Moriarty Meets His Match: A Professor & Mrs. Moriarty Mystery (The Professor & Mrs. Moriarty Mystery Series Book 1) (15 page)

Chapter Sixteen

James Moriarty climbed the well-polished stairs to his rooms. The beeswax and lemon smelled like home to him now. He inhabited the first floor of a respectable house in a Georgian terrace in Bayswater, owned by a respectable widow named Mrs. Peacock. His colleagues had directed him to her, an acquaintance of their landlady or some such connection.

He unlocked his door and hung his hat and coat on the rack by the door. Glancing in the mirror above the bare, polished console table, he smoothed what remained of his hair. He was sadly in need of a barber. Had Mrs. Gould noticed? He could go for weeks without looking in a mirror apart from basic grooming, and even then he usually had half an eye on the newspaper.

On an ordinary evening, he would change into his dressing gown and slippers and settle into the wingbacked armchair by the fire to read a scientific journal or an engineering magazine. Once or twice a week, he would go to his club after supper. He washed his hands in the bedroom, then came back to the sitting room and poured himself a small whiskey and soda. He sat in his chair and picked up his current journal but put it down again after a few moments.

The words swam on the page. His vision was filled with the image of Mrs. Gould’s amber eyes set in her perfect oval face, framed by the black veil. He could smell her gardenia scent in his memory and feel an echo of the warmth of her slender body seated next to him.

Sipping his whiskey, he reviewed the conversation in Russell Square. She wanted to use him to stay abreast of the burglary investigation; toward what end, he had no idea other than that it must involve Oscar Teaberry and Lord Nettlefield. He supposed he should be flattered that she would imagine Scotland Yard choosing to share their progress with him.

Perhaps he should look into the burglaries, if only to give him an excuse to see her again. Her interest in him extended exactly as far as his usefulness; that was obvious to him now. But it didn’t surprise him or even particularly upset him as the truth sank fully in. A woman with lords at her feet would hardly kick them aside for a patent examiner. Now that he understood her intentions, he could maintain the appropriate degree of detachment. When again would he have the opportunity to converse — or more — with a woman of her qualities?

She was without question the most extraordinary woman he would ever meet. Her intelligence showed in her ready apprehension, and her every gesture revealed grace and gentility. He couldn’t stop seeing her and hearing her in his mind. Her eyes, her voice, her scent invaded him like a spirit in one of Sheridan Le Fanu’s ghost stories.

He chuckled and cast a wary eye at his Scotch. He’d be writing sonnets next if he let his imagination go galloping off like that. He hadn’t read a ghost story since boyhood.

If only he could be certain she wasn’t somehow aligned with Lord Nettlefield, he would let her entangle him any way she liked. Better to be manipulated by a beautiful woman than ignored. But what else could explain her interest in the burglaries? She had probably been placed in Cheshire House by Nettlefield in order to do — what?

A rap on the door heralded his supper. The housemaid entered with a large tray, followed by Mrs. Peacock. Moriarty rose to take the tray while the women moved a lamp and replaced the cloth on the round table before the bay windows. They set his place for him and uncovered the serving dish. Then the maid took the empty tray and left. Mrs. Peacock waited while he sat, looking after the girl with a slight frown.

“Mmmm.” Moriarty savored the aroma rising from his plate. “My favorite: pork pie with cabbage and potatoes.” He sat, opened his napkin with a flourish, and picked up his fork.

Mrs. Peacock set a fist on her wide hip and shook her head. They’d enacted this little play before, which made it none the less satisfying for both. “I wish you’d let me give you something better now and then, Professor. A gentleman like you ought to have a nice joint for his supper, or a pair of capons. All you ever want is sausage or pie from the cook shop.”

“I’m a simple man, Mrs. Peacock. I have simple tastes.” Which was the simple truth. He’d done for himself for years at university and retained the liking for plain food. “I never say no to your fancy puddings, do I?”

“Not unless they really are fancy.” She watched him take the first bite. “As long as you’re happy, I suppose. But I wouldn’t like for you to think there was any need for you to be frugal, not on my account. A man needs a good meal at the end of the day. When you want something different, you’ve only to ask.”

“I promise to do so.” He spooned mustard onto his plate and flipped open the book he’d brought to the table, then realized Mrs. Peacock still hovered. “Was there something you wanted to discuss apart from my low tastes in cuisine?”

“Never low, Professor. Not you. You’re a gentleman to the fingertips.” She smoothed her spotless apron. “I wouldn’t dream of bothering you with this sort of thing as a rule, but my housemaid, Mary—” She faltered.

