Moriarty Meets His Match: A Professor & Mrs. Moriarty Mystery (The Professor & Mrs. Moriarty Mystery Series Book 1) (6 page)

Chapter Six

James Moriarty arrived at 221B Baker Street with a fair copy of the notes from the scene of the accident in his pocket. He braced himself for more challenges, both oblique and direct, from Sherlock Holmes. They’d be worth it to find out what the self-styled consulting detective had learned and what he planned to do.

The door to the street was opened by a boy with a pert manner who led him up a narrow stair to the first landing. The boy knocked once, tipped his hat with a polite, “Guv’nor,” and clattered back down again.

Dr. John Watson opened the upper door himself. “Come in, come in.” He took Moriarty’s rain-spattered coat and hat and hung them on hooks behind the door. “What an evening, eh? Glad you could find us through this beastly murk.”

“Typical for the season.” Moriarty never knew how to respond to such obvious remarks. Rain in May was scarcely cause for comment.

“Typical, but unexpected nevertheless.” Sherlock Holmes occupied a wingback chair on one side of a glowing hearth. He raised his finger pedantically. “The average rainfall in May is 1.9 inches. The almanac, however, predicts a continuation of last year’s dry phase.”

“Events may yet astonish us.” Moriarty recognized the sophomoric game: tease Watson for his choice of topic. The doctor granted them a tolerant smile.

“We can only hope,” Holmes said. “Anything would be better than the typical and expected. Welcome to our humble abode!” He leapt to his feet to shake Moriarty’s hand vigorously.

Moriarty gave him his roll of notes. “I hope these will be of some use to you, Holmes, although I must confess I see little value in this minutiae.”

Holmes took the pages and scanned them with relish. “I, on the contrary, have long understood that it is such details that are of the greatest importance.” He stabbed the pages onto the mantelpiece with a letter knife. “Now, what will you drink? I happen to have a fine old whiskey. A gift from a grateful client.”

“A small one, thank you.”

“Another for you, Watson?”

“I’m fine.”

Holmes crossed to a lacquered table laden with bottles, glasses, and a single mud-caked boot. Moriarty took the opportunity to survey the eccentric surroundings. A little more than half the size of his sitting room, this chamber accommodated many more pieces of furniture, each densely cluttered with motley collections of objects. A scarred table under the window held the impedimenta of scientific experimentation. Narrow bookcases on either side of the hearth were jammed with books, apparently stuffed into the shelves by size and then layered over with additional volumes. Everything spoke of intellectual interests actively pursued without regard to conventions of decor or decorum.

These men had created a sort of Bachelor Kingdom for themselves. Even the air was spiced with the masculine scents of tobacco and spirits, underlain by a tang of chemicals. Moriarty perceived that his hosts waited for his reaction to the
mise en scène
and smiled with unfeigned pleasure. The environment reminded him — minus the chemical experiments — of his old rooms at Durham University, where he had lived for many productive and contented years. His lodgings in Bayswater were adequate for his basic needs but had yet to evolve that personal flair so conducive to unfettered study.

“I admire your taste.” Moriarty’s tone held a touch of irony, which he suspected his hosts would enjoy. “In fact, I rather envy your freedom of — expression, shall we say? I wonder if my landlady would allow me to set up a work area for the study of small engines. It’s a professional interest that is growing into something of a hobby. Yours must be a very tolerant individual.”

“Mrs. Hudson tolerates me,” Holmes said. “She likes Watson. Without his diplomatic skills, I fear she would have given me notice months ago.” He held out a glass in one hand and gestured at a chair with the other. “Do have a seat.”

Moriarty complied, accepting the drink. The whiskey was extraordinary, subtle and balanced. The client must have been very grateful. A moment of comfortable silence elapsed while the men sipped their drinks, broken, unsurprisingly, by the voluble Sherlock Holmes.

“I deduce that you’re a bachelor, Professor, like Watson and myself. Otherwise, it would have been your wife who objected to a workshop in the sitting room. Furthermore, your arrangements are relatively recent. Else you would know your landlady’s levels of tolerance and have no need to speculate.”

