Moriarty Meets His Match: A Professor & Mrs. Moriarty Mystery (The Professor & Mrs. Moriarty Mystery Series Book 1) (14 page)

After touring the natural history displays, he could take her to the refreshment rooms in one of the galleries on Exhibition Road. It would remind them both of that restorative interlude after the explosion. Or he perhaps could treat them to tea at one of the finer hotels.

Lucy emitted a small shriek and Mrs. Gould laughed, pointing at another page.

Pickering-Jones murmured, “Hats.” He nodded his chin toward the ladies. “How they can make so great a to-do about so small an object is one of life’s mysteries.” Then his eyes popped wide. “I say! Put down that magazine, ladies! We’ve a much darker mystery than hats today.”

Mrs. Gould closed the magazine and held it in her lap. “Do tell us, Edwin.” She gave her friend a stern look. “We’re neglecting our guest, my lady.”

Pickering-Jones said, “The professor told me it wasn’t an accident after all. That explosion, I mean, the one that did for his lordship. The professor says he’s been helping Scotland Yard investigate a case of murder.”

“Murder!” Lady Lucy cried.

“Scotland Yard!” Mrs. Gould spoke to Moriarty, her tone now crisp. “How do you come to be working with them?”

Moriarty frowned a little to deflate the grandiosity of that claim. “I met their consultant in the exhibit booth when I went back that day. A man named Sherlock Holmes.”

“I see.” She looked skeptical. “Are they certain it was deliberate?”

“Quite certain, I’m afraid.” Moriarty repeated the brief explanation he’d given Pickering-Jones, minimizing the more horrible aspects. “The working theory is that this is a case of corporate rivalry gone sour. We’re looking into the business relationships of Lord Carling. It would help, for example, to get a better sense of the company promoter, Oscar Teaberry.”

He looked directly into Mrs. Gould’s eyes, intending to signal his support if she wanted to reveal her prior experience with the man. But instead of relief or acceptance, he caught a flicker of alarm quickly hidden behind a flutter of lashes.

Before Moriarty could explore that response, Pickering-Jones said, “That’s not all. That’s not even the best part.” He leaned across the table and lowered his voice dramatically. “The professor thinks our burglary and his lordship’s murder might be linked.” He sat back and crossed his arms, nodding sagely.

The temperature dropped thirty degrees as the friendly atmosphere was extracted from the room as if by a vacuum pump.

Lady Lucy cocked her head at Mrs. Gould. “How could that be, Angelina?”

Mrs. Gould grasped her hand. “It can’t be true, darling. The idea is absurd. It’s a mistake, I promise you.”

An odd sort of promise. Why should she make it? And why had the girl asked her rather than him?

Mrs. Gould turned to Moriarty again, now with a gleam of challenge in her eyes. “Are they certain the explosion wasn’t caused by some sort of prank?”

She might as well have picked up the cake knife and stabbed him with it. He’d told her about his actions in confidence. She’d led him to believe he could trust her. What on earth could he have said now to provoke this betrayal?

A shred of his nightmare returned to him — the vision of Mrs. Gould leaning against Lord Nettlefield in the gallery, watching his destruction. He didn’t believe in the precognitive power of dreams, but he might have noticed something between them without recognizing it at the time. Some hint of collusion or a touch of familiarity. She spent much of her time in the company of his lordship’s son, by all accounts. Could that be part of — whatever she was part of? Or perhaps the Honorable Reginald was her goal, as Dr. Watson and the society pages presumed.

Then what did she want from him, exactly? Not visits to museums or tea on Exhibition Road. His little castle in the air collapsed. What a fool he was to build such an elaborate edifice on one stolen kiss.

And now he remembered the packet of letters she’d taken from Sir Peter’s desk. She knew something about some part of this tangle of crimes. What, he couldn’t at present imagine.

“My theory,” Pickering-Jones said, oblivious to the shift in mood, “is that his lordship wasn’t the one they were after. Barging in at the last minute like that, he threw a spanner in their works and foiled their dastardly scheme. Whoever they were, they really meant to get old Nettlefield. He’s the one pulling all the strings. That’s why they had to come back in the dead of night and steal the account books, to cover their tracks.”