Moriarty barely noticed the housemaid most days. She generally did her job while he was away at his. “Yes?”

“She’s taken up with a new beau this past week. A clerk at the grocer’s over on the Edgware Road. She met him roller-skating on Sunday evening. Well, I wouldn’t mention it, as I said, but he walked her home from the shops today, and as they passed under the dining room windows, I heard them talking. He was asking about you.”

“Me? Why?” The small hairs prickled on the back of Moriarty’s neck.

“Well, I don’t know. That’s just it. Why should a grocer’s clerk be interested in my gentleman? He sounded as if he were just making conversation, chaffing her about her job, flirting a bit. You know the sort of things young men say to a girl they like.”

Moriarty nodded. He had little personal experience of such conversations, but he understood the general principles. “What questions did he ask?”

“Oh, where you’d come from, how long you’d been here, whether you went out much in the evenings. He seemed to know something about you, Professor. He mentioned your ‘high-domed forehead,’ if you’ll forgive me for repeating such an unflattering description.”

“I’ve heard worse.” Moriarty chuckled, pretending a lack of concern. Only one person would be spying on him in such a manner.

“I should certainly think not. You’re quite a handsome gentleman in my view, if you’ll pardon me again. At any rate, this clerk was one to talk. He was nicely dressed enough, tall and not bad looking. But he had no right to throw stones. He had a great hawk-like nose and very sharp eyes.”

Holmes.

Chapter Seventeen

Moriarty ate his supper with greater dispatch and less enjoyment than usual. Holmes had gone to some length to gain information about his domestic situation. How far would he go to investigate his past? How long would it take him to uncover the truth about his history with Lord Nettlefield? He must get out ahead in this race to expose Lord Carling’s murderer before his whole sad story could be revealed.

He finished his pudding and got straight up to don his hat and coat. He walked to the corner and hailed a cab to take him to Mayfair. The Pythagoras Club, near the Royal Academy, presented an unassuming facade to passersby. Inside, however, could be found some of the most acute minds in London — or the world. Founded early in the current century, it provided a place where men of science could converse informally with all the comforts of a good club: an excellent cellar, a variety of smoking materials, and a first-class dining room.

Few people knew about it since they had no need to advertise. Mathematicians, logicians, philosophers, and like-minded men comprised its membership. The ground floor held the dining room and a few small meeting rooms with long tables and slate boards. Fewer greater pleasures could be found than debating the fine points of an intricate proof with a mature brandy and a fine cigar to add savor to the discussion.

Moriarty went there every Wednesday and sometimes also on Friday or Saturday. He might content himself with a cigar and the latest papers or engage a fellow member in a game of chess. His favorite opponent was Sir Julian Kidwelly, Bart. Sir Julian had studied mathematics at University College, London. He’d moved from there to Gray’s Inn, whence he had been called to the bar. Then, instead of pursuing either of the careers for which he was eminently qualified, he had entered his father’s business. Kidwelly Senior was a wealthy shipping and banking magnate whose influence ranged as widely as his ships. Sir Julian’s role in the business consisted chiefly of analyzing foreign economic trends. He made regular contributions to the
National Review
and
The Economist.
He also consulted on a
sub rosa
basis to Parliamentary committees and high-ranking Cabinet ministers. He had an encyclopedic knowledge of the workings of financial systems both abroad and at home.

He and Moriarty shared a scientific interest in games of chance. They’d enjoyed a cordial correspondence about probability theory for many years, beginning back in Moriarty’s Cambridge days. Sir Julian had recommended him to the Pythagoras Club when he moved to London and was the closest thing he had to a friend.

Moriarty found him in their usual nook in the smoking room on the first floor, judiciously located with respect to warmth from the enormous fireplace and the view of the entrance. The chess board stood ready on a small table between two deep leather armchairs.

“Good evening.” Moriarty took his chair and asked the waiter for his usual brandy and cigar. He glanced at the chess board. “I wonder, Sir Julian, if we might forgo our game this evening. I’d like your advice about a rather intriguing puzzle. Through a series of coincidences, I find myself associated with the inquiries into the explosion at the International Inventions Exhibition last week.” He raised his eyebrows at the baronet.

“Ah, yes. I’ve read about it, naturally. The
Evening Standard
claims Scotland Yard no longer considers it an accident. The new theory is deliberate sabotage, motive unknown, although Irish terrorists have apparently been ruled out.”

“You surprise me,” Moriarty said. “I should have thought they’d try to keep all that under their hats.”

