Moriarty Meets His Match: A Professor & Mrs. Moriarty Mystery (The Professor & Mrs. Moriarty Mystery Series Book 1) (2 page)

The Honorable Reginald Benton drew in a hissing breath. Moriarty understood: he was being used to put the whelp’s nose out of joint. He didn’t mind in the slightest. He’d come to perform a similar service for the father, after all.

Mrs. Gould tucked her hand into the crook of his arm, then spoke to one of her companions. “Why don’t you join us, Lady Lucy? The professor is honoring us with a lesson.”

The girl sidled past Benton with an apologetic smile and took Moriarty’s other arm. Now he had two society beauties while the lordling had none. Moriarty couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a lady on his arm. The sensation was pleasurable yet unreal, as if he were playing a part in a farce. Nevertheless, he would enjoy it while it lasted.

Nettlefield said, “Don’t stand there glowering, Reggie. Go make sure he doesn’t touch anything. I don’t trust him.”

Moriarty escorted his charges around the rope cordon and into the booth, where they stopped directly before the engine. The man in tweeds had been watching their approach. He raised his bowler hat and tilted his head. “Please allow me to introduce myself. Ross Bruffin, engineer, at your service.”

Moriarty presented the ladies and himself. “Are you the inventor of this engine?”

“I am,” Bruffin said, puffing out his chest.

“These ladies would enjoy a tour of your intriguing machine. Perhaps you should do the honors?” Moriarty had no dispute with the engineer. He meant to embarrass Nettlefield’s company, not this earnest young man.

Bruffin blushed as red as the coals in his boiler. “Nae, Professor, you’re like to do a better job than me. I’ll gladly answer your questions, if you have any.”

“Very well.” Moriarty freed his right arm from the younger girl’s hand. “Forgive me, my lady, but I’ll need to point at the various components.” He patted Mrs. Gould’s hand to make sure it stayed right where it was. She rewarded him with a smile.

“These spherical engines are a new development,” he said. “They’re smaller than most steam engines, which is an advantage on a ship, for example, where space is at a premium. They also operate very smoothly, causing less vibration; another advantage on ships.”

“It’s very elegant.” Mrs. Gould favored Bruffin with a dazzling smile. He blinked as if caught by one of the lamps his engine would soon set alight. “It has a sleek sort of symmetry, doesn’t it?”

“Indeed it does.” Moriarty beamed at her as if she had made a profound observation. “They do have an aesthetic appeal. Unfortunately, this type of engine wastes more power, in the form of fuel consumed, than it produces in the form of electricity. Does that make sense to you?”

Mrs. Gould shook her head, causing the arching feathers atop her absurd hat to bob up and down.

“Well, to put it simply, they leak. Steam slips out around the rotors.” He leaned forward to point, drawing her with him. “Here and here. Lost steam means lost power, which means you need more coal. These engines can be very expensive to operate.”

“It’s only a prototype,” Bruffin put in. “I think I’ve found a solution for yon wee leakage problem. I only need to find the right lubricant and some sort of gasket . . .”

“Many men have tried,” Moriarty said. He was not unsympathetic, but an inventor should recognize the limitations of his own designs. “This indicator here measures steam consumption. Do you see this cylinder with the pencil attached? As the piston moves, the pencil produces a diagram on this bit of pasteboard here.” Moriarty smiled at the engineer. “The public has a right to know the facts.”

“Your facts,” Reginald interjected from behind the rope.

“Facts are the same for one and all.” Moriarty was not surprised that Nettlefield had passed his ignorance on to his son.

“Well, they won’t learn them from that gadget. You can barely see the blighted diagram.”

Moriarty couldn’t argue with that. And even if one were close enough to read it, only a specialist would know how to interpret the results. Unless Lord Nettlefield flung his hat to the ground and cried, “Dash it all! We’re ruined!” no one would have slightest idea that anything was amiss.

His plan had seemed so sensible from a distance, but in the event, it failed utterly.

