Moriarty Meets His Match: A Professor & Mrs. Moriarty Mystery (The Professor & Mrs. Moriarty Mystery Series Book 1) (20 page)

Written down? Kept?
Moriarty had the distinct sense that Teaberry and Nettlefield suspected each another of some specific form of treachery or had colluded in some such thing.

“Unfortunately,” Holmes said, “there is as yet no legal remedy for stupidity.”

“There do seem to be some features of interest here, Holmes,” Watson said. “The burglaries involve the same circle of men associated with the spherical engine. They might well be connected to the murder in some obscure way. Perhaps the murderer’s aim is to wreak havoc on Mr. Teaberry’s companies in general.”

Holmes stroked his long chin. “You might have something there, Watson. I might propose another possibility: that the burglars have only one real target and the other thefts are intended to obscure the true objective.”

“Me!” Nettlefield pounded his fist on the desk. “This is all aimed at me, the thefts and the explosion.”

“You or me,” Teaberry said. “I have enemies, as the professor here suggested. God knows I have rivals. I’m a wealthy man and wealth inspires envy. We could be looking for a villain with a talent for high finance. There’s no telling what damage a master criminal might do on the Stock Exchange with the information in those books.”

Holmes’s eyes lit up at the phrase “master criminal,” stimulated by the prospect of smarter prey, like a man bored with shooting deer and longing to hunt tigers. “Very well,” he said. “I’ll do it. It won’t take long. These burglars are striking two or three times a week. The obvious step is to stake out some of their probable targets. How shall we identify those most likely to be the next victims?”

“I have an idea, Holmes.” Watson patted the newspaper. “These Bookkeeper Burglars may be taking their victims from Mr. Teaberry’s front sheets, but they seem to decide where to strike and on what day by reading the society pages. I remember a recent note about his lordship’s family going off for a week in the country, for example.”

Nettlefield bristled. “Those damned gossip columns need to be controlled. They’re an open invitation to thieves.” He jabbed his finger at his secretary. “Write a letter to
The Times,
Ramsay, insisting they strike any trace of personal information from every future issue. Get it sent this afternoon.”

“Yes, my lord.”

“I wish you luck with that campaign,” Holmes said drily. “In the meantime, your advice is well taken, Watson, as always. I suggest we set our traps this Saturday, using the gossip columns to place the bait. We’ll choose two targets from the remaining board members and then drop a hint to the papers that those houses will be unoccupied over the weekend.”

He issued directives to his clients. “Mr. Teaberry, we’ll need a list of names and addresses. Include any office or residence within, let’s say, a fifteen-mile radius of London. If the thieves are carrying away loads of account books, they must have a cart or coach at their disposal. Make sure this office is well guarded. Lord Nettlefield, I suggest you return to your country home with your secretary and post a watch in your library.”

“I’m afraid there’s little left to steal,” Ramsay said. “We kept most of our records in town.”

Holmes said, “The burglars won’t know that. If they are especially interested in his lordship’s affairs, they will leave no option unexplored. Watson and I will each take one of the designated targets.”

“Let the professor take one too,” Teaberry said. “I want my own dog in this hunt.”

Moriarty wasn’t flattered by the choice of words, but he wanted to be included, if only to put Holmes’s oversized nose out of joint. “Hasn’t Sir Julian Kidwelly served on your boards from time to time, Mr. Teaberry? I know him through the Pythagoras Club. He won’t mind me spending a night in his library.”

“Capital!” Holmes cried, although there was a touch of sharpness in his tone. “Shall we place a wager on which man will be the first to catch his rat?”

Chapter Twenty-Four

Sir Julian Kidwelly was more than willing to oblige. “I shudder to think what they might learn from
my
files.” He instructed his man to provide Moriarty with every assistance, sent a note to a friend at the
Evening Standard,
and went to the seaside for two days of quiet reading.

Now Moriarty was comfortably ensconced in the baronet’s large and well-ordered library. He wished he could stay for a month. The floor-to-ceiling shelves included every work on mathematics from the past two centuries and a few that were much older. A pity he wouldn’t be able to read tonight, but logic demanded he conduct his vigil in the dark.