“The police are institutionally incapable of keeping secrets. There seems to be a direct line from Whitehall to Fleet Street.” Sir Julian gave Moriarty a quizzical look. “The reporter could not imagine who would commit such an extraordinary act. Perhaps you have a few ideas?”

Sir Julian was fat, bald, and over forty, but he dressed like a young swell in silk waistcoats and ascot ties. He affected an abstracted, almost effeminate manner, but his keen gray eyes missed nothing. He would respect a confidence — up to a point he would determine for himself — but he wouldn’t impart information without gaining some in return.

Moriarty drew on his cigar, savoring the smoke before expelling it slowly. He decided to tell the whole story as briefly as possible, stepping lightly around his own motives. “My informant believes the explosion was a deliberate act of murder.”

Sir Julian tucked his sagging chins against his snowy cravat. “Now you surprise me. I must thank you. That is a rare occurrence. May I know the name of this informant?”

“A gentleman named Sherlock Holmes, who introduced himself as a consulting detective. He and his colleague, a Dr. John Watson, arrived at the Exhibition in the train of a Scotland Yard inspector.”

“Sherlock Holmes?” Sir Julian frowned. “Isn’t he the man who solved the Farintosh tiara case?”

“I wouldn’t know. I don’t know anything about him.” Hearing the truth in that remark, Moriarty wanted to kick himself. Why hadn’t he gone straight out to study back newspapers for mentions of Holmes? The sleuth-hound was stalking him and making little effort to conceal it, yet he hadn’t even attempted to verify his legitimacy. “I only know what I have learned from passing a few hours in his company. He seems quite eccentric.”

“So I’ve heard. He’s also said to be brilliant and relentless.”

“He is persistent.” Moriarty chuckled as if he didn’t much care. “I believe he’s Nettlefield’s instrument in this case.”

“Not he! He’s no one’s tool, from what I’ve heard. Scotland Yard tolerates him because he produces results when everyone else has failed, but they don’t control him. Once he takes a case, he pursues it in his own way to whatever end he deems fitting.” Sir Julian gave Moriarty a penetrating look. “I shouldn’t like to have Sherlock Holmes on my trail if I had secrets to keep.”

“I’ll bear that in mind.” Moriarty took a sip of brandy to shield his expression. It wouldn’t be like Lord Nettlefield to choose an agent he couldn’t direct, but perhaps his arrogance prevented him from recognizing a truly independent spirit. His lordship wouldn’t understand the idea of a man not motivated by money or power.

Moriarty resumed his tale. “For the present, I’ve been serving as a sort of consultant to the consultant. The engine that exploded was one of mine, you know, a spherical design. That’s why I was there Friday morning — to see the demonstration.”

“Naturally,” Sir Julian said drily. “And the fact that Lord Nettlefield was one of the company directors would merely have been a coincidence.”

Moriarty smiled, although the baronet had struck perilously close to the mark. How much did he know about his history with Nettlefield? The contretemps at the Royal Society was public knowledge, at least in these circles, but he had never told Sir Julian exactly why he’d left his position at Durham. He’d merely implied he’d grown bored with teaching and wanted to live closer to the center of affairs, the same excuse he’d given Holmes.

“It’s no secret that I disdain the man,” he said. “He’s an utter fraud. I went to the demonstration expecting the engine to fail. Looking forward to it, in fact. I never expected the thing to explode. That was a horrific experience, I don’t mind telling you. I went back when the crowds cleared to see if I could determine what happened and got swept up by Holmes and his inquiry. Now I’d like to see it through. There’s no doubt the engine was sabotaged. If the intention was to kill, it is a truly diabolical method.”

“They should welcome your assistance given your knowledge of that particular engine.”

Moriarty shrugged. “I merely processed the patent application, which included some important features left out of the Exhibition catalog. I took it upon myself to remedy that little defect.” He told the story of the indicator one more time and then explained the role of the false sensor plate.

“So you see,” he finished, “I spent a long week worrying that my ill-considered corrective had caused a man’s death. By the time I established my innocence to my own satisfaction, I had aroused Holmes’s interest. Now I fear I shall have no peace until I solve this mystery myself. I believe the key lies in the financial connections among these men since Lord Carling and Lord Nettlefield were both on Oscar Teaberry’s board of directors. That is the matter on which I wanted to consult you this evening.”

“You may be on the right track.” Sir Julian shifted his bulk slightly toward Moriarty, who closed the distance by leaning forward and resting one elbow on his knee. “Nettlefield is lobbying for a seat on the Board of Trade. He has some support, though you and I might find that hard to credit.”

“A seat on the board would give him tremendous inside knowledge, wouldn’t it?”