His dismay must have shown because Mrs. Gould squeezed his arm and smiled up at him in the friendliest manner. “I want to know the facts, Professor. I intend to keep my eyes riveted on that indicator, and I’ll expect a full explanation afterward.” She shot a glance toward Teaberry. “After all, I may be risking my pocketbook on this venture.”

Lady Lucy spoke for the first time. “I think this machine looks very dangerous. Listen to the rumbling sound that tall firebox in the back is making! Will that little pencil thingamajiggy keep the engine from blowing up?”

Benton barked a loud, scoffing laugh, causing a bright flush to rise in the poor girl’s cheeks. Mrs. Gould’s eyes flashed daggers at him.

Moriarty said, “Oh no, my lady. There is no risk, I assure you. Do you see this small structure here?” He pointed at the pressure gauge. “This contains a thin metal plate that rises and falls with the pressure inside the chamber. If the pressure becomes too great, the plate rises up and trips a small lever, opening a valve and safely releasing the excess steam.”

Lady Lucy blinked at him uncomprehendingly. Even Mrs. Gould cocked her head and frowned slightly.

“Have you ever heard a train whistle?”

Light dawned in both pairs of eyes.

Moriarty let himself get lost in the amber ones for a moment. Then the ladies began peppering him with questions. He answered them one at a time until another man wearing impeccable morning dress with a gray silk hat broke through the milling throng in the corridor. “Ah, good! You haven’t started yet.”

“Carling!” Nettlefield’s lip curled in disdain. “What are you doing here?”

“I’ve come to open the demonstration.”

“A bit early for you, isn’t it? I thought you never rose before noon.”

The newcomer attempted to look down his nose at Nettlefield but was too short by several inches. “As the ranking peer on the board of directors, I consider it a duty. And my right.”

Nettlefield snorted. “Your duty is to sign your name when asked and go back to your club. Leave the real work to those of us who know something.”

“Now, now, your lordships,” Teaberry said. He spread his arms to usher the two men toward the booth, but his wide smile and his words were directed at the crowd gathering along the corridor. “Naturally, every member of my board takes an active interest in the company. I wouldn’t have it any other way.”

“I’ll perform the first demonstration.” Nettlefield stabbed a finger at his own chest. “I’ve supervised all the preparations. And I’ve been here since nine-thirty this morning.”

“Stoking the boiler?” Lord Carling sneered. “What difference does it make when you arrived? I’m here now, so I’ll do the honors.”

Teaberry offered the audience another hearty grin, then turned to speak to Nettlefield in a low voice. “If you wouldn’t mind giving way, your lordship. The main thing is to get started. We’ll lose the crowd if we delay any longer.”

Nettlefield ground his teeth but conceded. “Fine. But don’t ramble on, Carling. And try to get the name of thing right for a change.”

“I believe it’s time for us to make way, ladies.” Moriarty led the women back outside the rope cordon. Lady Lucy stopped beside Reginald Benton. Mrs. Gould kept her hand on Moriarty’s arm as he found a spot where they could see the indicator. The effect was stunningly disappointing. He could only hope that over the course of the Exhibition, journalists and other engineers would observe the failings of the machine and report it fairly in the press.

“Exciting, isn’t it?” Mrs. Gould’s eyes danced. “I’m far more eager to see this demonstration than I was before you came along, Professor. A lucky stroke, wouldn’t you say?”

“Lucky indeed.” In spite of the failure of his corrective ploy, he’d never felt luckier in his life.

Ramsay went inside the booth and rang a bell. The crowd fell silent. Lord Carling followed and took up his station behind the engine. The engineer spoke a few low words to him, pointing at the starting lever. Carling uttered a few bland phrases, stretched his lips in a toothy smile, and pulled the lever.

A blast of steam rushed out with an ear-splitting shriek, striking him full in the face, burning the flesh right off his skull. Bruffin leapt toward him, crying out as his hands met the boiling steam. He caught the earl as he fell backward and fell with him, both collapsing behind the table.

The engine shattered. People screamed as gouts of boiling water and shards of hot iron struck their hands and faces. Pandemonium filled the crowded hall.