Mrs. Gould pointed a slender finger at him. “You could be right, Edwin. Lord Nettlefield is a powerful man. He’s bound to have enemies. Someone could be nursing a grudge.”

Another barb aimed at him! Something had touched a nerve.

It occurred to Moriarty that this versatile woman had been present at all the critical junctures, to use Holmes’s phrase. She had positioned herself in the midst of the social circle around Teaberry’s front-sheeters. Quite an exalted circle, including the sons and daughters of the nobility. Quick work for a stranger to these shores. She’d also been inside Cheshire House on the night of the burglary. Sleeping? Or helping?

He knew nothing about her other than that she loathed Oscar Teaberry, she’d become an intimate of Lord Carling’s household, and she seemed to be contriving a matchmaking scheme involving Lord Nettlefield’s only son while simultaneously allowing the young man’s attentions to herself.

What game was she playing? And whose side was she on?

Chapter Fifteen

Angelina sat on an iron bench in Russell Square watching the entrance gates from behind a black veil. She was waiting for Professor Moriarty, hoping her note had been enough to persuade him to leave his dry office for a rendezvous on a damp day. She wished she could have thought of a place with more shelter, but restaurants were tricky. You couldn’t get up and leave whenever you wanted, and you couldn’t eat in a long veil. She couldn’t risk crossing paths with anyone she knew in the fashionable districts. And she didn’t dare set foot in the East End, not even in a veil. Someone might recognize her voice.

She didn’t even know if he would come, not after her appalling gaffe yesterday at tea. What had possessed her? That featherheaded Pickering-Jones had surprised her, frightening her with his awful ideas. She’d batted the topic away with the first thing that popped into her mind and struck harder than she’d meant to. The youngsters hadn’t noticed and wouldn’t think to repeat what she’d said, but she feared she’d lost Moriarty’s trust and might never be able to regain it. Worse, she’d hurt his feelings.

They’d been having such a lovely tea until then, a peaceful interlude of conversation with an attractive man she genuinely respected. How long had it been?

The professor had been happy too. It had shown in every line of his posture. That habitual guarded look had been replaced by a frank friendliness she doubted many people saw. He’d sat there listening to the young ones prattle, sometimes joining in, glancing at her now and then to share adult amusement at their nonsense. He’d helped himself to extra cake, mopping up moist crumbs with his fingertip like a schoolboy.

He’d laughed freely and easily. Oh, how she loved that laugh! He tilted his head back, half closing his eyes, giving himself up to the sensation like a man slipping into a warm bath. This was not a man who practiced his smiles in a mirror like the society dandies she’d been stuck with lately.

She wanted to see him laugh like that again. She wanted him to look at her again with that candid admiration. She wanted him to trust her again. She doubted it was possible; she’d broken something fragile, something rare for him. And she feared she had triggered questions better left unasked. The last thing she needed was a man of Moriarty’s intelligence wondering about her connection to Oscar Teaberry and the stolen account books.

She must repair the damage she’d done, at least enough to keep him talking to her. The thought of Scotland Yard connecting the burglaries to Teaberry’s front-sheeters alarmed her. Who might be waiting for them on their next expedition? Constables with truncheons? That Sherlock Holmes?

They must stay abreast of the investigation to be forewarned and she could think of no one else who could help them. Sebastian, Viola, Sandy, Peg, little Zeke — they all depended on her to maintain the protective facade.

She spotted him at last, materializing out of a patch of drifting fog. Dressed like every other professional man in Bloomsbury, he wore dark trousers, a knee-length greatcoat, and a black top hat, with a long umbrella hanging from his arm. He was taller than most and strode along the rain-slicked pavement with a self-sufficient air, his back erect and his gaze direct, like some of the men she’d met and admired in the American West.

