Moriarty Meets His Match: A Professor & Mrs. Moriarty Mystery (The Professor & Mrs. Moriarty Mystery Series Book 1) (21 page)

Chapter Twenty-Six

The vicar’s voice echoed across the grounds of Hainstone Manor on Sunday afternoon, announcing the start of the cake-judging contest in the tent beyond the rose garden. He directed the younger crowd to sack races on the south lawn and reminded everyone that the wonderful new Musical Jump Rope would be demonstrated by a sub-lieutenant in Her Majesty’s Army promptly at three o’clock.

Angelina took advantage of the ensuing chaos to slip into the library through a set of French windows facing the veranda at the back. She had decided to take this last chance to search for Sebastian’s letters. If she found them, she could tell Professor Moriarty the problem was solved and promise never to engage in any further criminal acts. She could let a few months go by, establish her new self, whoever that might be, and cross his path one sunny afternoon. She might be able to pass the burglaries off as a sort of lark.

She sat behind Hainstone’s desk and began opening drawers, taking off her gloves to work more quickly. She didn’t need to read closely, just scan the pages for Sebastian’s flowery script.

The poor lamb! The strain of keeping the secret from Hugh was eating him up and he despised himself for letting the others put themselves at risk while he waltzed off to the theater. Adding to his burden of guilt, his performances were earning ecstatic reviews. The stuffiest critics in London used words like “incandescent” and “riveting.” His career had been made — if she could keep him out of prison.

A man’s voice rang out in the hall. “In here, gentlemen. Let’s have a drink while we wait.”

She sprang from the chair and ducked behind the nearest drapery, thankful for the sumptuous yards of green satin. Thankful also for the deep window wells in these old country houses, which gave her ample room to stand, even in a bustle. She could be seen from the outside, but all the fête activities were on the front lawn. She’d just have to hope for the best.

She recognized Nettlefield and Teaberry’s voices. They addressed someone as Colonel; Samuel Oxwich, presumably. The men she hated most in the world had chosen this room for a meeting, and here she was trapped, like a butterfly pinned in a glass case.

Now she heard Reginald’s voice. She’d been avoiding him as best she could, pushing him toward Lady Lucy at every opportunity. He chose to believe she was playing the coquette and continued to follow her everywhere, lurking around corners, stalking her like a hungry wolf.

“Shall we sit here, Reggie, darling?” Lucy, of course. The girl pattered after him like a puppy. How could any female person fall in love with that brute? Angelina sighed. Marriage would supply the cure for that malady.

Lord Nettlefield’s nasal voice sounded directly in front of her. “Why the deuce did you let Hainstone trick me into judging that plump baby contest, Ramsay? Can’t abide the little buggers! How am I to tell one from the other?”

The secretary answered him in soothing tones. “The names of both mother and baby are right here in this envelope, my lord. You need only read them off. The village doctor selects them in advance. Part of the British Mothers Health and Wellness Program. It’s good for you, politically, my lord. It shows your concern for the people.”

Nettlefield snorted.

An unfamiliar voice rang out. “Ah, gentlemen! I see we are all here. All but one. Allow me to introduce myself. I am Sherlock Holmes. This is my colleague, Dr. John Watson. We should be able to begin —”

The clock began to strike the hour.

“Ha-ha! Punctual to the minute.” Holmes laughed heartily. “Here is our guest of honor, Professor James Moriarty.”

The professor! A cold dread clutched Angelina’s heart. Had he come to denounce her as the Bookkeeping Burglar? Impossible! He’d said he would wait until they met again. And why, if he did mean to do so, would Holmes be playing master of ceremonies?

“Do come in, Professor,” Holmes said. “I suggest you prevail upon our host for a drink. I’ll wager he has an excellent selection, and it may be your last for a while.”

“I believe I will.” Moriarty said. “Whiskey, please. Make it a double, if you don’t mind.” He spoke lightly, but Angelina could hear the tension underneath. He was worried, very worried.

A general stir arose. Glasses clinked, chairs shushed across the thick carpet. Then a waiting silence fell.