Moriarty flung an arm around his companion’s shoulders, turning their backs to the deadly shower. He felt a spray of hot drops across his shoulders and pulled the lady in to shelter her.

“God save me,” he breathed. “That wasn’t supposed to happen.”

Chapter Two

All hell broke loose. People screamed and shoved, struggling toward the exits, blocking each other in their confusion. Panic bubbled up in Angelina’s throat at each cry of pain that punctured the thunderous roar. Somehow she’d gotten turned away from the blast, but she feared being swept into the roiling mob and crushed against a pillar or knocked to the ground and trampled to death.

Then she felt strong arms encircle her waist and pull her tightly against a solid body. She was lifted off her feet and borne through the press, then hoisted clear off the ground, over the railing, and into the booth. Terror rose again when she realized they were heading toward the table where steam still spewed from the hissing engine.

She screamed, “No! Not this way!”

Professor Moriarty set her on her feet behind the table and pulled her into his chest, wrapping both arms around her, sheltering her. His deep voice murmured into her ear in a soothing cadence. “The steam has found its outlet. It will soon exhaust itself. The danger now is from the mob out there. We are quite safe here. I will keep you safe.”

She buried her face in his jacket. The fine wool held the homely, masculine scent of cigar smoke. She inhaled deeply, and her heart began to recover a steady rhythm. She lifted her face and smelled Pears soap on his clean-shaven chin. She almost kissed that chin in pure gratitude. She made a small sound from the sheer relief of standing with a strong man’s arms snugged around her while the world fell apart.

He looked down at her, his brown eyes warm with concern. “Are you hurt?”

She shook her head. “Not at all. Thanks to you.” She suspected the flounces over her bustle had taken some damage, but that was nothing, too trivial to mention. Dresses could be repaired.

“Good.” He nodded and patted her back. “Good, good.” Their embrace was clearly becoming awkward for him. She released him and stepped back a single pace, retaining a firm grip on his arm. This man was her only rock in a boiling maelstrom. She had no intention of letting him go.

She risked a glance at the corridor where her party had stood awaiting the demonstration. All were gone, swept away by the crowd. The first panic had abated, but not the danger. People pressed against one another now in a slow-moving mass, panting and moaning, a human tide contained between the iron railings on either side of the corridor. Angelina hoped Lucy and the other ladies had been rescued by someone. Oscar Teaberry would throw them under the stampede to save himself, and neither Lord Nettlefield nor Reginald Benton would give others a thought in a time of crisis. Perhaps the secretaries had helped them.

“Don’t look,” the professor said. “Turn the other way. Breathe slowly and think calm thoughts.”

She obeyed him as meekly as a child, balancing on her low-heeled boots as if the planking of the floor might suddenly tilt, like the deck of a ship. She could feel the vibration of the mob through her thin leather soles.

“Can you hold on to the table here?” The professor gently removed her hand from his arm and set it on the tabletop, as if guiding a blind woman.

She shook her head and cried, “Don’t leave me!”

“I won’t. I promise. But I need to check on the engineer.”

“Oh.” She gripped the edge of the table and glanced toward the engine. Mr. Bruffin was huddled against the corner post of the booth, cradling his hands against his chest. They looked red and blistery and must hurt like the very devil. Beside him lay Lord Carling, whose —
Dear God, the man’s face was half gone!
Angelina flinched away with a short scream.

“Don’t look.” The professor gathered her into his chest again. “I’m sorry, I should have warned you.” He patted her back again, less clumsily this time.

She wanted him to stay with her, but the poor engineer needed him more. So she composed herself, drawing in a deep breath of his comforting scent. Then she nodded. “I’m all right. Help Mr. Bruffin. I’ll stand here and contemplate these lovely lamps.”

“Good girl.” The professor released her, waiting a moment to be sure she could manage alone. Then he turned toward the men behind the engine and let out a grunt. He must be attending to Lord Carling.

Angelina focused on the lamps. She’d never seen a glass bulb close up before. It looked almost like a work of art. Surely that delicate creation was too fragile to withstand a current of electrical power.