What a contrast to the upper crust society men she had to spend her evenings with! They cultivated uselessness as a sign of privilege. They were bitter without reason and competitive without any real objectives. She felt no qualms about manipulating them for her own purposes.

Professor Moriarty, on the other hand, radiated a sense of moral purpose. That vicar in Miswell had given him a good foundation. She’d have to tread lightly, using as much truth as she dared. The Chairman had always warned them that they couldn’t dupe an honest man.

He raised his hat to her as he approached her bench. “Mrs. Gould. I was surprised to receive your note.”

She patted the bench beside her. He hesitated but sat. “I must apologize for disturbing you at your place of business, but I needed to speak with you privately.”

He didn’t fidget or clear his throat. He simply waited, gazing into her veiled face while she collected her thoughts.

“I feel a bit foolish now that I’ve brought you all the way out here in this dreary fog.” She gave a nervous laugh.

He said nothing. She hadn’t summoned him to talk about the weather.

She caught the faint smell of tobacco rising from his wet coat and wanted to bury her nose in it. She folded her hands in her lap to prevent them from touching his sleeve. “After our conversation yesterday, I started worrying. About Lucy, you know.”

He shook his head, not understanding. His face gave her nothing, but then the face she showed to him was covered with black gauze from crown to chin.

She raised her veil, folding it carefully over the brim of her hat, and looked at him with pleading eyes. “Lucy is very young, even for her nineteen years. She has lived a sheltered life. These shocks — her stepfather’s death and the burglary — have frightened her more than she shows. Her mother has retired to her chamber, leaving me as Lucy’s sole protector. I must know what’s happening so I can shield her from the worst.”

She bit her lip and cast her gaze to the pavement, batting her lashes a few times as if blinking away tears. This always worked one way or another. When she looked up, she would meet either the melting gaze of a man enchanted by her maidenish courage or the appraising eyes of a cynic impressed by her performance.

But when she tilted her face toward Moriarty again, she saw neither. He looked at her with an expression of grief, sad yet fond, like a man looking at a photograph of a woman he had loved and lost a long time ago.

His sincerity disarmed her. She had planned to use the investment angle as a fallback in case he didn’t buy the Lucy story. She had prepared a little speech about needing to know what was going on before investing in Teaberry and Company. A lonely widow seeking advice from a wise, experienced man. She couldn’t play that one now; she’d lose him forever.

She sighed and shifted on the bench to face him. She placed her hand on his arm. His whole body tensed, but she held on, increasing the pressure. It was like grasping an oak railing.

“I spoke out of turn yesterday, and I am so, so sorry. I should never have even hinted at your story. I have no excuse. Mr. Pickering-Jones startled me with his talk of murder and Scotland Yard, and I simply blurted out the first thing that popped into my head. I don’t expect you to forgive me. But I do need your help, Professor. I need to know what the police find out about Lord Carling’s murder and the burglary. I must know what they are doing.”

That soft sadness disappeared, replaced by the guarded look. “Why must you know?”

“I can’t tell you.”

“Can’t or won’t?”

She clucked her tongue. “Is there a difference?”

His lips twitched, jiggling the little curls at the ends of his moustache. He withdrew his arm from under her hand, but she’d seen his eyes darken when she touched him. He’d leaned toward her ever so slightly, his lips parting. He still wanted her, even if he didn’t trust her.

Her heart pounded like a rotary engine. Picking her way through the truth was so much harder than telling a much-practiced tale.

“My situation has become a trifle awkward. I’ve become entangled with this group of men — these front-sheeters, I think you called them — and I can’t leave, not just now. There’s Lucy to consider and —” She broke off, hoping he would fill in Reginald Benton’s name and be inspired to help her out of jealousy. Always a ticklish card to play, but she hadn’t many left in her hand.

His eyes narrowed and his nostrils flared; he’d taken that bait.

“Lord Carling has been murdered,” she went on, “and now you say Scotland Yard thinks it’s all somehow connected with our burglary.”

He stopped her with a raised finger. “In point of fact, I do not know what Scotland Yard thinks. The hypothesis that the crimes are connected is mine alone, as far as I’m aware.”

