Moriarty Meets His Match: A Professor & Mrs. Moriarty Mystery (The Professor & Mrs. Moriarty Mystery Series Book 1) (18 page)

“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 Carling’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?”

“What should I have done? Let him walk in on Zeke and Sandy?”

“She did what she had to do. Pulling me out of the fire again.” Sebastian smiled his Adonis smile at Angelina. “Don’t think I’m not grateful.”

“Say the word,” Captain Sandy said, his face grim, “and Mr. Benton will no longer find himself capable of pressing his attentions on a lady.”

“Thank you for the thought,” Angelina said, “but burglary is one thing; assaulting a gentleman is quite another.”

“Well, we’re making good money,” Peg said. “We’ve a decent wardrobe at last. I can hold up me head below stairs. It was something tragical, creeping down every night to wash the same three blouses and iron your only tea gown yet again. A couple more good hauls and we’ll be set for the rest of the Season.”

Peg had used some of her share to treat herself to a box at the Alhambra, where she could sit in a thick veil and criticize the costumes without the risk of being recognized. She was nearly as well known in music hall circles as Lina Lovington.

Zeke, their master strategist, had turned up today in a garish yellow-checked waistcoat and an oversized topcoat with a velvet collar. When they’d chaffed him, he’d said, “Wot? A man o’ means ’as got to look ’is best, ain’t ’e?”

Sandy had donated his share of the Oxwich booty to the Army and Navy Pensioners’ Employment Fund. He used a mort of the earnings from the other jobs to buy a new greatcoat, which he layered over his two old ones like a true London cabbie. He put the rest into the three percent consols, proving beyond all doubt that he could never have embezzled his company’s mess accounts. The man had no taste for luxury.

“We’ve made all the papers,” Zeke said. “They’re cryin’ us on every corner.” He hopped to his feet to act the part of a newsboy. “Bookkeeper Burglars! Read all about ’em!”

“Pity we can’t make use of it,” Sebastian said. “Publicity like that can’t be bought.” He had already donned his white tie and tails for the theater, but he had deep shadows under his eyes and a haunted look. They’d done nothing to improve his situation yet.

Which was supposed to be their goal. Money was nice — new dresses were nicer — but Angelina had no intention of making a career of burglary. She wanted to erase those shadows from her little angel’s eyes and get on with things. “What do the police think about our taking account books? Silver is one thing; everyone steals silver. But I’m worried about those books.”

“Police are baffled!” Zeke cried in his newsboy voice.

Peg sniffed. “If you can call that news.”

Sandy chuckled at their foolery but answered soberly. “They seem to think the books are being stolen to identify items of particular value. Recent purchases of art and the like. They’re warning the victims to be doubly careful about security measures in case of a return visit.”

“That’s good, isn’t it?” Angelina asked. “If they haven’t connected the victims to Teaberry’s front-sheeters, they won’t be waiting for us at the next stop. That’s my worst nightmare. I do wish we could skip Lord Nettlefield’s house, at least. The man terrifies me.”

“But he’s the most important man on the board,” Viola said. “His books are the most likely to give us something to use against Teaberry.”

“And now the family’s going to the country at last,” Sandy said. “We can’t miss this chance. They might not leave London again until the end of the Season.”

They planned to strike Durham House in Mayfair tomorrow night. The family’s absence had been reported in the society pages, which Viola had been reading with a sharper eye than usual. Then Zeke found a chum who had a mate who had a cousin who delivered newspapers in Mayfair and offered the boy a half crown to take a half holiday. He’d befriended the boots at Durham House by offering him sweets and learned that the house would be empty but for one footman, one housemaid, the under-cook, and the secretary. All the servants slept in the basement or on the fourth floor.

He’d further learned that the skeleton staff took full advantage of the lack of supervision. The footman stopped for a long drink at the corner pub on his way back from posting the last of the day’s letters. The under-cook slipped out at about the same time for a glass of gin with her friend in a neighbor’s kitchen. Zeke planned to sneak into the house during that lax interval and hide until everyone went to bed. Then he would unlock the library window for Sandy and Angelina.

The job had to be done unless they abandoned the whole scheme and sailed west. They’d be giving up so much though: Sebastian’s career, Sandy’s new life, Peg’s dreams of the London theater. Professor James Moriarty. Too much.

Viola’s maid came in with a tray of drinks and plates of almond biscuits. Nobody wanted tea. Sebastian drank a whiskey straight off and poured himself another.

Angelina watched him with a worried frown. “What’s wrong, dearest? Isn’t the show going well?”

“The show is fizzing. Tip-top. I’ve never been better. Ask the critics.” Sebastian laughed bitterly. “They say trouble in life develops an actor’s range. I’d always thought it was just one of those stupid things people say, trying to explain the unexplainable. Who’d have thought it’d turn out to be true?”

“Then what is it? You look as if you hadn’t slept for a week.”

“Has it been that long?”

“Cough it up, ducky,” Peg said.

He sighed deeply and ran both hands through his hair, ruining an hour of expensive barbering. “We can’t stop, and we can’t run, Lina. Teaberry is pressuring me again. He wants me to steal paper with the Foreign Office letterhead from Hugh’s father. If I don’t, he says he’ll give my first letter to a pal of his who’s about to be named chairman of the Board of Trade. Everything will go up in flames. Sir Joseph will be ruined. Hugh will be exposed, and me with him. It will all come out and I’ll be thrown in prison.”

“Oh, my darling boy!” Angelina cried.

“He thinks he owns you,” Viola said.

“He does.” Sebastian stared bleakly at his twin.

“Something should happen to that man,” Peg said darkly. “A dark alley in Limehouse, a couple of young toughs . . .”

Zeke nodded. “I know just the lads.”

“No violence!” Angelina heaved a sigh. “We’ll simply have to find those blasted letters.”

“Maybe Lord Nettlefield’s books will have the key,” Sandy said. “They could unlock all the others.”

“Even if they are the key,” Viola said, “I’m not sure I could turn it.” Her bleak expression mirrored Sebastian’s. “I thought I could do this, honestly I did. Badger always says I have a wonderful head for business and I’ve read every issue of
The Economist
since he took me up. But these —” She waved her plump hand at the green-backed ledgers piled at the foot of her couch. “They’re nothing but numbers. Red ink, green ink, black ink. It’s like looking at the Egyptian hieroglyphics in the British Museum. They obviously mean something and it seems so tantalizingly like something you ought to be able to figure out if you could just stare at them long enough, but I’ve stared and stared until my eyes get spots and I still haven’t found anything to help us. I’m at my wits’ end!”

“Poor Viola,” Sebastian said. “Maybe we should look for an accountant. There must be corrupt ones somewhere. Perhaps a banker fallen on hard times?”

Peg rolled her eyes. “Let’s put an advertisement in
The Times
, shall we? ‘Wanted: crooked bookkeeper. Mustn’t be too fussy about sources.’”

Angelina grinned. “Not an accountant.” At last, a silver lining. “How about a mathematician? A tall, dark, handsome one whose neck is in it just as much as ours?”