He chose a wingback chair with firm cushions and positioned it in the corner beside the hearth, opposite the front windows, where a faint light from the streetlamps cast long shadows into the dark library. Standard custom in the household was to leave the gas half-up on the landing, so he had asked Sir Julian’s valet to leave the door slightly ajar. Moriarty wanted to be able to see the burglars, if any should materialize, before they saw him. A candlestick and matchbox stood ready on a small table at his elbow.

The valet brought a plate of sandwiches and a large pot of coffee to sustain the watcher through the wee hours. He lamented the fact that the coffee would be cold by the time it was consumed, but Moriarty wasn’t fussy about food and drink. He and his younger brother had often subsisted for a whole weekend on oddments scrounged from the pantry, taking themselves off for a ramble in the woods whenever the war between their parents flared into open hostilities.

Sundays were the worst since the Reverend and Mrs. Moriarty had to present a serene facade to the village all day long. By evening, the strain of pretense shattered the façade, and bitter salvos were hurled from room to room, the boys serving as go-betweens or hostages, as the case might be. Better to stuff a pillowcase with apples and stale cake, grab a jug of well water, and spend the night camping under a hedge.

Coffee from Brazil, at whatever temperature, with sandwiches of cured ham and aged cheddar, made a feast.

The watchers had agreed to communicate results by telegram to Holmes at seven o’clock the next morning; earlier, if the burglars should be caught red-handed. Odds were against their striking this particular site on this particular night.

Moriarty spared a fleeting wish that the Bookkeeper Burglars be gentlemen like Charlie Peace rather than a gang of young toughs from the Limehouse district. Watson had armed himself with his service revolver. Holmes recommended a hunting crop. Moriarty possessed neither of those handy weapons, but Sir Julian had loaned him a stout oak walking stick. He touched it now in the darkness to be sure of its position.

He composed himself comfortably and began a methodical review of the evidence relating to Lord Carling’s murder. Oscar Teaberry had the weakest motive. As director, he could simply strike a member from his board or call in the books for an audit whenever he chose. Dramatic methods of murder and theft only weakened his position.

Nettlefield, on the other hand, could only work through Teaberry. Lords did not actively direct corporations. Moriarty’s enmity toward the viscount freighted every argument against him, yet even allowing for the extra weight, the arguments were impressive.

Nettlefield had the means. He owned the suit of armor that had supplied the false sensor plate. He had the skills, the time, and the facilities to modify the plate. He had ample opportunity to sabotage the engine during those thirty minutes alone with the exhibit while Ramsay went in search of the director. He could not demand an examination of the other front-sheeters’ books anytime he pleased and might fear that records had been kept that would prove his motive.

How could Holmes ignore these facts? For all his pedantic maxims, he seemed to be driven by his own prejudices. He longed for an opponent who could challenge him intellectually. Moriarty fit that bill. Therefore, Moriarty must be a suspect.

Granted, he did have the skills and the opportunity to acquire the piece of armor and to install it. He had a motive — a good one. Holmes didn’t know the details, but he knew there was some kind of bad blood between Moriarty and the viscount. He had no conceivable reason to steal the account books, but if Holmes rejected any connection between the two crimes, that signified nothing.

Nettlefield might have a stronger motive to steal account books than to murder Oscar Teaberry. If he were blackmailing Teaberry, he wouldn’t want to kill the man. He would use the knowledge to control him. He might want the books, however, to find something blackmail-worthy or to cover up his own malfeasance.

Moriarty’s prejudices pushed him toward Nettlefield, conjuring new forms of fraud or camouflage to supply ever more convoluted motives. He recognized the fault, but couldn’t help indulging himself, in part, he had to admit, to postpone considering the stronger theory he’d stumbled upon in Teaberry’s office.

The person with the most compelling motive to kill Lord Nettlefield was Reginald Benton. He hadn’t entered the Exhibition Galleries before the opening day, as far as anyone knew, unless he had done so under false pretenses. Scotland Yard had the resources to follow up every name in the entry book if so inclined. Were they doing anything, or had they left the case entirely up to Sherlock Holmes?

If Benton intended to replace his father in title and estate, why not also replace him in business? He might want those books to learn what sorts of fraud his father had perpetrated or to find something with which to blackmail Oscar Teaberry. Benton had better motives for both crimes than anyone else. He was also the near-constant companion of the elusive and distracting Mrs. Angelina Gould. Coincidence?

He didn’t like coincidences, although any student of statistics knew they happened every day. Mrs. Gould protested her lack of regard for Mr. Benton at every turn, and yet she became increasingly connected with him in the public eye.