“Aren’t you working with them as a consultant? I thought you said you were assisting them.”

“Mr. Pickering-Jones somewhat overstated my role.” His eyes flicked away from her. “I am not in communication with Scotland Yard. Sherlock Holmes is, and I have met with him twice. I went with him and his friend, Dr. Watson, on Sunday to visit the engineer. That’s when we realized the explosion was a deliberate act of murder.”

“I see,” Angelina said, although she didn’t. Then he was consulting with the consultant, a very finely split hair. “Then Sherlock Holmes is not investigating the burglaries?”

“He didn’t mention them on Sunday. I doubt it. They seem too mundane for him.”

“Oh.” Well, that was good news, as far as it went. Holmes sounded like a potentially dangerous antagonist. Her professor didn’t like him, that much was obvious.

Moriarty pursed his lips, looked at his lap, and then said, “I promised to tell you about that indicator.”

“Oh yes! You did. I got the impression at tea that it turned out all right.”

“It did. The engineer assured me that my installation of the indicator could not have contributed to the explosion. So my conscience is clear, for what that’s worth.”

“I think it’s worth a great deal to you, Professor. I’m glad.” She put her hand on his arm again. This time, he let it stay there.

“Unfortunately, the mere fact of my having altered that engine seems to have triggered Mr. Holmes’s suspicions.”

“What!”

“I’m afraid he now regards me as a leading suspect in the crime.”

“That’s absurd!” She let her genuine outrage show. This Holmes must be as blind as an old hat and as dull as a dead fish to think her professor could do anything so foul.

He shot her a wry look. “I appreciate the vote of confidence. But this means I’m unlikely to have any information to share with you in future. I’m afraid you’ll have to make do with the newspapers.”

“I don’t believe half of what they say. And if this Holmes thinks you could murder a man by any means, he’s a fool.”

Angelina frowned and let her eyes wander around the square. A chilly wind had risen, breaking up the fog and tugging at the corners of her veil. If Holmes suspected the professor of murder, then presumably Scotland Yard did as well. That was a hazardous position to be in — more hazardous than hers. Not even Moriarty had connected her to the burglaries and he’d said he was the only who connected the burglaries with the murder.

Oh, it couldn’t be more confusing! But confusion worked in her favor, like picking pockets in a busy marketplace. The professor would need allies, whether he recognized it or not. She had the hook she needed; she would simply offer the man her support. He wouldn’t realize until the end that he’d been the one supplying all the information.

She took his gloved hand in hers, folding her other hand over it for extra security, and met his solemn brown eyes. “I know in my heart that your actions were honorable and that you could never knowingly do anything to cause harm to another person. It makes me sick to think of Scotland Yard or Sherlock Holmes suspecting you and pestering you with their nonsense.” She gave his hand a little squeeze. “If I can help you in any small way, please allow me to do so. I know you can’t trust me with anything confidential — I don’t expect that. But I can listen and pour tea, for whatever that’s worth.”

He gazed at her, studying her face as if searching for some particular phrase in a page of dense text. Then his eyes turned cold. She could see him withdraw from her, retreating into himself like a house shutting itself up, closing the shutters, drawing the curtains, and barring the doors.

She’d made him more suspicious. But of what?

She couldn’t leave things like this. She had to lighten the mood, coax him back out. When in doubt, turn to small talk.

She sighed out a little, “Well!” and released his hands, as if they’d just agreed on something cheery. She let her gaze wander around the square for a moment, then said, “The fog is nearly gone. Your walk back to the office won’t be quite so damp. I’m sorry to have taken up so much of your lunch hour.”

“I’ll make do with a bowl of hot eels from the vendor on Holborn Road.” He shot her a glance she couldn’t read and added, “I’m not a fussy man, Mrs. Gould. And I can be flexible when needs must.”

More flexible than she would have guessed. She had really lost her touch. He’d thrown her off balance with that stoic mouth and those expressive eyes. He’d seen through all her ploys and turned the tables on her.