Moriarty Meets His Match: A Professor & Mrs. Moriarty Mystery (The Professor & Mrs. Moriarty Mystery Series Book 1)
Authors: Anna Castle
A Professor & Mrs. Moriarty Mystery — Book 1
Moriarty Meets His Match
Anna Castle
Copyright 2016 by Anna Castle
Cover image by Jennifer Quinlan at Historical Editorial
Moriarty Meets His Match
is the first book in the Professor & Mrs. Moriarty mystery series.
Professor James Moriarty has but one desire left in his shattered life: to prevent the man who ruined him from harming anyone else. Then he meets amber-eyed Angelina Gould and his world turns upside down.
At an exhibition of new inventions, an exploding steam engine kills a man. When Moriarty tries to figure out what happened, he comes up against Sherlock Holmes, sent to investigate by Moriarty’s old enemy. Holmes collects evidence that points at Moriarty, who realizes he must either solve the crime or swing it for it himself. He soon uncovers trouble among the board members of the engine company and its unscrupulous promoter. Moriarty tries to untangle those relationships, but everywhere he turns, he meets the alluring Angelina. She’s playing some game, but what’s her goal? And whose side is she on?
Between them, Holmes and Angelina push Moriarty to his limits -- and beyond. He’ll have to lose himself to save his life and win the woman he loves.
London, 1885
Professor James Moriarty cursed under his breath. He was back in Clocks and Watches, being pushed inexorably toward Switzerland by the flow of the crowd. He should have anticipated this crowd. London only hosted an International Inventions Exhibition every few years, and they were wildly popular. He should have allowed himself more time, but he’d envisioned something more like an extra-large meeting of the Royal Society, with scholarly men in frock coats and tall hats strolling in an orderly manner from one display to the next.
Today the Exhibition Galleries in South Kensington were swamped by a roiling tide of tourists from every corner of England and every country in the world, judging by the
mélange
of accents. Worse, fully half of them were women wearing elaborate, space-consuming costumes in a dazzling array of colors. The towering concoctions they balanced atop their heads contributed to his sense of disorientation, appearing like floral displays that had come adrift from their moorings. They seemed to lure him, like beacons, away from his intended path.
He simply could not get his bearings in this crush. He struggled to open his catalog, then nearly dropped it when all the clocks and watches burst into a cacophony of chimes, announcing the three-quarter hour. Moriarty tucked himself into the lee of a potted palm tall enough to accommodate his six-foot frame and his high silk hat. He pulled out his own pocket watch to verify the time.
Yes, the Swiss had it right. He’d have to reach the Middle Court within fifteen minutes or he’d miss the demonstration. Then he would have cast himself into this moil of humanity for no purpose.
He opened his catalog and found the map. Here was Switzerland, nearly dead center. He must turn full around and bear south-by-southwest to reach Steam Engines and Boilers. He should have brought a compass. The hall had been far easier to navigate late last night, when only a few exhibitors lingered in their booths, making last-minute adjustments to their displays.
That’s what he had done, although the display he’d adjusted was not his own. He had applied a necessary corrective to the engine being touted by Viscount Nettlefield and his henchmen. His lordship had removed the indicator that revealed how extravagant his machine was with fuel; a crucial fact that the public had a right to know. Moriarty had restored that essential component. Let the truth be shown. Let Nettlefield’s spherical engine be judged on its merits.
A troop of Germans streamed past him on both sides, jabbering excitedly and wafting clouds of coconut-scented hair oil. He slipped into their wake and turned south to resume his course but found his way blocked by a small bit of German flotsam. Moriarty and the child regarded each other in disconcerted silence for a long moment. Then the boy’s mouth began to open, doubtless preparatory to some loud emission. Moriarty placed his hand on the tot’s oily pate and pivoted him full circle, launching him back toward his own tribe with a light shove.
Another precious minute lost.
He shoved, pulled, twisted, and slipped through gaps in a form of slow-motion rugby. At last, he gained the Middle Court. He hastened down the central corridor, which was separated from the booths by a long iron railing. Each booth was delimited by burgundy drapes. A sign bearing the title of each exhibit hung over its arched opening. His gaze flicked across each sign, catching a word here and a word there, intent upon his goal.
Ah! Here was the one he sought! The Compact Spherical Engine, offered by Teaberry & Co. The engine sat on one end of a long table in the center of the booth, with a series of electric lamps at the other end. During the demonstration, the engine would light the lamps. Behind the table stood an upright boiler tended by a redheaded man in a tweed suit.