Moriarty poured himself a cup of coffee, working by touch, and took a sip. The bitterness suited this new train of thought. In this scenario, his role was merely to sharpen the lady’s skills and provide a little entertainment. He couldn’t bring himself to explore the possibility that she and her paramour were deliberating trailing him before Holmes and the authorities as a suspect.

Benton had disappeared from the scene of the explosion, as had his father. Only Moriarty had been foolish enough to return. Or had he been prompted to return by his companion?

He cast his mind back to his arrival at the exhibit that morning. His attention had been immediately captured by the extraordinary woman, distinguished in every way from the younger ladies. That wink had shot an arrow into his heart. It had seemed spontaneous at the time, but he had since learned that Mrs. Gould was a consummate actress.

The rest followed as the night from day. Anyone would find her irresistible; how much more so a lonely, cast-out professor of mathematics? She had clung to him. How could he not attend to her during the disaster? She had teased out his story and advised him to return to the exhibit at precisely the moment Sherlock Holmes and Dr. Watson appeared.

That could have been arranged in advance, but not by Benton. Moriarty doubted he knew about the Durham affair. He couldn’t have known Moriarty would attend the demonstration. But Lord Nettlefield might. His secretary had helped Moriarty into his position at the Patent Office. His lordship could have deliberately left the indicators off the illustration in the catalog, knowing it would pique Moriarty’s interest and stimulate him to attend in person. Mrs. Gould could have been brought to the event in order to seduce him and position him as a suspect after the explosion. A long shot, but one with little risk.

He’d come full circle. The ability to generate alternative theories was as much a curse as a blessing. He ladled a heaping spoonful of sugar into his coffee. The bitterness wasn’t helping.

Holmes was probably right. The crimes were not connected. He’d volunteered to lose a night’s sleep merely to irritate the detective, which was rather like poking a sharp stick at a dog that was already chasing you. Foolish and fruitless. He ought to turn his mind to something more —

A sharp creak on the stairs split the silence. A woman’s voice said, “Come up and take a peek at the library, old Cock, then ’op back down the apples and pears to the pantry to load up the tin.” Her vowels were purest East End.

The burglars had arrived. He had not been expecting a woman. This was an interesting development, and it made him less apprehensive about his personal safety.

The black rectangle of the door swung inward to admit a glow of gaslight along with an inflow of cooler air carrying the distinctive fragrance of gardenias. That scent had woven itself into the intimate fibers of his being during that fevered interlude in the hansom cab.

Angelina Gould!

Chapter Twenty-Five

Angelina stopped short at the sound of a match scraping. Candlelight bloomed in the corner of the library, where a man sat in an armchair, watching her with somber eyes.

“Professor Moriarty!”

Zeke shouted, “The beak!” He turned and ran thundering down the stairs.

“Good evening, Mrs. Gould,” the professor said. “We do seem to meet under peculiar circumstances, don’t we?”

“Is the man you’ve told us about?” The captain stepped forward in a protective stance.

She put a hand on his arm, grateful for the support. “It’s all right, Sandy.”

Moriarty flicked a glance at him, then cocked his head to survey her costume. She wore her dandy’s garb: striped trousers, tailcoat, and white cravat. She’d left her hat in the cab, but the short boy’s wig covered her own hair. She’d stopped bothering with a moustache after the first time out.

A smile curved on his lips as his gaze traveled from head to toe, more bemused than aroused, thank goodness. She liked men who liked women who looked like women.

“Are the police here too?” she asked.

“No. Only the valet, upstairs in his room. Asleep, I think. I haven’t heard a sound from him for several hours.”

“What do you intend to do with us?” Sandy demanded.

Moriarty kept his gaze on her as he answered. “That depends on Mrs. Gould.”

Yes. The time had come for a
rapprochement.
He held the upper hand at this moment. He could send them all to jail with a touch of the bell. But he hadn’t done it yet, and she didn’t think he would. At least, he didn’t want to. He wanted to talk, and so did she.

“Leave us, Sandy, if you don’t mind,” she said. “Give us an hour.” He started to protest, but she shook her head. “Please. I’ll be fine. Take Zeke somewhere for a bite to eat.”

