face. “You’re mine now, Angelina. You’ll do as I tell you or spend the rest of your life in prison.”

  Trapped! Just like Sebastian. She’d concocted this elaborate ruse, spending months working her way into society, lying to friends, committing real crimes, only to get herself caught in the same net. “What do you expect me to do?”

  “I expect you to go where I tell you and do what I ask, without fuss. You’ll have to marry someone to give you a cover. Not my son; you can forget about that.” He caught her breath of relief and grinned again. “Although there’s no reason he shouldn’t enjoy himself before you leave us. He does hate to be denied his little pleasures, and since you’re certainly not a lady . . .”

  Angelina recoiled, unable to mask her fear and disgust.

  He chuckled at her distress. “He won’t damage you, not visibly. I’ll find you a husband I can control. Someone who won’t mind if his wife spends much of her time in other men’s beds. Because that’s where you’ll be, teasing out the secrets I need. I’ve long suspected that Teaberry has an agent inside the Foreign Office, bringing him juicy bits of information at the opportune moment. He doesn’t always share what he learns. Now I’ll have my own inside source.”

  His excited gaze roamed across her face and figure. “You’re perfect for my purposes, a beautiful woman with your particular skills. I’ll have Teaberry dancing to my tune for a change.”

  “I won’t do it.” Angelina lifted her chin. “I’ll simply leave the country.”

  “And I’ll simply have you brought back in restraints.” Nettlefield shook the letter at her again. “You’ve defrauded influential persons in America, and I can prove it. What would I find if I put an inquiry agent on your trail in England?”

  She pressed her lips together.

  “Many interesting things, I perceive.” He sniffed. “I don’t see why you should scruple. It’s much the same as what you’ve been doing all your life. Only now you’ll by playing your tricks in the service of a larger purpose — my purpose. I own you, Angelina, or whatever your name is. You’re mine.”

  Chapter Thirty-Four

  “Sandy! Gabriel Sandy! Where are you, you godforsaken son of a she-devil?”

  Moriarty ran through the choppy streets around Covent Garden, shouting himself hoarse, weeping into the rain that streamed down his face. He’d come down to the theater district in the forlorn hope of finding allies to help him rescue Angelina, but he seldom ventured into these precincts at night. In his distracted state, the city had turned foreign and menacing. He had soon lost his way. He couldn’t find anything or anyone to help him in this dark labyrinth.

  He stumbled on, aiming for a cluster of blurry lights that he hoped would mark the Royal Opera House. There must be hansom cabs there, lots of them. Someone must know Gabriel Sandy.

  The man was his last hope. If he couldn’t find him, he’d have to storm Canbury Park alone, on foot, armed with a clutch of pencils, he supposed. He owned no weapons and wouldn’t know how to use them if he did. Never had the quiet, sober life of a mathematician seemed so futile!

  He’d been mad to think Sherlock Holmes would come to his aid. The eccentric detective had chosen him as an antagonist from the moment they’d met and he wasn’t the sort who could admit an error. All Moriarty had achieved by his rash attempt to overcome that prejudice was to set the sleuth-hound on Angelina’s track.

  He slipped on the wet cobblestones and scraped against a spiked iron railing. He spotted a man across the street wearing three coats whose hair looked ginger under the streetlamp. He dashed through the mud and grabbed him by the shoulders, wrenching him bodily around to stare into his face. His eyes met an angry snarl in a tangle of beard. Wrong man.

  “Gerrofit!” The man cursed and shoved him away.

  “Sorry. So sorry.” Moriarty rubbed his hands over his wet scalp. His hat was long gone.

  He choked on a cloud of greasy smoke emitted from a vent beside a steamy window. Some workman’s cafe. He shouted “Sandy!” at the window as he jogged past, doubting anyone could hear him. He splashed through a puddle of filth, staining his trousers to the knee. “Sandy, God rot your bones! Where are you?”

  A small hand fastened onto his coat and shook it. “Mister! Mister!”

  Moriarty looked down on a gap-toothed boy wearing a frock coat two sizes too big. He blinked at him for a moment, then sighed and fished a penny from his pocket.

  “Not that,” the boy said, but kept the coin. “You’re to come wiv me. Cap’n Sandy sent me.”

  “Thank God!” Moriarty swept the boy into his arms, hugging him fiercely to his chest. Setting him back on the ground, he found a shilling in his pocket and pressed it into the grimy hand.

  “Don’t cry, Mister.” The boy patted at him. “’Tain’t seemly, a posh gent like you.”

  Moriarty allowed the boy to lead him back to the cafe. Sandy and Zeke were both there, peering into the rain from the doorway. They shook their heads as they looked him up and down.

  Zeke whistled. “Lookit ’im! Mud on ’is face. Trousers ruint. And where’s ’is ’at?”

  “Come in, Professor,”
Sandy said. The worry written across his face sobered Moriarty. He must look like a madman escaped from Bethlem Royal Hospital.

  The cafe was hot and stuffy after the rain-swept streets. Moriarty shed his coat and scarf before sliding into the booth beside Zeke. Sandy ordered three pots of strong tea. He offered to add a hearty breakfast to the order, but Moriarty shook his head. He couldn’t eat; he might never eat again.

  “What’s happened, Professor? It must be something dire. Did they try to arrest you again? Do you need a place to hide?”

  “No, no! God, no! I am perfectly safe. Snug in my secure lodgings with my secure job. Heaven forfend that should be disrupted! No, no. I am fine — apart from being damned into the lowest circle of hell.”

  Sandy and Zeke traded dark looks. “Shall I run for a pill-pusher?” Zeke asked.

  “I don’t need a doctor,” Moriarty said. He laughed bitterly. “I don’t even need a judge. I can judge myself. The judges of hell will judge me. I’m the vilest, lowest, most despicable —”

  “Tell us what happened, Professor,” Sandy said. “We have no idea what you’re babbling about.”

  “You don’t?” Surely Angelina’s peril had been blazoned across the skies.

  Their tea came. Zeke ladled sugar into a big cup and pushed it toward Moriarty. “Drink it up, Professor. ’Ot and sweet; that’s the ticket.”

  Moriarty sipped at the scalding brew. The familiar fragrance alone restored a semblance of sanity. “I blamed her, Sandy. I railed at her. I accused her of the vilest things. Then I left her there, at the mercy of those . . .” He shuddered and took another sip. It burned his tongue. He welcomed the pain. “Of course she’s innocent, completely innocent; a fool would have known it. I should have trusted her the way she trusted me. She was right, I was wrong, and now they’ve got her. I can’t bear to think about what they’ll do.”