Moriarty Meets His Match: A Professor & Mrs. Moriarty Mystery (The Professor & Mrs. Moriarty Mystery Series Book 1) (24 page)

He stared at her in silence, his hard face giving her nothing.

“Ah, well. He’s still only getting second billing. My sister, his twin, is a courtesan, the mistress of a member of the House of Lords.”

She paused, but his expression remained stony and unreadable. She pretended not to care. The chatter gave her time to breathe, restored her balance. This was what she did best. She tried for a light laugh, but it rang falsely from the stone walls of the folly.

“She’s quite successful in her profession, you know. We all are, each in our own way. We stole those books to protect Sebastian. I won’t tell you more than that. We’ve been looking for something that was taken from us by Oscar Teaberry. These men, these front-sheeters, are my enemies as much as yours. Can’t you see how much I despise them? How they frighten me?”

“No, Mrs. Gould. I can’t. I can’t interpret every twitch and nuance. I can’t distinguish between real flirtation and false. I don’t see spots of mustard on a lapel or notice that one sleeve is shinier than the other.” He rubbed his chin with a trembling hand. “Holmes is right. I see, but I do not observe. I haven’t the knack. And even if I should happen to observe something, I’m unable to erect a whole suppositional edifice on a spot of mustard or an ink-stained finger.”

He laughed suddenly, a short, sharp burst. “You’re just like him, aren’t you? You both build whole fantastic worlds on some self-made system of observation and inference.”

“Holmes!” Angelina spat the name. “He’s a rank amateur. The art is called ‘reading the mark,’ and I was better at it than your Mr. Holmes by the age of twelve.”

“I don’t doubt it,” Moriarty said. “I find little to choose between you. And between you, you nearly sent me to the gallows.”

She had no answer for that.

He looked at her for a long moment, his eyes bleak. “I do observe some things, Mrs. Gould. I see the way you bite your lip when you’re thinking and the way your head quavers when you’re angry, as you are right now. I see that you’re wearing the same dress you wore on Sunday. You wore it to the Exhibition too. That purple shade turns your eyes the color of burnished gold. I see these things, but I can’t use them to deduce your occupation and place of origin or what the devil it is you want from me.”

He’d tied her up in knots in one short speech. He hated her because he loved her. She had no idea how to fix that.

“Can’t you just trust me?” she pleaded. “I do have reasons. Can’t you pretend for a moment that you believe me and take me at my word?”

“Which word, Mrs. Gould? Your story changes with your costume. You looked like a schoolmarm at the tea party at Cheshire House. You like your tea sweet, with lemon, and not too hot. I noticed that, but it didn’t tell me who you were. On Friday night, when I caught you in Sir Julian’s library, you looked the perfect lad-about-town, if rather prettier than average. Who were you then? I noticed that you tied your cravat with an old-fashioned knot, but it didn’t tell me why you were there. At that Royal Society reception — you remember, the one with the mirror — you looked like an Italian countess dressed for a court ball. That wink took my breath away. It changed my life. A minute later, I saw Lord Nettlefield watching you, as if he thought you’d overplayed your part.”

Was that where this had begun? Angelina didn’t remember his lordship; she’d been too busy juggling admirers.

Moriarty hadn’t finished. “I know who I am, or at least who I was before I met you: a sober mathematician and a humble patent officer serving Queen and country in my own small way. A simple life, quiet, and sometimes even satisfying. Not an impresario in a silk waistcoat, not a consort for an Italian countess, not a master criminal.

“Who are you, Mrs. Gould? Your accent changes as readily as your costume. You sounded like Cockney newsboy when you first walked into Sir Julian’s library, as patrician as my mother at Cheshire House, and as American as Mrs. Lincoln on the terrace Sunday. Now you tell me you’re an actress. That’s the only thing you’ve said that I believe.”

He stopped abruptly and turned away, covering his eyes with his hand. Hiding tears, she guessed. He had every right to be hurt and angry. She had manipulated him. She’d used him, or tried to. She’d deceived him. She deceived everyone; it was how she earned her living. She could never make him understand that. She couldn’t love him so much if he did.

He’d never help her now. She’d planned to confide in him and ask him for something not too difficult. Something reasonable: to find a lawyer or consult that friend of his, Sir Julian, the one with all the ministry connections. Under that, deep underneath, she’d cherished the mad, romantic dream that he would sweep her into his arms and carry her out of Canbury Park to freedom, fending off all resistance by the sheer force of his character and the strength of his love, which he would have recognized immediately on seeing her desperate plight.

Dreams dashed, all hope gone, Angelina sat silently on her cold bench, holding her head up so he could see her face, willing herself not to cry until he left. He took two steps toward the arched doorway, then turned back to study her as if she were a painting he meant to copy later on. Time ticked by in the pulses of her heart. Then he drew in a gasping breath, like a man who had almost drowned. He tipped his hat, turned on his heel, and walked away.

Chapter Twenty-Nine

Moriarty stumbled home, blindly navigating the crowded tunnels of the Metropolitan Railway with his own horrible words ringing in his ears. What had he said to her? What devil had possessed him? When he’d seen the luxury of her so-called prison and found her sitting there calmly, in a silk dress and a feathered hat, he’d gone mad with jealousy. He’d lost his temper — he, James Moriarty, once renowned for his preternatural calm.

In ten short minutes, he’d laid waste to the only love affair of his life.

For most of the past year, he’d had no thought of the future beyond wreaking revenge on Lord Nettlefield. Now his lordship’s rotten character seemed to have accomplished that task for him. For a brief, magnificent span of days, he’d allowed himself to imagine a future with Angelina Gould. His dreams, both sleeping and waking, had been filled with her eyes, her figure, her dazzling smile, her musical laugh. That dream had been shredded by Sherlock Holmes, replaced by the prospect of a stint in Newgate and a final jerking dance at the end of a rope. He’d barely had time to register that fresh doom when his restraints had been unlocked and he’d been turned loose, only to watch the woman he loved go home with the son of his enemy.

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 Adonis 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.”