“Too much. In my opinion, no gentleman involved in commerce, at least not to such an extent as Nettlefield, should be allowed to sit on the board. The temptations are too great.”

“He’ll make no effort to resist those temptations,” Moriarty said. “And he must have a pressing need for money for that campaign. Men at that level don’t sell their influence cheaply.”

“It’s never that blatant, but you’re correct about the need for cash. It’s a matter of making the right sort of show, establishing the right sorts of relationships. Dinners and hunting parties, gifts presented in an offhand manner. Very expensive, but not subject to comment. I’m not the only one advising against him — Lord Brockaway is firmly opposed — but the tide seems to be turning in his favor.”

“Bad news for England if he wins. When will the decision be made?”

“Not until the last minute, I predict. Early August, right before Parliament closes.”

The waiter materialized before them, a trick the staff learned at every well-managed club. They never intruded on a conversation, but made themselves visible at judicious intervals in case a member wanted something. Moriarty asked for a round of Armagnac. The expensive drinks were part of the price of Sir Julian’s instruction.

The baronet asked, “Is Holmes certain Lord Carling was the intended victim? The
Standard
described his presence at the Exhibition Hall as ‘the hand of cruel fate,’ implying that someone else had been meant to pull that lever on Friday morning.”

“That officially remains an open question, although I am personally convinced he was not the target. No one could have expected him to be there.” Moriarty told the baronet what he had learned from Carling’s secretary. “The company promoter, Oscar Teaberry, was the one named in the catalog.”

“Yes, he and Nettlefield are thick as thieves.” Sir Julian winked. “I use that word advisedly. I lent my name to the prospectus for one of their gadgets to test my hypothesis. Sure enough, they collected a few thousand pounds of seed money and then folded up their tents. I can’t speak for the other front-sheeters, but I received only a token payment.”

“That does appear to be their pattern. Nettlefield might have been the intended target of the explosion. Apparently anyone could predict he would claim the right to do the honors at the demonstration.”

“Interesting.”

The conversation paused while they accepted their fresh drinks from the waiter.

“Which candidate do you prefer?” Sir Julian asked.

“I have no preference as yet. It’s a mistake to theorize with insufficient data. One inevitably begins to twist the facts to suit one’s theory. That’s Nettlefield’s flaw as a scientist.”

“I have witnessed that very phenomenon in the field of political economy.” Sir Julian sipped at his cognac, his eyes half closing while he savored the aroma.

Moriarty said, “The use of the term ‘sabotage’ implies a business rival, but I have learned about internal rivalries that seem more compelling to me. Lord Carling’s secretary let slip some details that suggest Nettlefield might have been cheating his colleagues.”

“I shouldn’t doubt it.” Sir Julian chuckled. “And Teaberry is undoubtedly cheating them all. There are tremendous profits to be made, especially in foreign investments. These companies have no oversight, and the government is always three steps behind. Rising nations like Chile and Australia are thirsting for capital. Fortunes can be made overnight. Teaberry made one earlier this year speculating in mining shares in Africa at precisely the right moment. He credited good luck combined with good instincts. I suspect he gained access to secret documents from the Foreign Office, but I haven’t been able to discover how he managed it. A special committee in the House of Lords, chaired by Lord Brockaway, is looking into the circumstances surrounding a cluster of foreign loans. There have been an unusual number of defaults in recent years and yet syndicates like Teaberry’s suffer no setbacks.” Sir Julian shot a sharp glance at Moriarty from under his thick brows. “That should also be kept under your hat. If Brockaway’s hand is tipped, his targets may slip through his grasp.”

“You may rely on my discretion,” Moriarty said. “Several names appear regularly on Teaberry’s front sheets in addition to Carling and Nettlefield: Lord Hainstone, Colonel Oxwich, and one or two others of similar standing. The motive for the murder may lie within the board. My questions for you are these: Could some members be cheating others? If so, how? Could there be criminal activity that only some members know about? Could these secrets be so grave that a man would murder to protect them?”

Sir Julian laughed, shaking his round belly, the merry sound muffled by the well-upholstered furnishings of the vast room. He wiped his eyes with a red silk handkerchief. “Ah, my dear Moriarty! You have spent too much time with men of science, who are scrupulously honest about their methods. The world of finance is not so transparent. As for your questions —” He raised a chubby hand to tick off each answer on his fingers. “Cheating? Yes, unquestionably. Criminal activity? Yes, indubitably. Motive for murder? Yes again, lamentably. Knowing nothing more about this affair than you have told me this evening, I can be certain you are looking in the right direction.”