“All ready?” Holmes’s voice carried clearly, and seemingly effortlessly, across the room, like an actor accustomed to large theaters. “I must apologize to those of you who traveled out from the city for this meeting. I returned from the north last night to find a telegram requesting my immediate attention on the Continent. A matter of the utmost confidentiality. Watson and I left our bags at the station and will catch the evening ferry in Dover. I appreciate Lord Hainstone’s willingness to lend his library on such short notice. I doubt the Paris affair will take more than a day or two to sort out, but this matter must be resolved without delay.”

He granted his audience time for a few impressed murmurs and then went on. “I’ll be as brief as possible. As some of you may know, I was engaged by Mr. Teaberry and Lord Nettlefield to look into the matter of the explosion at the Exhibition on Friday, May the first. They suspected sabotage by a rival company. I have concluded that it was a deliberate attempt to murder the man who pulled that fateful lever. However, the intended victim was not Lord Carling, nor had the perpetrator been hired by a rival company. This man here — Professor James Moriarty — devised the cunning scheme to murder his old enemy: George Benton, Lord Nettlefield.”

A sharp gasp rose from many throats. Fabric rustled as bodies shifted in well-upholstered seats and shocked murmurs surged through the room.

Angelina couldn’t bear it. She had to see Moriarty’s face. She parted the draperies at eye level, the merest sliver of a gap, careful not to cause a ripple in the fabric. The professor sat in a straight-backed chair, turned slightly away from the audience and toward the detective, like a prisoner in the dock facing the prosecution. His gift for presenting a stoic front served him well. He looked like man listening to a scientific lecture given by someone whose research he considered inadequate. But Angelina noticed a slight tremor in the hand clutching the crystal glass and her heart went out to him.

Had that beastly Holmes given him any warning of what would happen to him at this meeting? Or had he sent a friendly note inviting him to view another engine or some other harmless activity? He’d probably used the old standby, “Come to this address tomorrow if you wish to learn something to your advantage.”

Somehow, someday, she would find a way to pay Sherlock Holmes back for this wicked, wicked deed.

“Gentlemen, please.” Holmes waited until order was restored. He managed the small group like a seasoned performer. “My suspicions were aroused from the first, when Dr. Watson and I arrived on the scene and found the professor already there, sifting through the remains of the engine. He introduced himself as a patent examiner and claimed to be concerned about licensing dangerous devices. A patently absurd excuse, if you’ll forgive the pun.”

He paused, but no one laughed. This was no time for bad jokes, as any actor worth his salt would know. He’d have gotten a hail of boos and peanut shells at the music hall.

He went on. “I am always alert to the curious onlooker who intrudes himself into the investigation. Many villains are drawn compulsively to the results of their deeds. I determined to keep him close until I could establish the facts of the crime. I wondered what he searched for among the wreckage and found one damning item: a short wooden pencil that had been thrown clear of the table. I observed the professor using an identical pencil to take notes. When I asked him its origin, he lied to me. I also found an odd plate of metal that seemed different from the other materials. When we examined the remains of the engine later in the company of the engineer, we learned the purpose of that odd plate.”

He explained how the false sensor plate had caused the explosion. Moriarty’s explanation had been clearer and more complete. Angelina gave Holmes credit for a fluent delivery, but he was no rival for her professor in matters of science.

“Only after this crucial element had been exposed did James Moriarty confess to making another alteration to the engine. He told us he installed an indicator to expose an excessive degree of steam consumption. The engineer confirms that such an instrument had been attached without his knowledge. To perform this ‘prank,’ as he termed it, Moriarty gained entrance to the Exhibition Galleries after hours, giving a false name to the guard. Another lie.

“Professor Moriarty had knowledge of the engine from studying the drawings in the patent application. He is a distinguished mathematician, for whom calculations of steam pressure are the merest child’s play. Pursuing the origins of the false pressure sensor plate, I discovered it to have been extracted from a suit of armor owned by Lord Nettlefield.”