“Correct on both counts.” Moriarty smiled politely, but was not impressed. His marital status could be deduced from the absence of a wedding ring. The landlady business was an obvious guess. He might simply be the sort of man who didn’t think much about his furnishings.

Holmes’s eyes glittered as his gaze traveled from Moriarty’s shoes upward, lingering on his bald head with a calculating gleam.

Moriarty knew what would come next. Holmes would identify him as a philosopher or a mystic rather than merely the scion of a line of men who began losing their hair the day they reached their majority.

“You are clearly an intellectual,” Holmes said. Watson chuckled and Holmes shot him a wink. “A mathematician, I would say, who specializes in the study of statistics, with applications ranging from astronomy to games of chance.”

Moriarty raised an eyebrow, genuinely surprised. “You can’t possibly have deduced all that from my appearance.”

“His observational skills are formidable,” Watson said. “You’d be wise not to underestimate them.”

Holmes laughed. “You are both correct. We looked you up, Professor.” He tilted his head at the overladen bookcase. “You told us you were a mathematician. Watson found your name among the members of the Royal Society, whose proceedings gave us the titles of the papers you have presented to that august body. You held a chair in mathematics at Durham University, which you left last year to take a position at the Patent Office. That seems a bit of a comedown, Professor. Did you find your teaching duties so onerous?”

“As a matter of fact, I did.” Moriarty smiled thinly. “Such changes are more common than you might think. Durham is the back country when it comes to science, I’m afraid. London is the place for a man who wants to stay abreast of new developments.”

“And you published several papers a year while at university, but haven’t produced a single monograph since coming down.”

Moriarty shrugged. “My interests have shifted from the theoretical to the practical. I’ve got a lot to learn before I can contribute anything new myself.”

“I see,” Holmes said. His narrowed eyes suggested he wasn’t satisfied with Moriarty’s improvised explanations. Then he shrugged lightly and returned to his game. “No book could tell me that you are ambidextrous; that you use your right hand for ink and your left for pencil; that you have a taste for quality but careless habits; and that you row for the sake of exercise.”

Watson chuckled again. “That’s more like it.”

“Do I surprise you?” Holmes clearly hoped so.

“You do indeed.”

“It’s simple enough when one learns to attend to minutiae. I know you are ambidextrous because I saw you writing with your pencil in your left hand this morning. But your right sleeve is shiny where it rests against the table, and there is a faint tinge of blue ink on the second finger of that hand. I suppose you use ink in your work.”

“One doesn’t register a patent in an erasable medium.”

“Just so. Your taste for quality is shown in the cut and fabric of your jacket. Bond Street, I believe. But the pockets have been shamefully treated. You’ve been carrying heavy objects and pulling the cloth out of line.”

“I’ve been scolded for that very thing by my tailor. And the rowing?”

“Ah! I felt the callus on your palm when we shook hands. And your shoulders are broader than average, typical among practitioners of that sport. Yet another matter with which your tailor must contend.”

“Impressive.” Moriarty raised his glass to acknowledge the feat. “I had no idea so much could be read on the surface of a man. Any scientist could benefit from your methods.”

“Perhaps you’d care to give it a try?”

“I would.” Moriarty set his glass on the table and rose to tour the room, hands clasped behind his back. “Hmm. I observe that you are ostentatiously untidy but enjoy the attentions of an excellent housekeeper.”

Watson chuckled. “Very good, Professor.”

“Not bad for a first try,” Holmes conceded. “Now explain.”

“The untidiness is evidenced by that slipper filled with tobacco on your mantel. You must have to scoop your pipe into it, spilling tobacco every time. But your landlady, or the maid whom she directs, keeps your mantel and fireguard well dusted.”

“Bravo,” Holmes said. “It is as important to notice the absence of something — in this case, flakes of tobacco — as the presence.”

“And the ostentation?” Watson grinned at his friend.

“I meant no offense,” Moriarty said.