Sandy frowned and scratched his moustache but then relented. He knew he couldn’t help matters by staying. But he pointed a finger straight at Moriarty and said, “One hair. Harm one single hair on her head and I’ll cut you down like a rabid pariah dog.”

“Understood.”

Sandy left the door open as he went out. Angelina listened to his footsteps tromp down the stairs, growing fainter as he reached the hall below. She heard the soft
thump
of the outer door but suspected he had opened it, closed it, and tiptoed back to wait at the bottom of the stairs. Gallant Captain Sandy would never leave her alone in such a compromising situation.

“Well, Professor,” she said. “Here we are.”

She looked around the room, noting the way he’d tucked his chair into the corner. She had no intention of standing in front of him like a wayward pupil. That pair of leather chairs near the windows with the low table between them would suit her better. “Shall we make ourselves comfortable?”

“Why not?”

She took the candle while he moved his tray of refreshments. After they took their respective seats, he asked, “May I offer you a cup of coffee?” He spoke in the same calm and courteous tone she imagined he would use if she visited him at his office.

“Is it hot?”

“Warmish, but still good. I’m afraid it’s all we’ve got. I didn’t anticipate a need to entertain the burglars should they choose to visit my station tonight.”

She hummed her appreciation of the irony. “You don’t seem very surprised to see me, Professor.”

“I am, though less than you are to see me, I imagine. It wouldn’t show in any event. I learned composure at an early age.”

“Well, I for one have never been so surprised in my life.” She admired that composure but found it frustrating. Emotional responses were the tools she used to do her work.

She took the cup of coffee he poured for her and ladled sugar into it. The strong brew fortified her. He refreshed his cup and took a sip, waiting for her to speak next. The silence grew while she searched her mind for a strategy. She couldn’t think with his warm eyes watching her. She needed to restore the balance of power.

She shot him an impish smile. “You weren’t so composed in the cab the other night.”

“No indeed!” He rocked back against the padded chair. He recovered quickly, but she’d succeeded in shifting his focus. “You took me quite by surprise. I’m afraid I behaved in a rather ungentlemanly fashion.” He paused and offered her a wry smile. “I didn’t know later whether to send an apology or a bouquet of flowers.”

He was trying for nonchalance, but he didn’t really have it in him.

“Every lady loves to receive flowers.” She touched her lips with her tongue.

“Roses it is, then.” He glanced at her, then looked away with that awkwardness that made her heart turn somersaults. The poor lamb had no experience with flirtation. What idiots the women in his life must have been!

She liked him so much and wanted so much to trust him. But trust was an illusion; it usually meant your mark was playing you. “Why weren’t you surprised to see me? You couldn’t be spending the night here, all alone in the dark, in the faint hope of meeting me.”

“An added incentive, had I known. I never expected you, yourself, to come through that door. But I’ve had time to think, sitting here in the dark. I know the Bookkeeper Burglars strike members of Oscar Teaberry’s boards. I know you have some unpleasant history with that man. It’s obvious that the books are being stolen to gain information about Teaberry’s companies. Now I wonder if it isn’t some sort of lark, you and your dragoon, sneaking into empty houses. Is it a bet, or do you have an actual goal? Are there others on other nights, or just the two of you?”

“Do you mean Sandy? What makes you call him a dragoon?”

“His accent and his experience with pariah dogs. He must have served in India or Afghanistan. I assume he’s part of Reginald Benton’s set.” Moriarty lifted his cup to mask his expression, but she caught the bitter note of jealousy.

She could use that to ward off his interest in Sandy. She laughed lightly. “You can count on a military man for a spot of adventure! Mr. Benton knows him from school, I believe. And no, since you’ve guessed that much, it’s only the two of us. A lark, as you say.”

“What are you looking for? Not investment advice; please don’t use that excuse again.”

“It wasn’t very clever, was it? Can I just say that one of these front-sheeters has something I want and leave it at that?”

“Things have gone a little too far for that,” he said. “What sort of something?”

She sipped her coffee and let another silence grow. He waited without pressing, but she knew he wouldn’t let his question go unanswered. She couldn’t tell him everything — he wouldn’t understand about Sebastian and Hugh — but she did want his help. For that, she’d have to tell him something, but she couldn’t craft an answer without knowing why he was here.