“What!” Nettlefield sounded outraged. “My armor? He’s obviously trying to frame me.”

“He can’t have been trying both to murder you and frame you, my lord,” Holmes said drily. “I believe he chose that piece of metal simply because it was the right shape and the suit was handy, standing on display in Burlington House in a corridor off a seldom-used study room. Also because it amused him to employ part of such a pretentious item, purchased to foster the illusion of an ancient lineage.”

Nettlefield subsided with a snarl. The not-so-subtle dig surprised Angelina. Up to that point, she’d assumed Holmes was one of Nettlefield’s minions.

But what bad luck about that plate! Her professor would have chosen that isolated room for the quiet. His taste for solitude worked against him yet again.

“I had uncovered his methods and his materials,” Holmes said. “The only question remaining was motive. Why would a patent examiner seek to murder Lord Nettlefield in so dramatic a fashion? To answer this question, I needed to learn more about Professor James Moriarty. Who was he? Where had he come from?”

He broke off with a chuckle. “Those of you who have read Dr. Watson’s little accounts of my adventures know that I have something of a talent for disguises.”

A talent for disguises, fiddle-faddle!
The man had missed his calling. He should have gone on the stage and saved them all this pernicious posturing. And what had become of his promise to be brief? She’d seen shorter renditions of
Hamlet.

He still hadn’t finished. “In the guise of a newspaper reporter, I traded gossip with the professor’s colleagues at the Patent Office. The housemaid at his lodging house confided in a gregarious grocer’s assistant at the price of few sweets. She even allowed me to peek into the professor’s rooms one day while her mistress was on an errand.”

That little trollop!
Angelina vowed to have her sacked.

“I learned that both Moriarty and his lordship were members of the Royal Society and heard about a conflict that had arisen between them over a scientific paper delivered by his lordship two years ago. At that time, Moriarty still held a chair in mathematics at Durham University, not far from the viscount’s family estates. I sent an agent north to prepare the ground, then made three short trips to Durham myself in the guise of a traveling vendor of bathroom fittings. I befriended one Mrs. Winters, wife of the porter at the professor’s college.”

Moriarty’s expression hardened. Angelina held her breath, wishing Holmes would stop but wanting to hear what he would say. She knew that more lay between the professor and the viscount than a silly science paper, but he’d deflected her every attempt to learn about his past.

Holmes said, “There I found my motive, gentlemen. I heard a story so sordid and so pitiful that I nearly decided not to tell it, to let this man slink away unpunished. If he had achieved his intended goal, I might have considered justice to be done. Unfortunately, Moriarty missed his mark. I could not allow him to make a further attempt.

“The story begins in November of 1883 at a meeting of the Royal Society. Lord Nettlefield presented a paper concerning the binomial theorem to an assembly which included Professor Moriarty, up from Durham to visit the British Library. The next evening, the professor presented a rebuttal in which he demolished his lordship’s argument in a few keen strokes. He made some unkind remarks about amateur mathematicians, which rankled in his lordship’s breast. Humiliated and unable to compete with his intellectual superior in the lecture hall, he devised a more vicious form of revenge. He exerted his influence at the university to push forward his own candidate for Moriarty’s chair. Then he fabricated a scandal involving a young man known to be one of the professor’s favorite students. They had attended a conference in Berlin together; there had been late suppers in the professor’s rooms. Nettlefield discovered these innocent facts and cast the ugliest possible interpretation upon them. Threatening the boy with the loss of his scholarship, he forced him to sign a complaint against the professor, stating that sexual favors had been demanded in exchange for good marks. Moriarty was given a choice: resign quietly or face the scandal of a public inquiry.

“I won’t mention the boy’s name. He’s suffered enough. He’d had a brilliant career ahead of him, by all accounts, but after Moriarty was driven out under a cloud of dark rumors, he also left the university. When last heard from, he was eking out a dissolute living playing cards on the Continent.”

Moriarty spoke for the first time since he’d accepted the glass of whiskey. “You insufferable cad, Holmes.” He spat out the words as if each were a bitter seed.