“None was taken.” Holmes seemed nonplussed by the idea. A man of his extreme self-confidence would indeed be difficult to insult.

“That slipper,” Moriarty said, “does not appear to have been worn. It could not have been worn by either of you in any event; it’s too small. Therefore, it must have been chosen deliberately as an object of interest. Furthermore, it doesn’t close. Your tobacco would dry out rather quickly, I should think, especially over the hearth there. You either smoke a prodigious amount or have an alternative supply.”

“Capital!” Watson clapped his hands. “He’s got you there, Holmes. Correct on both counts.”

Holmes smiled tensely at Moriarty. The game was less fun with the slipper on the other foot. “We must be on our guard with this one, Watson.”

The door opened and a stout, middle-aged woman entered bearing a large tray. Holmes bounded up to take it from her, holding it while she cleared the round table in the corner. Holmes sniffed appreciatively at the savory aromas rising from the tray. “Mrs. Hudson, allow me to present our guest, Professor James Moriarty.”

Moriarty had already risen. They exchanged the usual mundanities. She transferred their supper to the table and left with her tray. They sat and passed the dishes around, each man serving himself in congenial fashion. The food was excellent: a brace of cold woodcocks and a joint of beef, accompanied by new potatoes, fresh peas, and a bottle of good claret. During the meal, Watson related several lively bits of society news for their entertainment. Moriarty was relieved not to have to supply polite table conversation. Holmes appeared to share the sentiment.

After supper, they returned to their chairs around the hearth. Watson handed around glasses of port and offered Moriarty a cigar. Holmes took out a black clay pipe and filled it from the slipper with a sly glance at Moriarty. He struck a match on the mantelpiece to light it and puffed away as he resumed his seat, releasing clouds of woodsy smoke that permeated the room.

“And now we come to the main business of the evening,” he said. “We have collected little evidence thus far, but may still profitably review what we have. We are investigating a death; therefore, we should properly begin with the body. Watson, would you oblige us with a review of the coroner’s report?”

“Certainly.” Watson took a folder from the table and opened it. “I received this late this afternoon. Quick work for that busy office, but when a peer of the realm has his head blown off at a public event, pressure is brought to bear.”

Holmes and Moriarty both chuckled at the inadvertent pun but quickly cut themselves off. Death was no laughing matter.

Watson didn’t seem to notice. “Well, there are no surprises here. It was a merciful death, if dramatic. Steam escaping under high pressure through a narrow opening cuts like a knife, slicing through skin and muscle. Lord Carling would have died almost instantly and would not have felt anything beyond the initial searing sensation.”

“A swift death, striking suddenly at a moment of accomplishment,” Holmes mused. “We could wish as much for ourselves when our time comes.”

They let that serve for Lord Carling’s benediction.

Watson broke the short silence. “We found the engineer at Westminster Hospital, where he has been treated for burns on both hands. None too severe, but they wish to keep him under observation for a few days. Burns are a tricky business.”

“We asked him to inform us when he is able to return home,” Holmes said. “We’ll make an appointment to visit him in his workshop, as you suggested, Professor.”

“I’d like to go with you, if I may impose so far,” Moriarty said. “I feel a little —” He almost said “responsible.” The flicker in Holmes’s eyes told him the unspoken word had been apprehended. “I feel concerned for the poor man. I spoke with him shortly after the accident.”

“Before or after the sandwiches?”

“Before.” Moriarty let his distaste for the ill-considered humor color his tone.

Holmes regarded him with a skeptical curve to his lips. Watson gazed at the fire with the air of a man listening discreetly. They knew about Mrs. Gould; Bruffin must have told them. They must have asked him about Moriarty’s movements after the blast.

He drew on his cigar and exhaled the smoke slowly, savoring the taste. Not as good as the ones at his club, but not bad. Then he met Holmes’s waiting gaze. “I fear I omitted a few details of my actions this morning. For honorable reasons, I assure you. I was reluctant to drag a lady’s name into this unpleasantness.”