A group of well-dressed persons loitered outside the roped perimeter. Four ladies clustered together, giggling over something in the catalog. They seemed as exotic as hothouse flowers in their brilliant silks; a striking contrast to the iron-gray machinery on display. Five men stood apart from them, wearing morning coats, silk hats, and impatient frowns. The tallest of them drew a gold watch from his vest pocket and thumbed it open, scowling.
Lord Nettlefield.
Moriarty paused at the edge of the Telegraph Ship and Vessel display across the aisle, concealed by a large group from Norfolk, and assessed the situation. He hadn’t seen Nettlefield in almost a year, not since the incident at Durham University. His lordship hadn’t changed a jot. He still dressed with maximum expense; in a manner crassly intended to evoke awe, one supposed. No doubt even his socks were supplied by Savile Row. His pinched features still bore that affected monocle and that smug expression of unwarranted self-confidence.
Moriarty noted the smugness with a tight smile. It would soon be transformed into chagrin as the vaunted new machine was proven to be an inefficient steam-hog. His lordship would be humiliated before the world and his wife. All the puffed-up claims about his engine would be deflated.
A small revenge, perhaps, but Moriarty intended to savor it.
He could never repair the damage that had been done in Durham — never — but he could dedicate the tattered shreds of his life to preventing Nettlefield’s greed and arrogance from causing the ruination of other innocents. He would obstruct that unscrupulous man in any way that he could.
Now he studied the display as if he were an ordinary attendee, here to learn. The spherical engine had been polished to a fare-thee-well, gleaming dark silver against the red tablecloth. The glass globes of the lamps sparkled in the sunlight streaming down from the high ceiling. But Moriarty realized with a sinking heart that he could barely see his indicator, much less read the fuel consumption diagram. A person would have to be standing directly in front of the engine at the critical moment or his carefully planned lesson would go unnoticed.
Fool!
Moriarty cursed himself for a plain, unvarnished idiot. His scheme was too subtle. He should have dug into his pockets and had a larger indicator made instead of purchasing the customary instrument. But what could he do to remedy the situation at this late hour?
He could think of no alternative: he would have to step out in front of everyone, point to the indicator, and explain its function to the audience. And he’d have to do it soon or Nettlefield would spot the thing and have it removed.
He drew in a deep breath and let it out in a rush. Surely it wouldn’t be much worse than giving a paper to the Royal Society. He’d done that numerous times. But he couldn’t just barge in crying, “By gad, let’s have a look at that intriguing indicator!” He needed some pretext, some introduction.
He studied the others in Nettlefield’s train. The company promoter, Oscar Teaberry, was easily identified. He’d dressed the part, wrapping his apple belly in a garish silk waistcoat, further garnishing himself with a thick gold chain and thick gold rings on chubby fingers. He might as well have wrapped a painted advertisement around his hat.
Two young men in the sober costumes of secretaries stood at the edge of the group, their eyes on their employers. Moriarty knew one of them: Nettlefield’s secretary, Mark Ramsay. Another young man dressed in Savile Row elegance with Nettlefield’s long chin and angular features hovered possessively behind the women. He must be his lordship’s son.
Funny. Moriarty had never thought of Nettlefield as possessing offspring.
Could one of the women be Lady Nettlefield? None of them looked old enough. Three were blond, pale, and girlish, in sherbet-colored dresses — young society ladies out for an intellectual excursion. The fourth woman, however, was something altogether different. She stood out from her companions like a tropical orchid in a field of common daisies. Her bronze hair and rich violet costume made the others seem insipid. Her gown had been artfully trimmed to display a stunning figure. Her oval face turned up to smile at Nettlefield’s son, and then she laughed. The musical sound carried over the general hum and pulled Moriarty forward a step.
She was extraordinary; a paragon. He’d never seen anyone like her.
Moriarty lifted his hat and ran a hand over his head, as if the gesture could restore the hair that had started disappearing at the age of twenty-two. He normally didn’t give much thought to his appearance, but he knew the bald pate made him look older than his thirty-four years. Too old for a beautiful young woman to smile up at him like that and treat him to her musical laugh.
He hadn’t come to meet women anyway. What a fruitless enterprise that would be! He had a mission, and he needed to get on with it. He needed to find a way to intrude himself into that circle.