A rip, a rattle, and a swish of air told her Moriarty had torn down a drape to cover the body. She exhaled a sigh of relief. She could cope with a drape. She half turned now to watch her savior move on to the next casualty.

The professor stepped past the shrouded figure on the ground and helped the engineer to his feet. “Are you badly hurt?”

“Och, not so bad,” Mr. Bruffin replied. “I’ve burnt me hands before. I managed to close yon damper. The fire in the boiler will soon be out. I couldna save his lordship. He was gone in the first blast.”

“You were very brave to make the attempt. I’m afraid he’s beyond all help now.”

“Poor man.” The engineer sounded mournful. “I dinna ken how this could happen.”

“I’m sure it wasn’t your fault,” the professor said. “Are you able to wait for help on your own? I must escort this lady to a safer place.”

“Och, aye, I can wait. The constables will be here as soon as the crowd passes. Go, go! This is no place for a lady.” He leaned against the pillar, scowling unhappily at the ruins of his engine.

Moriarty came back to Angelina and took her by the hand. “Let’s go this way. We’ll find a quiet spot to wait until the authorities can get in and sort things out.” He led her through an opening created by the torn drapery into a service passage that ran behind the booths. His hand around hers was warm and firm, a sure line of safety. They turned right and soon found another opening that let them into a dining hall. The long room was empty, but all the chairs and tables had been overturned, as if a mighty tide had swept through it.

Angelina smelled coffee — another homely and most welcome aroma. She cocked her head at her rescuer. “Might I offer you a cup of coffee, Sir Lancelot?”

He winced at the title. “You’ll think this most frightfully English of me, Mrs. Gould, but I would like nothing so much as a cup of strong tea. Two cups, if I can get them.”

“I’m certain that can be provided.” The kitchens appeared to be behind a service counter along the far wall. “Why don’t you find us a couple of unbroken chairs?” She walked briskly behind the counter, glad to be free from the fear of imminent death and gladder to have something to do. The dining hall seemed so ordinary, in spite of the overturned furniture, that her terror evaporated, the way nightmares do soon after waking.

The smell of coffee made her feel ravenous. There must be a packet of biscuits back here somewhere, maybe even some freshly baked buns. What time could it be?

She found everything she wanted ready to hand. God bless the English and their ever-present tea! As she assembled a tray with a pot of China black and smaller pots of sugar and milk, she watched the professor out of the corner of her eye, marveling at the luck that had brought him to her on this terrible day.

Or was it luck? He’d been surveying their group when she’d caught him watching her. She recognized the stance. He’d been studying them, considering the best approach. He’d seen her cross her fingers and that had tipped the balance for him, but she had not been his target. His first barbs had been aimed at Viscount Nettlefield.

There was obviously no love lost between the professor and his lordship. They’d practically snarled at one another when they’d shaken hands. It had something to do with that engine and the little gauge that showed the fuel. What, she had no idea, but the engineer had been unhappy about it too. All in all, there had been a great deal of masculine emotion directed at that curious bit of brass.

Professor Moriarty seemed to hate Lord Nettlefield the way she hated Oscar Teaberry. Interesting, and possibly useful. The quickest way to make a friend was to join forces against a common enemy.

She watched him picking up chairs and testing them for sturdiness, focused on the task like a man who had been sent from the Royal Furniture Office to verify the usability of the seats in the refreshment rooms. He cut a fine figure, tall and straight, with an athletic spring to his movements. He wore a double-breasted jacket and checked trousers of good quality, though a few years out of date. His top hat had been well brushed before being splattered with hot water, and his boots well polished, though these items were of the everyday variety. No doubt he’d planned to go on to the Patent Office after watching the demonstration. What would he do now?

She could probably keep him with her as long as she wanted. She had hooked him right and proper with that wink, though she hadn’t meant to. He’d surprised her into letting down her guard.
Sloppy work, Lina!