“Of all the things I’ve dreaded might be waiting for us in these dark houses, Professor, I never dreamed it might be you. You told me in Russell Square that the police suspected you of Lord Carling’s murder. Are you working with them now? Still consulting with that Sherlock Holmes?”

“No.” He chuckled. “Although you might say I’m here tonight as an agent for Oscar Teaberry.”

The worst thing he could possibly have said! She could understand making a deal with Scotland Yard to save his own neck; anyone would do that. But to join forces with that fat, oily, unscrupulous promoter? Impossible!

“I can’t imagine a man of your qualities ever stooping so low.” She let the disgust fill her voice.

“That was a poor joke. I apologize. Rest assured that I am under no obligations to Mr. Teaberry, although he did offer to pay me. And I wouldn’t object to the extra money. My salary is adequate for my personal needs, but not for — well, for certain expenditures I’ve lately begun to imagine myself wanting to incur.”

Mercy, he could be hard to understand!
When Angelina worked it out, she treated him to an encouraging smile. He wanted money to take her nice places and buy her nice gifts, like that bouquet of roses. Which would be lovely later, but was not the main thrust tonight. “I’m glad to hear it. I should be quite sorry to learn you’d allied yourself with that horrible man.”

“I would be even sorrier,” he said, “since such an alliance would mean I had gone mad. Put your mind at ease, Mrs. Gould. I volunteered for this job mostly to put Sherlock Holmes’s oversized nose out of joint. And because I would like to get a look at those books myself — especially Lord Nettlefield’s.”

Exactly what she wanted! But if he felt secure enough to play tricks on Sherlock Holmes and turn down offers from Oscar Teaberry, he must have met with them and bargained with them. He must have reached some sort of agreement with them.

She needed time to talk this over with her associates. She couldn’t think straight with this attractive man sitting there radiating desire at her.

“Now that you mention it,” she ventured, “I could use your help with these beastly books. I can’t make heads nor tails of them myself.”

“I would be happy to oblige. But I must caution you to make this your last adventure. And of course I can’t allow you to remove anything of Sir Julian’s. You’ll have to accept my personal guarantee that he’s not involved in any of Teaberry’s frauds.”

“I trust you implicitly, Professor.”

He frowned a little at that. Too strong. “You’ll have to tell me what you’re looking for if I’m going to help you find it.”

“I know.” She bit her lower lip, wavering on the brink of confession. No and no again: she had to wait. Sebastian should be the one to decide whether or not to bring in an outsider. “I can’t tell you tonight, much as I would like to. It’s not my secret, you see.”

“Whose is it? Mr. Sandy’s?”

“No, no! Forget about him. He’s a friend, that’s all.”

“A friend of Reginald Benton’s.”

That again! “Yes, yes. One of these idle young men. They get so bored with the Season they’re practically jumping out of their skin.”

“So you and Benton found him easy to recruit.”

“Easily won and easily lost. He’ll be on to some other mischief after tonight. No, it’s someone else’s secret. I’m sorry to be so mystifying, but I truly can’t help it.”

“When may I expect an explanation?” His manner had cooled like the dregs of the coffee. It didn’t matter. Soon she could tell him the whole story and then there’d be no more secrets between them apart from the trivial matter of her identity. And no one cared about that.

“Tomorrow. After lunch? We could meet in Regent’s Park near the Macclesfield Bridge.” Then she remembered that stupid fête. “Oh no. We’d better make it later. Shall we say seven o’clock? I’m engaged to accompany Lady Lucy to a country affair in Surrey. I’ve promised to help her patch things up with Reginald.”

His eyes narrowed. “That must be unpleasant for you.”

“Tricky, but not — oh, you don’t think —” She flapped her hand at him playfully. “You don’t think
I
care for Mr. Benton! You really mustn’t give that man another thought.”

“An order with which I would gladly comply, if I could.” He’d retreated all the way back into his icy shell. “How can I be sure you’ll keep this appointment?”

“I’ll keep it.” If only he could sense how weary she was of all the deceptions and how much she longed to simply meet him, a man and a woman in a park, getting to know one another, as lovers do. Perhaps soon; with his help and a little luck, perhaps very soon.

She rose and walked to the door. “You hold the upper hand here, Professor. You caught me red-handed tonight. You could send me to jail with a snap of your fingers whenever you like. You have me completely in your power.”

He met her eyes with a wry look. “Ah, Mrs. Gould. I think we both know that’s not true.”