The fat company promoter spoke to the ladies, who turned as one in his direction. Teaberry bowed toward the Paragon. She raised her gloved hand, allowing him to grasp it and lift it to his lips. At that moment, her other hand slid behind her back, and she crossed her fingers just above the ruffles cascading over her bustle.
Moriarty chuckled under his breath. It would seem the lady had mixed feelings about these company men. When Teaberry released her hand, she turned her head to glance behind her, as if to make sure no one had seen her odd gesture. She caught Moriarty’s admiring gaze, then astonished him as she touched her lips with her finger and winked.
That wink struck him like a well-aimed dart, shocking him, enchanting him, as if it were coated with some special drug. She turned back at once to her companions, but he felt exhilarated. She’d made him complicit in her finger-crossing, whatever it had meant to her. Luck? Or a lie?
The wink gave him courage. He now had an ally of sorts. He walked toward the group, angling his approach to catch Nettlefield’s secretary’s eye. He extended his hand and said, “Mr. Ramsay, isn’t it? James Moriarty. We’ve met; I’m sure you remember. Last year, in Durham?”
The secretary blinked rapidly, but his hand rose in automatic courtesy to take Moriarty’s. “Of course. Of course, Professor.”
He stammered something else, flustered, but Moriarty had already turned to Nettlefield, smiling through clenched teeth, feeling the Paragon’s gaze on his back. A glint of fear flashed in his lordship’s gray eyes, but it quickly hardened to a steely gleam.
Moriarty grabbed the man’s hand and shook it heartily. “Lord Nettlefield, we meet again. I expected you’d be here, at the opening demonstration of your latest — ah — project.”
“How did you—” Nettlefield sputtered.
“Come to hear about it? ’Twas I who processed your patent application, my lord. I’m an assistant examiner at the Patent Office now. I specialize in generators; chiefly steam, of course, but the new electrical models as well. These spherical engines are intriguing, I’ll grant you, if rather infamously flawed. I’m curious to see how you’ve solved the problem of leakage.”
Without waiting for a response, Moriarty turned on the toe of his polished boot to face the women with an expectant smile. “But we are rudely ignoring these lovely ladies.”
“Allow me to do the honors,” Ramsay said, predictably. The secretary presented the ladies in rank order. Moriarty touched his hat and murmured the conventional phrases, promptly forgetting the names of the three pale girls.
“And this,” Ramsay said, gesturing toward the Paragon, “is Mrs. Angelina Gould, who is visiting from America for the Season.”
“Mrs. Gould.” Moriarty raised his hat again, full off his head this time, and bowed. “Enchanted. I hope you are finding your stay in England pleasurable.”
Before she could respond, her self-appointed guardian reached a long arm past her. “Reginald Benton, Lord Nettlefield’s son.”
Moriarty shook the proffered hand, returning the competitive squeeze in full measure. He had rowed for Cambridge; he could give as good as he got.
“Mrs. Gould is my guest,” the lordling proclaimed. “This is a private party.”
“Don’t be so unwelcoming, Mr. Benton.” The Paragon spoke in a rich contralto, thrilling even under the flat American vowels. “One can hardly be private in the middle of an International Exhibition. Professor Moriarty, is it? What do you profess, if I may ask?”
“Mathematics,” Moriarty said. “Although I am no longer affiliated with a university.”
“Now he merely dabbles.” Nettlefield smirked behind his monocle.
“The most notable mathematicians in history were dabblers.” Moriarty met his lordship’s hostility with a mild chuckle — the assured expert meeting the bluster of an amateur — and was gratified to catch a flicker of amusement in the Paragon’s exquisite amber eyes.
He addressed his next remarks to her alone. “Fortunately, my duties at the Patent Office encourage dabbling. We encounter an astounding variety of inventions, you see, from the revolutionary to the ridiculous.”
“I can only imagine,” she said. “They’re fortunate to have a man of your caliber. Perhaps you would condescend to explain this engine to me, Professor. These silly men think we women have no interest in such matters, but the late Mr. Gould was a mining engineer. I loved to listen to him talk about his work. So many fascinating improvements in machinery and methods! The world is changing before my very eyes. How can I appreciate what I don’t understand?”
She’d handed him the excuse he needed — manifestly a woman of exceptional insight. “It would be my pleasure, Madam. Shall we approach, or would you feel safer at a distance?”
“On the contrary, Professor.” She batted her lashes at him. “I prefer to make my studies from an intimate perspective.”