Still, it had gained her an ally. She didn’t know how she might use him yet, but she had no intention of letting him go. He was cool in a crisis and seemed a fountain of information. She desperately needed to come up with a fresh approach. She’d been living among Teaberry’s toffs for the better part of a month now and hadn’t gotten a whiff of her brother’s letters. Sebastian — or rather, his twin sister, Viola — had summoned her in April to get them out of a predicament beyond their mutual powers. She’d been glad for the nudge to come home and delighted to see her darlings again after so many years abroad, but she hadn’t made much progress toward resolving their current crisis.

He found two chairs that met with his approval and placed them beside a table under a tall potted palm that had somehow managed to remain upright. Angelina added a plate of raisin buns to her tray and carried it over. The professor held her chair, stood waiting while she seated herself, and then took the chair opposite.

Lovely manners, the sort one acquired at an early age. She poured tea into both cups and smiled at him. “One lump or two?”

“One, please.”

She dropped one lump of sugar into his cup and two into her own. “Milk or lemon?”

“Milk, please.” A twitch at the corner of his mouth told her he’d noticed there wasn’t any lemon.

Observant, and not without a sense of humor. She liked him. Her father had always scolded her about being too guided by her feelings for the mark, but she thought the sympathy heightened her perceptions. Letting herself be attracted helped put her in tune with her targets. This professor wasn’t exactly a mark — she had no particular use for him at the moment — but she couldn’t let a man of his qualities go to waste.

Angelina poured a dollop of milk into each cup and handed his across. He held it under his nose, closing his eyes while he inhaled the soothing fragrance. She lifted her own cup and blew across the tea to cool it. They shared a long moment of silence, peaceful even with muted cries still echoing from the glass ceiling thirty feet overhead. Then, without a word, they began devouring buns and downing hot tea as if they’d just hiked across the Alps on short rations. They finished everything she’d brought in minutes. The professor eyed the empty plate regretfully.

“There are more buns,” Angelina said. “Lots. I’ll refill the pot while I’m at it.”

He was standing with his hand on the back of her chair before she had kicked aside her skirts and gained her feet. A cool head and quick wits.
Careful, Lina! This is no dim-witted society swell.

She returned with two more pots of tea and a plate piled high with sandwiches, roast beef with cheddar and watercress with cream cheese. He rose again to hold her chair, then sat and began to eat beef sandwiches. She nibbled at her cheese and cress, watching him from under the fringe of her lashes.

He ate steadily but without haste, like a man taking a customary meal before catching his daily train. This Professor Moriarty created calm from chaos by his very nature. Yet he was so unassuming in appearance — apart from his height — that she would have walked past him at a party or on the street without a second glance.

But she’d always had a weakness for that combination of a bald head and lush lashes. It signaled maturity tempered by a touch of sweetness. He couldn’t be much older than she was, judging by his youthful vigor; surely not more than thirty-five. The perfect age for a woman on the brink of that important boundary. She’d be thirty in one month, though she wouldn’t confess that dire fact to anyone but her dresser.

The professor probably thought of himself as stoic and unrevealing, but his brown eyes betrayed his feelings. They’d burned with loathing at Lord Nettlefield, glinted with disdain at Reginald Benton, and twinkled with amusement at Lady Lucy. When he looked at her, she caught the expected flash of admiration along with a shadow of sadness. Not a hint of flirtation, not even when she’d flirted first. She’d bet a tanner he didn’t know how the game was played.

He wore one of those school ties, striped in green, blue, and white. Gentlemen cared about such things, so she’d conned her ties. His meant Rugby, which suggested one of the lesser toffs; titled nobs went to Eton or Harrow. This man’s father was most likely a vicar with a private income or a barrister with a lucrative practice.

His neatly trimmed moustache ended in the whisper of a curl on either side. A touch of vanity, she liked to see that in a man. Vanity gave her an edge, something to work with. His nails were freshly manicured, but his cuff links didn’t match. Bless the lamb! No manservant, then, to air the smoke from his jacket and do up his cuffs. His long fingers were free of rings — no wife either. Her professor was a bachelor.